With These Hands
By C. M. KORNBLUTH
Illustrated by KARL ROGERS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction December 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
No self-respecting artist can object to
suffering for his art ... but not in a
society where art is outdated by technology!
I
Halvorsen waited in the Chancery office while Monsignor Reedy disposedof three persons who had preceded him. He was a little dizzy withhunger and noticed only vaguely that the prelate's secretary wasbeckoning to him. He started to his feet when the secretary pointedlyopened the door to Monsignor Reedy's inner office and stood waitingbeside it.
The artist crossed the floor, forgetting that he had leaned hisportfolio against his chair, remembered at the door and went back forit, flushing. The secretary looked patient.
"Thanks," Halvorsen murmured to him as the door closed.
There was something wrong with the prelate's manner.
"I've brought the designs for the Stations, Padre," he said, openingthe portfolio on the desk.
"Bad news, Roald," said the monsignor. "I know how you've been lookingforward to the commission—"
"Somebody else get it?" asked the artist faintly, leaning against thedesk. "I thought his eminence definitely decided I had the—"
"It's not that," said the monsignor. "But the Sacred Congregationof Rites this week made a pronouncement on images of devotion.Stereopantograph is to be licit within a diocese at the discretion ofthe bishop. And his eminence—"
"S.P.G.—slimy imitations," protested Halvorsen. "Real as a plasticeye. No texture. No guts. You know that, Padre!" he said accusingly.
"I'm sorry, Roald," said the monsignor. "Your work is better than we'llget from a stereopantograph—to my eyes, at least. But there are otherconsiderations."
"Money!" spat the artist.
"Yes, money," the prelate admitted. "His eminence wants to see the St.Xavier U. building program through before he dies. Is that a mortalsin? And there are our schools, our charities, our Venus mission.S.P.G. will mean a considerable saving on procurement and maintenanceof devotional images. Even if I could, I would not disagree with hiseminence on adopting it as a matter of diocesan policy."
The prelate's eyes fell on the detailed drawings of the Stations of theCross and lingered.
"Your St. Veronica," he said abstractedly. "Very fine. It suggests oneof Caravaggio's care-worn saints to me. I would have liked to see herin the bronze."
"So would I," said Halvorsen hoarsely. "Keep the drawings, Padre." Hestarted for the door.
"But I can't—"
"That's all right."
The artist walked past the secretary blindly and out of the Chanceryinto Fifth Avenue's spring sunlight. He hoped Monsignor Reedy wasenjoying the drawings and was ashamed of himself and sorry forHalvorsen. And he was glad he didn't have to carry the heavy portfolioany more. Everything seemed so heavy lately—chisels, hammer, woodenpalette. Maybe the padre would send him something and pretend it wasfor expenses or an advance, as he had in the past.
Halvorsen's feet carried him up the Avenue. No, there wouldn't beany advances any more. The last steady trickle of income had justbeen dried up, by an announcement in Osservatore Romano. Religiousconservatism had carried the church as far as it would go in itsancient role of