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.Farber was a graphic artist, and thought of himself as such, although,like most artists of his generation, he had seldom even touched paints oroils or clay or bronze.He worked instead with a sophisticated deviceknown as a sensory crown exported by the Jejun, master craftsmen forthis entire section of the spiral arm that enabled him to transpose hisinternal fantasies and visualizations directly onto holographic film.Theresults of this process, rather inevitably known as "sensies" in popularparlance, could be exhibited either as a movie or as blown-up stills (therewere conflicting views as to which was the proper method) and weregradually replacing the old arts of painting, sculpture, andphotography now regarded as passe and intolerably primitive by theYoung Turks among the more highly civilized nations of Earth.With theadvent of the sensies, and the concurrent exodus of men to distant starsystems, the old school of landscape painting crossbred itself with thetravelog and regained something of the prestige and popularity it hadenjoyed in the eighteenth century with the additional advantage thatthese visualizations of alien lands were filtered through and colored by theperception of the individual sensie artist, giving rise almost overnight tocritics and connoisseurs who would argue endlessly over the precision ofTunick's eye as contrasted with the passion of Frank's.It became common practice for sensie artists to be sent along with theoutbound trading missions and exploratory expeditions, to record themfor the folks back home.This was Farber's position with the mission to"Lisle," and so far he had not been fulfilling it very well.That wouldchange now, he hoped; the night with Liraun had eased much of histrepidation about venturing out into the alien city, and his head wasfull perhaps too full of images derived from his experiences at theAlàntene.Full of noble resolve, he went to get his sensie equipment.Janet LaCorte gave him an indignant glare as he ducked into AdminOffice B.Wincing, feeling the beginnings of an acid roiling in his stomach, hepicked up the backpack and the sensory crown and started back through the complex toward the Enclave gates.He thought he felt disapprovingeyes on him several times, and caught himself wondering, uneasily, howmany people knew that he had slept with Liraun, and what the generalreaction to the news had been.At the same time, one train of thoughtrunning consecutively with the other, he was angry with himself for hisuneasy fear of censure, and disgusted that he should automatically startreevaluating a beautiful experience as sullying as soon as he thought thatthe judgment of his peers would be against him.Those two things groundtogether in his head, working first one way and then the other, leavinghim pinched and uncomfortable at their center, where the grinding edgewas.To his displeasure, he ran into Dale Brody on the way past the Recordsand Supply Building.Brody looked elaborately almostpretentiously dissipated, as though he had been dipped by the hair into aquick-drying lacquer to preserve him, but only after he had already diedand been left to rot for several days.There was a crackly, shiny film tohim, but underneath it his flesh was the putty gray of corrupted meat.Hewalked stiffly and slowly, barely moving his arms and legs away from hisbody, and his eyes were small and red and mean."Hello, boy," Brody said hoarsely."A night among the niggers, eh?" Hisvoice was heavy with phony camaraderie.Farber nodded sheepishly,reflexively, and then flushed red to the ears with a curious mixture ofembarrassment and rage the grinding edge again.Brody was stillspeaking, lazily, reminiscently: "You know, I always wondered what thatwas like, that nigger cunt, running all sideways and all, like they say butshit, son, how'd you get past the smell? That's 'ut always hung me up, youknow? I just don't see any dang way you could do it at all, now, 'less youjust don't have a nose." He grinned a yellowed, snaggletoothed grin thatwas without warmth or humor.Distanced from all this somehow, hiding in some cave in the back of hishead, Farber watched his own reactions with fascination.Part of him wasdefinitely reacting to the locker-room overtones in Brody's voice with thatkind of shamefaced, hangdog embarrassment that, although it humiliatesyou, still leaves you a part of the social mechanism, if only in the role ofscapegoat, simply because you have been humiliated.Ah, hell, Dale, heknew that he should say now, in that whining, half-angry tone, I was justdrunk.You know, Dale, you know shit, ain't you ever tied a real blindpisser of a load on? Goddamnit, a man just ain't responsible for whathe's doing when he's got a load like that on.Ah, come on now, Dale
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