Threat of Stars at 912 Main

Illustration by Dell Harris

Michael Martin, the photorealist, is alive and well and painting in Houston, and nearing the completion of his best work to date. That’s a great capsule bio, isn’t it? Especially considering the rest of the whole truth. He nearly ended up either dead or disappeared off the face of the Earth.

It was a close call as to which outcome it would be. And the irony is, I wasn’t looking for a new painting idea that night. Or for trouble either. It all just happened out of the clear, black, night sky.

Thursday night, July 22. The art opening was going great at first. My paintings had a white wall to themselves, with track lighting that showed them off to best effect. The rest of the group show at the Hart Gallery was strong, too. We had Thaddeus Cooper’s Afro-American-motif collages, Tam Adkins’s surrealist paintings, sculpture from the studio of Ben Glaze, and drawings in charcoal and crayon by Roger Easterling. There was only one mistake in the show—a messy, three-dimensional, mixed-media piece, situated in a corner between Thaddeus and Roger, so I wasn’t sure which of the two was responsible. At least it wasn’t dragging my stuff down. I’d already spoken with a potential buyer, a lawyer with offices downtown. He sounded serious about buying my painting, “Bayou Gothic Skyscraper.”

Then Roger came up to me. Besides having art in the show, he was the gallery owner’s assistant, and looked artistically official in tuxedo and mint-green, ruffled silk shirt. Roger was handing out drinks and news. “Guess what? A Miguel Herrera painting has disappeared from the Artes Magnificos Gallery! White or red?”

My name, Michael, is the Anglophone equivalent to that of Mr. Herrera, who’s a local photorealist with a national reputation, and my idol. So Roger’s news got my attention. I accepted white wine in a plastic cup and felt suddenly, absurdly worried.

It was the busy Brownian motion of a well-attended opening in here tonight, with people uniformly dispersed throughout the gallery space. Except the artists clustered around Roger. “Another art theft? No foolin’!” exclaimed Thaddeus Cooper. “That makes five in five days.”

“Nights,” Roger corrected. “The thefts all happened in the middle of the night.”

“Does what’s been stolen have anything in common?” I wanted to know.

“Works in five different media and styles that range from Baroque to avant-garde,” Roger answered, “are missing from the Fine Arts Museum, the personal studio of Victor Leibrock, and two commercial galleries.”

“Any of us might be next,” said Thaddeus in a droll tone.

I laughed. But deep down, I felt threatened. There’s nothing like not having made it quite yet. Miguel Herrera could afford to lose a painting; his go for five figures each. But I had everything to lose. At least that’s how I felt, imagining what if my “Bayou Gothic” vanished off the wall of the Hart Gallery.

“The art theft wave is why I’m playing hostess,” Roger said. “Annika’s at the gallery owners’ association emergency meeting. I did the last of the setup without her.”

Tam Adkins, the painter who’d recently moved to Houston, asked, “Do gallery owners here have an association? In Atlanta they cooperate about like a sackful of cats.”

“Same here, but they associated last spring when City Council considered zoning restrictions such that galleries in upscale residential neighborhoods would have been zoned out of business. And now the art theft wave has them meeting again. Welcome to Houston,” Roger said brightly.

Elsewhere in the gallery, some art professors were having a loud discussion. Standing around the mixed-up-media piece, the academics argued with each other about its relevance to Derrida and deconstruction.

“Do excuse me. I have patrons to attend to.” Roger glided away toward the professors who, while arguing over the mixed-media piece, weren’t looking at it, and the art critic and photographer from the newspaper, who were.

Thaddeus nudged me. “Roger’s going to get some press with that mixed-shit piece of his.”

So it was Roger’s. I should have known. “Maybe the art thief will read the review and come steal it,” I muttered peevishly.

The profs and the art critic drifted away from the mixed media, but a gaggle of glitterati replaced them. Meanwhile, nobody hovered in front of my work.

I do photorealism. Huge paintings of city scenes. I prowl the streets looking for interesting angles; I’ve been known to lie in wait until some combination of Sun and shadow, or mist and moonlight, gives a unique lighting effect to a skyscraper. In other words, I work hard to understand and to depict the reality of the stone, steel and glass bones of this city.

