New Writings in SF 2 by John Carnell (ed.)

Author:John Carnell (ed.) [Carnell, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Short Story Collection
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

ROGUE LEONARDO

by

G. L. Lack

In the modern world of electronics, anything is possible. Take the little matter of duplicating Old Master paintings, for instance…

ROGUE LEONARDO

The old man heard the world pass by behind him. His knees had become almost accustomed to the shiny plastic tiles with the passing of the years, although the only truly familiar thing was the matt surface of the concrete slabs he had been allowed to retain as his canvas.

Glancing up from his chalks he could have seen the reflections of passers-by in the lower part of the store window. The old, the middle aged, and the young sometimes paused to look over his hunched back. He heard them all; knew their voices. Especially the young; they changed least.

“Look!”

“Look, Daddy!”

“What’s he doing?”

One of his favourite pictures was simple, a rectangle with the lower half green and the upper half blue; in the sky an airliner and wisps of cirrus cloud.

“Look, Daddy. A rocket with wings.”

“That’s how they used to be. I remember my grandfather talking about them. You must have seen them on your history-screens.”

“What’s that white stuff, Daddy?”

Pause.

“Cloud, I suppose. They used to allow it once upon a time—even on air-lanes.”

Clouds. The old man remembered the last of them; curling wisps of cirrus like the hair of a woman grey before her time; stratus, dirty, low, and ominous; and great cumulus clouds, towering billowing white castles. Now they were controlled, coralled, and herded like cattle, or just false cumulus puffed up at night for irrigation purposes, with no blue backdrop.

He remembered rain too. Coming unexpectedly, or continuously, sometimes ruthlessly, swamping the pavements, fusing his chalk pictures into an abstract puddle.

Another picture was that of a pink rose. A pink seen nowhere else in the city. Not quite the flesh pink that is obscene in a flower. Not even the pink of the chalk he used. The concrete slab altered its tone, gave it new texture. Were roses like it growing anywhere?

Around mid-day he would doze. The sun at its zenith beat down from a cloudless sky on the square. Traffic diminished. Pedestrians sought shade. The pigeons came into their own in the muted hour, cooing softly.

Occasionally his eyes flickered open. He saw the bright splashing of the fountains reflected in the windows of the store. And the lions crouching.

He was on the north side of Trafalgar Square, London.

Ross Trafford was the senior technician of Public Art Galleries (S.E. Section). Under him was a team of electronic engineers, skilled, competent, and unimaginative. From his city office he directed operations and dealt with all calls from the area. The morning of Tuesday, 12th May, 2096, promised to be typical of his routine.

Arriving at the office at 9.30 he switched on the playback and listened to the messages which had been abstracted from incoming tapes by his assistants. This resume prior to the giving of detailed communications conveyed the overall picture.

“Guildford—Reynolds over-aging. Watford—Picasso-blue too modest. Maidenhead—background prominent. Harrow—Constable greens rather fresh. Picasso—blues modest. Canterbury—Leonardo da Vinci erratic. Brighton —Matisse….”

He listened on, noting common defects, choosing the engineers he would send.

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