Free IGMS Issue 18 by IGMS Page B

latticed metal cage of some ancient design: paint peeling off in jagged curls; rust crawling across its surface.
    I grunted; nothing could entice me into that death-trap. I headed for the stairs.
    As I heaved myself up the last few flights, a wheeze developed in my throat, and I clutched at the handrail like a lifeline.
    I paused at the top to get my breath.
    The studio's door was overkill. It resembled an old-fashioned bank's safe. The foot-thick circular metal door lay ajar, supported on a massive set of hinges. Beyond the door hung a bead curtain, through which light sparkled.
    I smiled to myself. The guy must be painting on gold bars to warrant a door like that -- no living artist needed that much security.
    I stepped over the circular door's raised edge and pushed through the bead curtains.
    I sniffed. The air was different -- it was dry, cooler and conditioned. Blinking neon signs from the street market below shone up through a row of windows along the left. Pulses of blue, pink and violet danced along the edge of the ceiling like distant fireworks.
    "Mr. Violix? Are you here?"
    "Yes, yes, I'm here." His voice came from the dark shadows beyond the spotlight. "Step into the light, Mr. Whistler, so I can see you."
    A strange request, but I stepped forward, shielding my eyes with my hand. "Where are you?"
    A dark shape behind the light backed away as I advanced.
    "Yes, yes. I'm here. That's f . . . far enough, Mr. Whistler."
    The figure shifted slightly in the shadows, as though examining me. "Do you have any untreated eyesight problems, Mr. Whistler? Astigmatisms, colour bli--"
    "No." I snapped. "I could hardly do my job if I did, could I? Now, are we to play games, Mr. Violix, or will you show me your paintings? That's why I'm here, isn't it?"
    "Yes, yes. All business, eh? Very well, if you turn around, I will illuminate the first picture for you."
    As I turned, a spotlight illuminated a section of the wall behind me. A canvas hung there -- a random mess of colour splurged upon a white background.
    I walked closer.
    It was just a mass of colour; swirls and splatters that followed no shape, design or pattern. It was bright, vibrant, and full of energy; it wasn't bad -- in the style of Jackson Pollock -- but it was nothing new. It was derivative drivel.
    My professional persona took over.
    "Well, Mr. Violix," I chose my words carefully. "Your style is good, but it isn't really --"
    "Mr. Whistler, you must look at the painting a little longer, before deciding. I believe it will begin to resonate with you in a most unique way."
    It was his insistent tone that reminded me of the fact that Hei Long wanted me to give this guy a break -- no matter what. My opinion counted for nothing.
    I sighed and turned back to the picture.
    After a moment I noticed that there seemed to be structure within the apparently random image, a structure that I hadn't perceived before.
    I leaned nearer.
    It was almost as though the picture had re-organised itself on some level. The sensation of change grew as colours flickered and shifted before my eyes. Flashes, as though a light had pierced the canvas, made me blink.
    The effect pulled . . .
    . . . lying on my back in a cot, watching the yellow curtains flapping in the gentle morning breeze. The house was quiet, but outside, birds sung. The dawn light was that tinge of violet glimpsed only on rare summer mornings in northern countries.
    All around -- even within me -- I sensed the infinite possibilities of the universe poised to be unleashed. Anything could happen, but most definitely, something would.
    I grabbed my foot and began to chew on my toe. It was a moment of perfect happiness.
    "Turn back, Mr Whistler . . . b . . . back to me, back to the studio." A faint voice cried from downstairs.
    My father? I twisted in my cot and . . .
    . . . the world lurched as two realities meshed for a fraction of a second -- the way fighting dogs blur -- and then there was just the studio.
    I