And the art-opening crowd preferred the messy little mixed media. Feeling faintly green, just like the wine in my cup tasted, I went over to take a close critical look at Roger’s folly.

Importantly placed on a display pedestal, it incorporated a dayglo sneaker, a giant plastic cockroach, wads of crumpled paper and used bubble gum, and a green plastic comb. It looked like what you’d find on top of a clogged storm sewer after a downpour, balled up into a mess about two feet across, and stuck together with orange paste looking suspiciously like the gasket goop that mechanics use.

Thaddeus was right. It was shit-awful. To top it all off, the thing was titleless. I started to scan the floor in case the title card had fallen off, but a girl in a clingy blue dress informed me, “We already looked. There isn’t a tide card. Having no artist and no title is such a provocative statement.”

“Uh-huh.” In my own opinion, the lack of a title card was excessively coy.

With eyes to match her dress, she gave me a shimmering blue gaze. “Are you the artist?”

She was an art babe, one of the attractive young women who are fascinated by the art scene, don’t earn enough money to collect art, but do have charms wherewith to collect male artists. As it happens, art babes aren’t the type for me. I said, “No, this is a Roger Easterling.”

She wasn’t Roger’s type either, since she was the wrong gender for him. But he deserved the trouble of fending her off, after inflicting his Mixed Media on the show.

By now I was brooding about the whole fine arts business and the way it pandered to tasteless, moronic money. About my eventual success as a painter, or lack thereof. And inside all of the brooding a thorn of irrational fear was sticking in my side. Suppose “Bayou Gothic” was the one that would knock the critics’ socks off, that could implant the seeds of a real reputation for me in the art world, but got stolen instead?

It was distraction time. Before I could wind myself up any tighter and completely ruin my mood for the opening, I went over to check out Tam Adkins’s work.

One of Tam’s paintings fascinated me. Measuring a couple of feet long on each side, it was half of the size of what I usually do, but exquisite. She had painted computer chips and electronic parts and laboratory glassware—with light reflections rendered just right—a melange of technological artifacts, assembled in such as way as to look like a portrait of a man. It alluded to a famous classical painting in which the human portrait was an assemblage of fruit. But it accomplished more than mere allusion. “Hey, Technology Number 7’ is great, including your technique. Masterful,” I told her.

Tam responded with a bright smile.

She wore a short vermilion dress and—something I check when women seem to exceed me in height—flat shoes. Tall lady. “Michael, can I show you something really odd?”

To my exasperation, Tam led me back to Roger’s mixed media. Pointing to the giant plastic cockroach stuck onto the side of the mess, Tam said, “I think that moved.”

I gave a cynical chuckle. “It’s not alive—not even Houston has roaches that big. It’s a novelty from the party supply store on South Main street.”

“What I meant was, the whole part moved.”

“Then maybe the orange goop is melting.”

She laughed. An attractive laugh, a mezzo-soprano fugue, it triggered an automatic assess-the-competition exercise. Roger—elegantly tall, with dramatic pale skin and dark hair—was not in the market for women. Thaddeus had a Mrs. Cooper. But Ben Glaze was single and an impressively brawny man. Ben could have been a football player. I, on the other hand, had the compact build of a male gymnast. Which, in point of fact, I used to be, in college. If Tam went for Ben’s kind of physique, I would be way out of luck. On the other hand…

Here was a welcome preoccupation to edge out the bigger, badder, loose-baggy-monster worries about life, art and theft. So I took testosterone up on its suggestion. I leaned closer to whisper, sotto voce, “It’s supposed to slowly melt because it’s a statement about deconstruction.”

Tam laughed. “It’s not melting. There’s a motor inside it.”

She was beautiful—a tall, brown-eyed blonde in a red dress. I could feel wine going to my head and libido going to other places.

The mixed media’s perpetrator interrupted my efforts at courtship. Roger announced to everyone in the gallery, “My friends, it’s almost time for this opening to close. Drink up!”

