Circle Thrice Laurence James(1)

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And that early picture of the lights of old Newyork. Magical."
"She resided down in Abiquiu in New Mexico," Doc said. "Lived to a great age, but went blind toward
the end of her life. Amazing, amazing woman. Look at the one called Black Mesa . Marvelous."
"I liked those sea pictures," Ryan commented. "Winslow Homer. Way he showed light on water. I've
never ever seen real famous paintings like this. Thought they'd mostly been destroyed in the skydark
times."
Doc was transfigured with ecstasy. "Happened in Europe during the big Second War. Hid treasures in
mines and places like that. Good to see that someone here in Tennessee had enough sense to save these
pictures. Miraculous."
Jak had paused a long time in front of a reproduction of a picture by Andrew Wyeth. "Named after my
wife," he said. "Called Christina's World ."
It showed a young disabled woman lying on a sloping field, staring away from the painter toward a group
of buildings farther up the hill.
"Like a frozen moment," Mildred stated. "Bit like that other guy we all liked."
"Hoppy?" Ryan queried.
"Hopper. Edward Hopper." Mildred pulled at his sleeve to lead him back into the middle room, standing
with him in front of a trio of Hopper pictures.
One showed a sunlit house with the draperies drawn across the second-floor windows. There was the
feeling that someone was about to walk by or had just vanished from a window.
The second painting was of an office in a city, with a woman seated at a typewriter and another woman
holding a mug of coffee, neither looking at the other.
The third Hopper featured an elderly man sitting in a canvas chair in the garden of a mansion overlooking
a deep blue ocean. Once again there was that odd, timeless feeling of an event trapped forever in amber.
Single pictures had attracted each of them individually. Jak loved some capering little men in bright
colors, but the label was missing from it; J.B. was taken by a print of an electric chair by Andy Warhol,
though the others found it ghoulish; Krysty admired a geometric pattern by Frank Stella; and one of
Mildred's favorites was of a stark industrial landscape, painted with great attention to detail by Charles
Sheeler.
Doc was struck speechless by a magnificent Western painting by Frank Russell, depicting a man trapped
on a ledge by a wounded cougar, high in the Sierras; Ryan was dazzled by the paintings, though they had
obviously been hung in great haste, with no attempt to worry about alignment or lighting. One or two of
the artists were people that he'd vaguely heard of, but he hadn't been prepared for the richness of color
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and texture. Even painters he didn't much care for had undeniable talent.
But his own personal favorite, which nobody else much cared for, was a gray picture of a misty sea with a
bridge in the background, by John Sloan. It seemed to capture a feeling of isolation and loneliness that
spoke directly to him.
"Shame we can't somehow take the pictures with us," Mildred said. "Still, just seeing them all like this has
been truly fabulous."
"I had never imagined that such a collection of treasures still existed anywhere in this blighted
Deathlands." Doc took a last look into the nearest room. "So rich."
J.B. cleared his throat. "Still would've preferred it to have been artillery. But the art was a good surprise."
"Hungry." Jak was surprised when the others laughed. "Am," he insisted. "Real hungry."
Ryan slapped the teenager on the shoulder. "You and me both, Jak."
"We going out the redoubt now?"
"Why not?"
THEY LEFT THE ART SECTION of the huge, rambling redoubt behind them and moved toward the
marked entrance. Their route led them through an open set of double sec doors into a massive, vaulted
hall, bigger than an aircraft hangar.
"Defensive positions all around here," J.B. observed. "Ready to repel the enemy."
Ryan nodded. "Only problem with that tactical planning was that all the enemy were dead, as well."
"What happened to all of the tens of millions of corpses?" Mildred asked. "I've always wondered that.
Should be boneyards, shouldn't there?"
Doc answered her. "I also pondered that, madam. Indeed, I once was fortunate enough to visit the ruins at
Mesa Verde and I asked the ranger on duty the same question. Where did all of the Anasazi bodies go?"
"And?"
"And, Dr. Wyeth, he pointed out that Nature is an excellent disposer of corpses. The weather combines
with wild animals. It is close on one hundred years since the skies over the land of the free grew dark with
nuclear warheads. Time enough for most bodies out in the open to have been absorbed back into the
environment. Fortunately for all of us, mankind is intensely biodegradable."
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