Blish, James - A Work of Art

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A Work of Art

INSTANTLY, he remembered dying. He remembered it, how-

ever, as if at two removesas though he were remembering

a memory, rather than an actual event; as though he him-

self had not really been there when he died.

Yet the memory was all from his own point of view, not

that of some detached and disembodied observer which

might have been his soul. He had been most conscious of

the rasping, unevenly drawn movements of the air in his

chest. Blurring rapidly, the doctor's face had bent over him,

loomed, come closer, and then had vanished as the doctor's

head passed below his cone of vision, turned sideways to

listen to his lungs.

It had become rapidly darker, and then, only then, had he

realized that these were to be his last minutes. He had tried

dutifully to say Pauline's name, but his memory contained

no record of the soundonly of the rattling breath, and of

the film of sootiness thickening in the air, blotting out every-

thing for an instant.

Only an instant, and then the memory was over. The room

was bright again, and the ceiling, he noticed with wonder,

had turned a soft green. The doctor's head lifted again and

looked down at him.

It was a different doctor. This one was a far younger man,

with an ascetic face and gloaming, almost fey eyes. There

was no doubt about it. One of the last conscious thoughts

he had had was that of gratitude that the attending physician,

there at the end, had not been the one who secretly hated

him for his one-time associations with the Nazi hierarchy.

The attending doctor, instead, had worn an expression amus-

ingly proper for that of a Swiss expert called to the deathbed

of an eminent man: a mixture of worry at the prospect of

losing so eminent a patient, and complacency at the thought

that, at the old man's age, nobody could blame this doctor if

he died. At 85, pneumonia is a serious matter, with or

without penicillin.

"You're all right now," the new doctor said, freeing his

patient's head of a whole series of little silver rods which

had been clinging to it by a sort of network cap. "Rest a

minute and try to be calm. Do you know your name?"

He drew a cautious breath. There seemed to be nothing

at all the matter with his lungs now; indeed, he felt positively

healthy. "Certainly," he said, a little nettled. "Do you know

yours?"

The doctor smiled crookedly. "You're in character, it ap-

pears," he said. "My name is Barkun Kris; I am a mind

sculptor. Yours?"

"Richard Strauss."

"Very good," Dr. Kris said, and turned away. Strauss,

however, had already been diverted by a new singularity.

Strauss is a word as well as a name in German; it has many

meaningsan ostrich, a bouquet; von Wolzogen had had a

high old time working all the possible puns into the libretto

of Feuersnot. And it happened to be the first German word

to be spoken either by himself or by Dr. Kris since that

twice-removed moment of death. The language was not

French or Italian, either. It was most like English, but not

the English Strauss knew; nevertheless, he was having no

trouble speaking it and even thinking in it.

Well, he thought, I'll be able to conduct The Love of Danae

after alt. It isn't every composer who can premiere his own

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/James%20Blish%20-%20A%20Work%20of%20Art.txt

opera posthumously. Still, there was something queer about

all this the queerest part of all being that conviction, which

would not go away, that he had actually been dead for just

a short time. Of course medicine was making great strides,

but...

"Explain all this," he said, lifting himself to one elbow.

The bed was different, too, and not nearly as comfortable as

the one in which he had died. As for the room, it looked

more like a dynamo shed than a sickroom. Had modern med-

icine taken to reviving its corpses on the floor of the Sie-

manns-Schakert plant?

"In a moment," Dr. Kris said. He finished rolling some

machine back into what Strauss impatiently supposed to be

its place, and crossed to the pallet. "Now. There are many

things you'll have to take for granted without attempting to

understand them. Dr. Strauss. Not everything in the world

today is explicable in terms of your assumptions. Please bear

that in mind."

"Very well. Proceed."

"The date," Dr. Kris said, "is 2161 by your calendar

or, in other words, it is now two hundred and twelve years

after your death. Naturally, you'll realize that by this time

nothing remains of your body but the bones. The body you

have now was volunteered for your use. Before you look

into a mirror to see what it's like, remember that its physical

difference from the one you were used to is all in your

favor. It's in perfect health, not unpleasant for other people

to look at, and its physiological age is about fifty."

A miracle? No, not in this new age, surely. It was simply

a work of science. But what a science! This was Nietzsche's

eternal recurrence and the immortality of the superman

combined into one.

"And where is this?" the composer said.

"In Port York, part of the State of Manhattan, in the

United States. You will find the country less changed in

some respects than I imagine you anticipate. Other changes,

of course, will seem radical to you; but it's hard for me to

predict which ones will strike you that way. A certain

resilience on your part will bear cultivating."

"I understand," Strauss said, sitting up. "One question,

please; is it still possible for a composer to make a living in

this century?"

"Indeed it is," Dr. Kris said, smiling. "As we expect you

to do. It is one of the purposes for which we'vebrought

you back."

"I gather, then," Strauss said somewhat dryly, "that there

is still a demand for my music. The critics in the old

days"

"That's not quite how it is," Dr. Kris said. "I understand

some of your work is still played, but frankly I know very

little about your current status. My interest is rather"

A door opened somewhere, and another man came in. He

was older and more ponderous than Kris and had a certain

air of academicism; but he too was wearing the oddly

tailored surgeon's gown, and looked upon Kris's patient

with the glowing eyes of an artist.

"A success, Kris?" he said. "Congratulations."

"They're not in order yet," Dr. Kris said. "The final

proof is what counts. Dr. Strauss, if you feel strong enough,

Dr. Seirds and I would like to ask you some questions. We'd

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Blish, James - A Work of Art

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