Having seen to it that the white wine, which was considering turning to vinegar, had been killed off, Roger ushered everybody out. He let Annika’s cat, Triptych, out of the back room to have the run of the place. I noticed that Roger locked the gallery’s front door with care, testing it with a sharp tug.

A few of us, including Tam, adjourned to the cafe across the street. We took a table by the plate glass window. The darkened facade on the other side of the street said HART GALLERY in the splash of headlights from the occasional car going by.

As she spooned white froth off her cappuccino, Tam asked, “Why are we sitting here? Are we guarding the gallery?”

“Should we be?” I replied.

Across the table from us sat Ben Glaze with a new friend: the art babe in the blue dress. She was clinging to Ben’s arm much as the dress clung to her breasts. Ben seemed dazzled.

Tam said, “I keep trying to figure out what the thefts have in common. What’s the why?”

I replied, “You know, there’s one more theft to take into account.” Having captured everybody’s attention, even Ben’s, I continued, deadpan, “I read about it in my parents’ subdivision newspaper. There was an arts and crafts exhibit in Westwood Mall, from which a collage was stolen. It was a ‘Texas’ theme piece with dried blue-bonnets, barbed wire and sepia photographs in a mesquite wood frame.”

Ben snorted like a Texas javelina. “Arts and crap doesn’t count!”

“If anybody’s low-down enough to be a thief, why should they have good taste in art?” Tam countered. “Is there somebody who’d have a reason to steal all of the pieces that are missing, including the collage?”

The girl on Ben’s arm chirped, “Tourists! You know how undiscriminating they can be about weird souvenirs. And sometimes they just take things without asking. It must be tourists from Romania or somewhere like that.” She proceeded to reclaim Ben’s undivided attention by snuggling his brawny arm into her blue-sheathed bosom.

I asked Tam, “Are you worried?”

“That would be paranoid.” Cradling the cappuccino cup in her hands, she sighed. “You have to be able tc sell art, or give it away, or throw it away when it isn’t any good. But one of the pieces over there means a lot to me.”

“Technology Number 7?”

She nodded. “ ‘Tech 7’ is the best in the series. And it took a long time to do, to get just right. I feel invested in it.”

Ben’s new girlfriend caused him to lose whatever interest he had in guard duty. They left. Which was fine by me. “I get invested too,” I confided. “It takes me hours to photograph and sketch buildings from different angles in order to understand them well enough to paint them.”

“I make friends with scientists and engineers and watch them use their instruments and equipment in the lab. It wasn’t until I went and watched a scientific glassblower at Rice University that I understood the beaker and the crucible in ‘Tech 7’ well enough to paint them.”

“Good, because art should be truth about the world. It’s not just about my feelings, what I feel. It’s about what I see.” There was Michael Martin’s philosophy and highest aspiration, tucked into a nutshell.

“I believe that, too.” She looked into my eyes.

The evening, while not young, wasn’t all that old. And the cafe was cozily romantic. I ventured, “Is your name Tamara?”

“On my birth certificate it’s Tammy Ruth Adkins, born in Union Springs, Alabama. But I don’t want to be called Tammy or Ruth either one.” I recognized the Southern accent in her voice with a thrill, as though I had made a rare and wonderful discovery.

A ring-and-bracelet-bedecked hand clapped my shoulder. Startled, I nearly jumped out of the booth before a familiar, throaty alto voice said, “I thought I’d find some of you hanging around in here.”

With irritation, I looked up at Annika Hart, whose timing could have been infinitely better. “Hi.”

“How was the opening? Did Roger get everything set up in time?”

“Yeah, but why did you let Roger put that Mixed Media of his in an otherwise outstanding show?”

“It’s not Roger’s,” said Tam. “Roger and I decided Thaddeus did it. It symbolizes anonymous, black urban vigor—the resurrection of the crap of the city.”

“But it isn’t Thaddeus’s.” I frowned. “He and I were talking about it behind Roger’s back.”

“What Mixed Media?” Annika asked.

I said, “The one in the comer where the bad light made it look better.”

“I know about the bad lighting. I don’t display anything important in that comer,” said Annika.

“Whose is it really?” Tam asked. “How does it work?”

