"Well," Randall said nervously, "that’s how it happened—wasn’t it?"

"It seems like a good explanation."

"I thought so. But you’ve still got to clear some things up. Why did you do it?"

Hoag shook his head thoughtfully. "I’m sorry, Ed. I cannot possibly explain my motives to you."

"But, damn it, that’s not fair! The least you could—"

"When did you ever find fairness, Edward?"

"Well—I expected you to play fair with us. You encouraged us to treat you as a friend. You owe us explanations."

"I promised you explanations. But consider, Ed—do you want explanations? I assure you that you will have no more trouble, no more visitations from the Sons."

Cynthia touched his arm. "Don’t ask for them, Teddy!"

He brushed her off, not unkindly but decisively. "I’ve got to know. Let’s have the explanation."

"You won’t like it."

"I’ll chance it."

"Very well." Hoag settled back. "Will you serve the wine, my dear? Thank you. I shall have to tell you a little story first. It will be partly allegorical, as there are not the ... the words, the concepts. Once there was a race, quite unlike the human race—quite. I have no way of describing to you what they looked like or how they lived, but they had one characteristic you can understand: they were creative. The creating and enjoying of works of art was their occupation and their reason for being. I say ‘art’ advisedly, for art is undefined, undefinable, and without limits. I can use the word without fear of misusing it, for it has no exact meaning. There are as many meanings as there are artists. But remember that these artists are not human and their art is not human.

"Think of one of this race, in your terms—young. He creates a work of art, under the eye and the guidance of his teacher. He has talent, this one, and his creation has many curious and amusing features. The teacher encourages him to go on with it and prepare it for the judging. Mind you, I am speaking in metaphorical terms, as if this were a human artist, preparing his canvases to be judged in the annual showing."

He stopped and said suddenly to Randall, "Are you a religious man? Did it ever occur to you that all this"—he included the whole quietly beautiful countryside in the sweep of his arm—"might have had a Creator? Must have had a Creator?"

Randall stared and turned red. "I’m not exactly a church-going man," he blurted, "but— Yes, I suppose I do believe it."

"And you, Cynthia?"

She nodded, tense and speechless.

"The Artist created this world, after His Own fashion and using postulates which seemed well to Him. His teacher approved on the whole, but—"

"Wait a minute," Randall said insistently. "Are you trying to describe the creation of the world— the Universe?"

"What else?"

"But—damn it, this is preposterous! I asked for an explanation of the things that have justappened to us."

"I told you that you would not like the explanation." He waited for a moment, then continued. "The Sons of the Bird were the dominant feature of the world, at first."

Randall listened to him, feeling that his head would burst. He knew, with sick horror, that the rationalization he had made up on the way to the rendezvous had been sheerest moonshine, thrown together to still the fears that had overcome him. The Sons of the Bird—real, real and horrible—and potent. He felt that he knew now the sort of race of which Hoag spoke. From Cynthia’s tense and horrified face she knew, also—and there would never again be peace for either of them. "In the Beginning there was the Bird—"

Hoag looked at him with eyes free of malice but without pity. "No," he said serenely, "there was never the Bird. They who call themselves Sons of the Bird there are. But they are stupid and arrogant. Their sacred story is so much superstition. But in their way and by the rules of this world they are powerful. The things, Edward, that you thought you saw you did see."

"You mean that—"

"Wait, let me finish. I must hasten. You saw what you thought you saw, with one exception. Until today you have seen me only in your apartment, or mine. The creatures you shadowed, the creature that frightened Cynthia—Sons of the Bird, all of them. Stoles and his friends.

"The teacher did not approve of the Sons of the Bird and suggested certain improvements in the creation. But the Artist was hasty or careless; instead of removing them entirely He merely—painted over them, made them appear to be some of the new creations with which He peopled His world.

"All of which might not have mattered if the work had not been selected for judging. Inevitably the critics noticed them; they were—bad art, and they disfigured the final work. There was some doubt in their minds as to whether or not the creation was worth preserving. That is why I am here."

He stopped, as if there were no more to say. Cynthia looked at him fearfully. "Are you ... are you—"

He smiled at her. "No, Cynthia, I am not the Creator of your world. You asked me my profession once.

"I am an art critic."

Randall would like to have disbelieved. It was impossible for him to do so; the truth rang in his ears and would not be denied. Hoag continued, "I said to you that I would have to speak to you in terms you use. You must know that to judge a creation such as this, your world, is not like walking up to a painting and looking at it. This world is peopled with men; it must be looked at through the eyes of men. I am a man."

Cynthia looked still more troubled. "I don’t understand. You act through the body of a man?"

"I am a man. Scattered around through the human race are the Critics—men. Each is the projection of a Critic, but each is a man—in every way a man, not knowing that he is also a Critic."

Randall seized on the discrepancy as if his reason depended on it—which, perhaps, it did. "But you know—or say you do. It’s a contradiction."

Hoag nodded, undisturbed. "Until today, when Cynthia’s questioning made it inconvenient to continue as I was—and for other reasons—this persona"—he tapped his chest—"had no idea of why he was here. He was a man, and no more. Even now, I have extended my present persona only as far as is necessary for my purpose. There are questions which I could not answer—as Jonathan Hoag.

"Jonathan Hoag came into being as a man, for the purpose of examining, savoring, certain of the artistic aspects of this world. In the course of that it became convenient to use him to smell out some of the activities of those discarded and painted-over creatures that call themselves the Sons of theird. You two happened to be drawn into the activity—innocent and unknowing, like the pigeons used by armies. But it so happened that I observed something else of artistic worth while in contact with you, which is why we are taking the trouble for these explanations."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me speak first of the matters I observed as a critic. Your world has several pleasures. There is eating." He reached out and pulled off from its bunch a muscat grape, fat and sugar-sweet, and ate it appreciatively. "An odd one, that. And very remarkable. No one ever before thought of making an art of the simple business of obtaining the necessary energy. Your Artist has very real talent.

"And there is sleeping. A strange reflexive business in which the Artist’s own creations are allowed to create more worlds of their own. You see now, don’t you," he said, smiling, "why the critic must be a man in truth—else he could not dream as a man does?

"There is drinking—which mixes both eating and dreaming.

"There is the exquisite pleasure of conversing together, friend with friend, as we are doing. That is not new, but it goes to the credit of the Artist that He included it.

"And there is sex. Sex is ridiculous. As a critic I would have disregarded it entirely had not you, my friends, let me see something which had not come to the attention of Jonathan Hoag, something which, in my own artistic creations, I had never had the wit to invent. As I said, your Artist has talent." He looked at them almost tenderly. "Tell me, Cynthia. what do you love in this world and what is it that you hate and fear?"