“Elmer has a guest,” said Buster. “Maybe I should be getting back home. Elmer might need me.”
“A guest, eh,” said Carter, mildly surprised. Elmer had few visitors. At one time the city of the Martian Ghost had been on the itinerary of every tourist, but of late the government had been clamping down. Visitors upset Elmer and inasmuch as Elmer held what amounted to diplomatic status, there was little else the government could do. Occasionally scientists dropped in on Elmer or art students were allowed to spend a short time studying the paintings in the city — the only extensive list of Martian canvases in existence.
“A painter,” said Buster. “A painter with pink whiskers. He has a scholarship from one of the academies out on Earth. His name is Harper. He’s especially interested in ‘The Watchers.’”
Carter knew about “The Watchers,” a disturbing, macabre canvas. There was something about its technique that almost turned it alive — as if the artist had mixed his pigments with living fear and horror.
The radiophone on the desk burred softly, almost apologetically. Carter thumbed a tumbler and the ground glass lighted up, revealing a leathery face decorated by a yellow, walruslike mustache, outsize ears and a pair of faded blue eyes.
“Hello, Alf,” said Carter genially. “Where are you? Expected you back several days ago.”
“So help me, doc,” said Alf, “they got me in the clink.”
“What for this time?” asked Carter, figuring that he knew. Tales of the doings of an alcoholic Alf were among Red Rocks’ many legends.
“A bit of jug hunting,” Alf confessed, whuffling his mustache.
Carter could see that Alf was fairly sober. His faded eyes were a bit watery, but that was all.