“What do you mean, it works?” said Annika.

“You have to watch for a while. Some parts slide around relative to each other, in a way that isn’t a simple motor. Michael, I was showing you that just before Roger closed up the opening. I’ve never seen an art show with a motorized thingie in it. Is that a trend in Houston?”

Annika said emphatically, “No, and I would not display a motorized thingie in my gallery.”

Slightly laced with alcohol and caffeine and in a suddenly unsettled mood, I said, “It’s there. Let us in and we’ll show you.”

Annika cleared her throat. “All right. The reputation of my establishment is at stake.” Barging out of the cafe in front of us, Annika declared, “If somebody whom I did not invite to this show has left a calling card behind my back, in the form of a motorized thingie like a tacky display in a Christmas window—out in the trash it goes!”

The warm night air wrapped a around us like velvet, reminding me that in the summer in Houston the time to be outdoors, and romantic, is at night. The problem was that in this end of downtown, as late as it was by then, there’s no night life. The cafe we’d just stepped out of was the only business open for blocks around.

With a rattle of keys Annika opened the glass door of her gallery. Whereupon, her cat streaked out.

“Oh, no! Trippy, come back!” Annika called after the fleeing cat.

Triptych is the complacent type of cat. It’s a bad sign when a cat like that spooks. I stepped past Annika into the gallery and, holding the glass door open, turned on the lights.

Incandescent brightness burned the scene into my retinas. Tam’s painting, “Tech 7,” was out of place. Mixed Media was out of place too. To be exact, the painting seemed to be stuck onto the side of Mixed Media as if glued onto the mess—the whole of which scooted across the hardwood floor. It made a beeline toward me. I stood holding the door ajar with my mouth wide open.

The anodized aluminum frame of “Tech 7” hit my shin as it was propelled past my legs. I nearly tripped, but caught myself on the door handle. With a clink as the frame glanced off the door jamb, Mixed Media and “Tech 7” were out the door. Tam let out a startled yelp.

The art sped away on the sidewalk. The configuration had changed. With Tam’s painting balanced on top like a graduation cap and mortar, Mixed Media disappeared around the corner.

The idea of a robot art thief dawned on my otherwise blank mind. This had to be an unholy practical joke, centered in the Mobile Robotics Lab at Rice University. Annika emitted a choked sound. Of the three of us, Tam was the first to shake off total bewilderment. “That’s my work!” she yelled, and gave chase like a sprinter out of the starting blocks.

“What the hell!” Annika sputtered.

“You look for your cat and we’ll get the piece back.” I took off after Tam.

With flat shoes and long legs, Tam moved fast. Two blocks down the side street and around another corner, I caught up with her. She had trapped the fugitive in the recess of a store front. The scene was bizarre: a lovely woman confronting a ball of clutter crowned by a painting.

Her Southern accent and attitude were out in force. “Give me my work back, you sorry lil’ whatever you are!” She grabbed her painting by the frame. Mixed Media hung on somehow—as if the painting were glued onto it. With a hard shake Tam freed “Tech 7.” And then Mixed Media made a noise, a thin rattle like aluminum drink cans hitting the recycling bin.

“Don’t you dare cuss at me!” Tam snapped.

Taking Tam by the elbow, I said urgently, “Let’s go back to the gallery.” I expected a van to screech up beside us and wild-eyed graduate students to jump out bent on retrieving their robot, plus or minus snatching the painting while they were at it.

To my consternation, Mixed Media followed us.

Out of the gallery context it didn’t look like art at all, just random debris coating a mass which disconcertingly changed shape all over at the same time, bloblike with various undulations. “That is one hell of a robot art thief,” I muttered.

“It has pseudopods. That’s how it walks.” Tam’s voice sounded constricted. “I don’t know of any machines like that.”

“It’s not a little robot?”

“Michael, no way!”

In the humidity of the summer night, I sweated. Part of my sweat was sudden, sour nerves. I was acutely aware of how deserted this street was—buildings closed, blank, untenanted—as I watched that thing over my shoulder, following us like a coagulated shadow. Then it hit me. “Out of the mouths of babes!” I whispered.

