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 the ird. 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?"
She made no attempt to answer him, but crept closer to her husband. Randall put a protecting arm around her. Hoag spoke then to Randall. "And you, Edward? Is there something in this world for which you’d surrender your life and your soul if need be? You need not answer—I saw in your face and in your heart, last night, as you bent over the bed. Good art, good art—both of you. I have found several sorts of good and original art in this world, enough to justify encouraging your Artist to try again. But there was so much that was bad, poorly drawn and amateurish, that I could not find it in me to approve the work as a whole until I encountered and savored this, the tragedy of human love."
Cynthia looked at him wildly. "Tragedy? You say ‘tragedy’?"
He looked at her with eyes that were not pitying, but serenely appreciative. "What else could it be, my dear?"
She stared at him, then turned and buried her face on the lapel of her husband’s coat. Randall patted her head. "Stop it, Hoag!" he said savagely. "You’ve frightened her again."
"I did not wish to."
"You have. And I can tell you what I think of your story. It’s got holes in it you can throw a cat through. You made it up."
"You do not believe that."
It was true; Randall did not. But he went on bravely, his hand still soothing his wife. "The stuff under your nails—how about that? I noticed you left that out. And your fingerprints."
"The stuff under my nails has little to do with the story. It served its purpose, which was to make fearful the Sons of the Bird. They knew what it was."
"But what was it?"
"The ichor of the Sons—planted there by my other persona. But what is this about fingerprints? Jonathan Hoag was honestly fearful of having them taken; Jonathan Hoag is a man, Edward. You must remember that."
Randall told him; Hoag nodded. "I see. Truthfully, I do not recall it, even today, although my full persona knows of it. Jonathan Hoag had a nervous habit of polishing things with his handkerchief; erhaps he polished the arm of your chair."
"I don’t remember it."
"Nor do I."
Randall took up the fight again. "That isn’t all and that isn’t half of it. What about the rest home you said you were in? And who pays you? Where do you get your money? Why was Cynthia always so darned scared of you?"
Hoag looked out towards the city; a fog was rolling in from the lake. "There is little time for these things," he said, "and it does not matter, even to you, whether you believe or not. But you do believe—you cannot help it. But you have brought up another matter. Here." He pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to Randall. "You might as well take them with you; I shall have no more use for them. I shall be leaving you in a few minutes."
"Where are you going?"
"Back to myself. After I leave, you must do this: Get into your car and drive at once, south, through the city. Under no circumstances open a window of your car until you are miles away from the city."
"Why? I don’t like this."
"Nevertheless, do it. There will be certain—changes, readjustments going on."