"Why can't they see?" he asked his agent angrily, when his third show passed without the sale of a single painting.
"I can see them," the agent said, standing in front of a still-life abstraction with flashes of color, "but your way of working is too far advanced for our time. Believe me, a few hundred years from now your paintings will be regarded as the work of a great genius."
"In the meantime, I starve."
"I can help you."
Donovan threw down the paint brushes. "No. No. There's no use being ahead of one's time. I can't make a living as an artist. I may as well go back to digging ditches."
"Maybe you can work part-time and paint at night. What did you do before you started painting?"
He hesitated, but what was there to be afraid of? "I—I was an engineer."
"I can get you a job with a construction company."
"No. No! I want nothing whatever to do with engineering! Nothing!"
In the 25 years that he had lived in the 20th century he had turned from a man of 65 to a healthy, robust 40. For a long time he had lived in fear that the dreaded arms of the C.D. would reach out for him, and that he would stand face to face with terror-inspiring Crane. But he had never met anyone who seemed to be a C.D., a Criminal Destroyer. Sometimes he felt the avenging sword of the Komitet hanging over his head.