“What baby?” She sounded tense.

“Ben’s friend. Remember what she said about the bad habits of tourists? Just not from Romania. From a lot further away,” I blurted. The city of Houston seemed to spin dizzily around me as that thought hit the fan of my mental processes.

Quick on the uptake, Tam gasped. “You think it’s alien?”

We hastily backed around the corner. Mixed Media scuttled after us on a ripple of pseudopods. A streetlight’s glare reflected in three orbs of green shimmer. “With three eyes, you think it’s not?” I demanded, gruff with alarm.

Tam snatched up a garbage can lid from a receptacle stationed beside a bolted-shut door. “Scram, you dev’lish critter!” She hurled the lid.

Mixed Media dodged the lid by rolling to one side with a sudden short wobble like a cube of Jell-O falling off a dessert plate. Then it resumed following us, undeterred.

Near the garbage can lay a discarded push broom. The business end was ratty, but the stick was long and intact. “Aha!” I darted over to grab the broom.

Mixed Media Jell-Oed toward Tam, who let out a little shriek and jumped back. I rushed at MM brandishing the stick end of the broom. “For your next party trick, how’d you like to resemble meatball on a toothpick!?”

It backed off with a disagreeable crunching noise like when you step on a tin can before recycling.

“Ha!” I crowed.

But it kept trailing after us, just out of skewer range.

I thought about the cafe, with people in it, and Annika standing on the sidewalk with her cat in her arms, anxiously looking for our return, a short, familiar figure. Such safety was still at least a block up the street and around one more corner. I muttered savagely, “Things like this are supposed to show up in Socorro, New Mexico. Not Houston.”

“Maybe it needs heat and humidity both,” said Tam. “Like slugs and slime mold do.”

“Figures!” I was warily half-turned toward Mixed Media. We started to pass an alley. Out of the corner of my eye I caught blurred motion inside the alley. I snagged Tam’s elbow and hauled her to a halt.

Things poured out of the alley. With a startled cry, Tam crowded against me. The things arrayed themselves across the sidewalk in our way.

Confronting us were three blobs just like Mixed Media. But bigger. Badder-looking. “Oh, shit,” I whispered. “It’s got friends!” Tam and I clutched each other.

The one right in front of us was not only three times bigger than Mixed Media, it was three times uglier, encrusted with debris that looked and smelled like the dregs of a garbage dumpster. The broken end of a fluorescent light tube stuck to it. So did a battered hubcap.

And it had a tentacle that waved toward us in the air. The tentacle snatched the push broom out of my hands, then tossed the broom into the alley with a clatter. Then, the hovering tip of the tentacle pointed at “Tech 7,” with the precise indicative motion of an index finger.

Tam embraced her painting tighter. I understood. But feeling empty-handed and defenseless, I hissed, “Let them have it before they fry us to get it!”

She extended “Tech 7. The tentacle curled around the painting in a flash of motion, jerked it from her hands. To my horrified fascination, a pocket about three feet wide opened up in the blob’s crust of debris. Like the pouch of a giant kangaroo without legs or paws or head. “Tech 7” was deposited into the pocket.

Tam swore in a low tone of utter malice. Behind our heels, Mixed Media rattled gleefully.

I expected the big garbage ball to be satisfied with its extortion. I wanted the aliens to crawl off and let us go back to the cafe and Annika.

Instead, they started to advance on Tam and me.

The adrenaline in my system ignited. Whirling, I grabbed Tam ’s hand and pulled her with me, jumping over Mixed Media and bolting down the street.

When I shot a glance over my shoulder, my heart nearly stopped in mid-systole. “They’re coming!”

“But I gave it to them!” she panted, gripping my hand harder. “What more do they want?”

And that was when it dawned on me that unscrupulous alien art collectors might just decide to collect an artist or two. I didn’t waste time and breath explaining. “Run!”

We pounded down the deserted street’s sidewalk. The side streets and alleyways were dim, hemmed by office buildings. Dumpsters sitting in the dimness looked ominous to my frantic imagination—the dumpsters seemed more like angular machines with great big hatches, the use-battered landing craft of an alien invasion.

