The Centaurians
impossible faces was that which could not be found in one woman's face in all Centauri—soul. The artist had a cunning skill, he was able to depict that which he lacked.
I looked in vain for a trace of the delicate loveliness of his wife, but in all the work scattered about the walls there was not one sketch of Abella.
He asked me if I had noticed his work in the Salon. I told him I had not yet visited the Salon.
"My work is conspicuously hung," he informed me. "You cannot overlook any of it. I am the only painter in Centauri who refrains from defacing canvas with initials. I come from a long line of artists; necessity made us fishermen; yet each in his time was the foremost painter of the age. I am that to-day; success is the heritage. Those divinely gifted with genius strive for fame, glory alone; to barter that speck of gold which the sun's rays burned in us is sacrilegious. Sol! blind my eyes forever to your golden brilliancy. I would as soon think of selling my wife Abella."
"And when you have reached fame, glory—what?" I asked.
"You do not quite understand," he quickly replied, "it is not momentary fame we seek; immortal fame is the goal we all strive for. But all who are famous cannot be immortal, yet each believe immortality the just reward; even Alpha, the Superb, yearns for immortal fame, and is wasting her gorgeous youth in the effort."
He turned to a huge stone chest or vault set in the wall; unbolting the door he invited me to enter.
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