In fractured glimpses over my shoulder, I saw how the alien things moved by rolling gelatinously, like predatory Jell-O cubes. That way they covered ground fast. And gained on us.

“Where can we go?” Tam took in a sharp breath. “Nothing’s open!”

She was right. They were chasing us away from the cafe. Now we were near Main Street, nothing there but office buildings. I breathed hard, my side and my heels starting to hurt.

We veered around a corner, the locked front door of a fast food restaurant. The things rounded the restaurant behind us, rolling out into the street in wide turns as if their locomotion wasn’t much good for tight maneuvers.

And that gave me a sudden hope. Maybe they couldn’t jump any better than they could make a tight turn.

“This way!” I towed Tam down Main Street. The glass tower of 912 Main reared up against the sky. Next to it stood the stone bulk of the old Lamar Building. I’d studied that one only a month ago for my “Lamar Building in 1926” and I knew ten times more details than had gone into the painting. Including, the fire escape.

The Lamar Building had a fire escape retrofitted onto the outside wall. It was the kind of contraption that hangs overhead until somebody runs down it and their weight takes it to the ground. Sprinting the last ten yards, I bounded off the wall to get high enough to grab the lowest rung of the escape, which came down with a rusty and reluctant creak. Tam got the idea and boarded with a flying leap. I followed right behind her. We galloped up to the second floor landing.

Without our weight on the bottom end, the counterweights raised the fire escape back into its normal position. A metallic groan announced that the drawbridge was up. I stopped. “I don’t think they can jump. We’ll be safe here,” I explained, gasping for breath and wiping sweat out of my eyes.

She turned toward me. “Did you see? It ate my painting! I hope it gets indigestion!” Furious and breathing hard, with her whole body alerted tense, her beauty suddenly struck me, an effect as powerful as it was untimely.

“I don’t think it ate it. It has a pocket like a kangaroo,” I murmured. “Keep an eye on them.” I tore my attention away from her and looked up to figure out what to do next.

The fire escape terminated at a window on the corner of the top floor of the Lamar Building. I hoped that window wasn’t locked on the inside. It gave me the creeps to think about having to perch on the fire escape all night with the aliens prowling on the sidewalk below.

Besides the possibly-locked window at the top of the fire escape, there was another window not too far away. Like all of the top-floor windows on the Lamar Building, it had a decorative, eccentric, 1920s ledge: wider than the window itself, with a fretted rim, nice and deep. And inviting.

Even though the intervening drop was seriously dangerous—five stories straight down to the street—fire escape to adjacent window-ledge constituted an easy jump for me or for a girl with long legs. And that window should be unlocked—why lock or seal a window that nobody can easily get to from the outside?

I leaned against the stone wall that our fire escape was attached to. The Lamar Building’s bumpy limestone blocks still felt warm from the heat of the day. The giant glass spar across the street at 912 Main gleamed, darkly unsympathetic, but the Lamar Building would help us, give us refuge.

“They have a language,” Tam whispered.

The sound effects ranged from Mixed Media’s aluminum-can clinks to noises like shooter marbles in a coffee can coming from its companions.

rattlerattlerattle

RATTLE!RATTLE!

Ratatattle, tatrattle!

Each seemed to wait for a pause in the other’s rattle-racket before it started up. Definitely conversing.

From our vantage point, the group of aliens reminded me of the mobilized contents of a dumpster. Broken fluorescent tube, bent hubcap, empty cans, scraps of cardboard. “They’re like carrier snails or something,” I whispered. “They’ve picked up trash for camouflage. It sticks in the goop they’re covered with.”

“Maybe the goop is their space suits or flight suits?”

The comparison of orange gasket goop to space suits gave me cognitive dissonance. But not for long. Tam gasped, “Look!”

The garbage balls were making a stack out of themselves. One-two-three high. The stack reared up, with short thin pseudopods at the top end waving for contact with the fire escape. “Up!” I ordered.

The fire escape squealed ominously. Dismayed, I glanced back to see the aliens in stack formation mounting it, vividly and unpleasantly reminiscent of an enormous centipede.

Clatter rang out. It sounded like empty cans and bent hubcaps clanking on metal. A bottle broke. The aliens were rushing up the fire escape, whacking the steel stairs and guard rails with their crusts of trash.

Cursing under my breath, I crowded Tam’s heels climbing the steps. I wanted the things to get me if they got anybody. But I didn’t want them to get me either.

At the fifth-floor landing, the top, the window was locked. I’d half expected that. With nowhere to go but that deep-silled window five feet away. I pointed. “Jump to there!”

Peering over the guardrail, Tam reacted to the long drop to the street below. “Ee-yow!”

I gestured toward the commotion of the things just one floor below us. Convinced, Tam climbed over the guardrail like a cat over a fence. She poised herself, then made it to the big window ledge in one clean jump—landing in a bunch of roosting pigeons. The birds fluttered away in all directions.

I clambered over the rail after her. Just as I tensed to launch myself, something looped around my left ankle. I lost my balance and fell.

Tam screamed, “Michael!”

I belly-flopped against the stones of the Lamar Building. Bruised and jarred, I dangled upside down with nothing between me and the street five stories down but flapping pigeons and empty air.

One of the aliens had seized my ankle.

The hold around my ankle felt slippery. The tentacle was losing its grip. Sagging a few inches, I frantically pushed up against the rough old stones. Loose change fell out of my pockets and tinged on the stones on the way down.

All four aliens rattled at once.

They say your life passes in front of your eyes when you’re about to die. All I got was a flashback to a Boy Scout trip on Galveston Bay. One kid had hooked a shark, and the small sailboat rocked wildly. The kid yelled, Where’s the net? Other boys shrieked back, Let it go before it pulls you in! and, Cut the line, stupid!

I gripped those bumpy old stones with my fingers and scrabbled with my knees and the toe of my free foot. That way I inched my torso up toward the window ledge where Tam was kneeling, reaching for me.

I got my fingers onto the ledge and its fretted rim. Tam flung herself down onto the ledge, reached over the edge, and grabbed me by the belt.

The tentacle unwrapped from my ankle and let it go. The liberated leg skidded down the wall. I almost lost my grip on the ledge. Tam let out a short scream, but she held on to my belt.

With Tam helping to haul me up, I crawled onto the ledge. My arms and legs shook like bags full of rubber bands. I flopped into a puddle of pigeon-polluted water—rain left over from the last thunderstorm, contained by the rim of the ledge.

Over on the fire escape landing, the aliens concatenated.

Aw, it got away!

Better to let it go than fall in!

I wish I’d had a net!

Tam tried to open the window.

It didn’t budge.

I tried. I used all my strength. “Damn! I don’t believe this!” It was locked.

Tam banged on the glass. I thought she meant to break it. But old plate glass can be pretty tough.

On the fire escape, Mixed Media jiggled as if doing a dance. It waved something that it held up by its very own little tentacle. “My shoe!” I glared, distracted from the locked window by outrage. “It’s got one of my Italian loafers!”

With a startling rasp, the window behind us opened. Tam seized me by the shoulders and flung us both backward. Grazing a knobby radiator, we fell in a bruised tangle onto a linoleum hallway floor and the toes of a uniformed security guard.

Tam scrambled to her feet. I sprang up too, so wobbly that I had to prop myself on the window sill. We stared out at the fire escape, but it was empty. And all we could hear was a faint and dwindling clatter.

“Now, what in the heck were you two doing out there?” asked the security guard, a determined-looking old guy whose hand hovered in the vicinity of his pistol holster.

Tam and I assessed each other. Her hair was in disarray, her dress wet and littered with feathers. Damp from head to toe, I smelled like a pigeon coop. My shirttail hung out of my slacks. I selfconsciously wiggled the toes of my loaferless left foot and drew a complete blank on what to say.

Tam drew in a breath, like a pitcher winding up, and let fly. “There was a gang of hoodlums after us!! They snatched my purse—” What purse? I thought distractedly. I hadn’t seen one on her all night. Then I noticed that the pocket of her dress discretely bulged with essentials. “And they meant to do something bad to us both, so we ran up the fire escape to get away, but they ran after us all the way to the top and we couldn’t get in through that window so we jumped over to here!”

The guard’s face furrowed in an expression of skeptical, laborious thought.

“I sure am glad I saw you down the hall and you heard me pounding on the glass, or I don’t know how on Earth we’d have gotten away from them!”

“That’s right!” I seconded with fervor.

We must have convinced him. “The streets are getting meaner every day,” he said, shaking his head, and escorted us to the first floor.

As we rode down in the elevator, Tam caught my eye and told me, “You were wonderful! You are just like a brave, pretty little bantam rooster.”

“Is that good?” I asked, just as the elevator opened onto the first floor, stopping several inches below floor level, and I exited, tripping on the unexpected difference.

She held on longer than she had to just to help me get my balance back. “It’s very good.”

At the security desk on the first floor, I called Annika at the gallery. She sped over and gathered us into her Volvo, shocked at our dishevelment.

Back in her apartment in the second story over the art gallery, Annika gave us peppermint tea and, equally soothing, credibility: she believed us. But she added, “I hope you two realize that I’m the only one who will. I did see the thing carry away the painting.

The nerve! Hiding in my gallery camouflaged as bad art! I bet it was waiting for its confederates to arrive and force the front door open.”

“Instead, I let it get out with the painting,” I said ruefully, meeting Tam’s brooding brown eyes. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” Tam said. “Annika, don’t you think anyone else at all would believe us? Artists? Cops? The mayor?”

“Not a chance, hon,” said Annika.

Triptych stood in Annika’s lap. The cat purred raggedly, still unnerved, with tail hairs all standing at attention.

I knew how the cat felt. “Let’s just hope the aliens don’t show up again to steal something. Or—” I added with a retroactive shudder, “—somebody!”

“I don’t think you have too much to worry about,” Annika tried to reassure me. “They don’t sound too smart, they’ve got no taste in art, and what do they know about this world?”

“Their taste is getting better,” Tam said dejectedly.

I thought about her wondrous “Tech 7” and its exact depiction of the high points of high technology, and the way—with even more accuracy, just on a different plane—it summed up the artifacts as a portrait of a human being. Then I realized that “Tech 7” might tell aliens more than I wanted them to know about our world and our humanity.

I park my brush in its glass of water before the acrylic paint on the bristles can dry. Stepping back from the canvas, then up close again, I study the new painting.

Above the city, the night sky is faintly washed with light and speckled with the few brightest stars. A glass skyscraper lifts its beveled crown into the sky. One facet of the tower gleams, reflecting the sodium glare of streetlights from below. Another side of the huge structure is shadowed, darker than the sky, black. The black isn’t uniform pigment and it convinces the eye precisely because it isn’t. There are other colors mixed in, tinges of red, green, and purple, so the effect is blacker than monochromatic black.

Art should be truth. For example: the feeling of dread is very much like painting black. Dire, this-is-it-for-me dread isn’t a solid black feeling, because it’s laced with other emotions—red anger, green nausea, purple absurdity that complete the awfulness. I didn’t understand that before but I do now.

Working with nervous energy, I touch the dark side of the skyscraper with the tip of my brush, adding points of titanium-white paint, like reflected stars. The long, narrow configuration of the misplaced constellation suggests downward motion. An ominous intrusion…

I can tell when my pieces are done, as final and perfect as they are ever going to be, when a title pops into my head. Standing in front of my painting, spattered with bits of acrylic, I feel a grin unfurl across my face as I admire the finished work, “Threat of Stars at 912 Main.”

I realize I’d better come out of the creative trance and check the time. Sure enough, my paint-speckled watch says Tam will soon arrive with the carry-out Thai we agreed on earlier. I am achingly tired—I worked for nine hours on the painting today—and I’m hungry. And eager.

For the past week, Tam and I have been watching out for each other. Just in case the aliens decide to pick up where they left off. We haven’t had any problems with them so far, but we hear that a piece is missing from the student art show at the University of Houston. So we’re not letting our guard down yet. Tam and I plan to have supper here in my studio, and then we’ll guard each other all night tonight.