Eye for an eye, legs for a leg, thought Jachal. By accepting his offer, maybe I'm doing Breang a favor. Maybe, he's never said anything to me before this because he owed me and had no way to work off the debt.

He climbed gratefully into the sack. As he did so, he saw a couple of the Elders staring at him. Were they watching approvingly, or was their attention simply a figment invented by his oxygen starved brain? He didn't know and didn't care. It was dark in the carry sack. He closed his eyes gratefully.

In an hour he was running again.

As the weeks became months he learned why he'd been spared. As he supposed, his declaration that he'd always been a runner had struck an important and responsive chord within the tribe. Running was not merely a means of locomotion to the Lopers. It was their reason for being, their religion, and their gestalt. They did not run to live; they lived to run. It was as important to them as eating and breathing. The feel of air rushing past the moving body, the land disappearing beneath moving feet, oxygen coursing over neck gills these were the crucial sensations of life, the rationale for existence.

A body at rest was an incomplete form, any other method of transport alien and degrading. One might as well be as inanimate as a rock or dead stalk of gra.s.s. Real people defined themselves through movement, through the action of running, by showing their independence from the fixed earth. This separated them from the inanimate spirits that were fixed to the ground. To be demaru, to be truly alive, one had to run.

Midgets, humans, did not run. They used machines to transport them about on the ground and skylegs to carry them through the air: Therefore, they were not properly alive.

No wonder all efforts to make peace between settlers and Lopers had failed. The Lopers would find the very idea of sitting down at the peace table repugnant.

The tribe hunted and slept and gave birth to an occasional infant who would be up and running in a few months. They killed an elemorph, a monstrous bear thing that charged and swung great claws at its tormentors but could never quite catch them. They ran it to death.

They ran whenever they weren't hunting or sleeping or giving birth. To run was to be free.

Freedom . . . Jachal had a thought, sidled close to Breang one night beneath a roof of gra.s.s thirty feet high. The broad, spatulate leaves curved together overhead, forming the nave of a green cathedral.

"Why do the Lopers hate the midgets so?" he asked. "Beyond the fighting, beyond the fact the midgets do not run. Why so?"

Breang considered. "Midgets new gra.s.ses make grow. No trouble. Midgets make Veldt even all over. No trouble. Midgets killweeds of cold stuff put up." His dark eyes studied the green sky. "Big trouble this."

That was understandable, Jachal thought. He tried to explain. "Killweeds of cold stuff is there to protect the farmers not only from you but from the mufleens and other Veldt animals who would trample down or eat the farmer's new gra.s.ses, which are very important to them."

Faces were suddenly intent on him, speculating, judging. Elders and children had stopped chatting and turned to listen.

"No trouble that," said Breang surprisingly. "No trouble midgets' new gra.s.ses. Understand want to keep out mufleens and morpats and polupreas." Now it was Breang who was looking at Jachal imploringly.

"Many runs have you lived with us, Ja'al. Much have you learned. Is not the sky clear blue to you yet?"

Jachal thought back on what he'd just said and on what he'd learned, and suddenly it was sky clear blue.

"Really stupid," he was telling the xenologist who'd come by aircraft all the way down from the provincial planetary capital of Yulenst to partic.i.p.ate in the conference.

She sat opposite him inside the tent that had been set up outside Embresca. The formalities had been concluded out on the Veldt. Government functionaries were working out the details of the treaty with the various Elders of the different tribes. The discussion was taking place on the run, or course, the inadequate legs of the humans being aided by mechanical supports that gave them the temporary ability to run alongside the Lopers.

"The farmers put up the fences to keep out the grazers of the Veldt as well as the Lopers. All the time they thought the Lopers were against the farms, when in reality all they objected to were the fences." He paced back and forth. For some reason he was unable to sit still these days.

"The fences cut across many of the old runs, blocked traditional paths across the Veldt. The farmers couldn't understand why the Lopers didn't just go around the fences. They didn't understand that they were preventing the Lopers from their proper way of running. As everyone now ought to know, running is everything to them. It's not just something they do to move from place to place."

"The Tuaregs of track," the xenologist replied, brushing at her gray hair. She smiled. "The gates in the fences will be sufficient, do you think?"

Jachal nodded as he paced. "That and the agreement which states that any new farm will permit the Lopers free pa.s.sage through its boundaries."

"You've opened more than one kind of gate for the Lopers, Jachal Morales. "

He shrugged. "Sometimes you have to live with people to understand their needs and wants."

She studied this peculiar man curiously. "What about you, speaking of gates? What will you do now? I've heard about the incident you were involved in here. You'll have to come to trial, of course, but it will be before a legitimate magistrate, not a mob. If you need help or a reference, after what you've done, I'm sure that I can arrange . . ."

He grinned at her and moved to the tent exit. Outside, atop the nearby hill whose volcanic convolutions protruded above the Veldt gra.s.ses, he knew Breang and the others would be waiting.

"Thanks for the offer, but I don't think I'm ready to stand trial. Not just yet, anyway. See, I've been running all my life. That's what I told them." He gestured toward the distant, beckoning hill. "They misinterpreted what I said. Misinterpretation in this case led to mutual understanding. What I didn't realize at the time was that it worked both ways.

"See, when n.o.body's chasing me " He left his last words behind him as he fled through the portal, advancing in long, steady, free strides toward the far hilltop. " I've discovered that I like running."

UNAMUSING.

Readers are always asking what this or that writer artist or composer is really dike, how he or she functions, how, as Vaughn Bode said, they "do the trick. ' Creative inspiration takes many forms, and motivation arises not always in the head.

After ideas, readers usually ask how a writer comes up with his characters. Sometimes they can be based on real people, but more often they're wholly imagined. Frequently they're a composite of many people or many individual traits drawn from real life, spiced up by the author's imagination.

Most of my characters are entirely imagined for a very good reason. Just as I write science fiction and fantasy in order to see places 1'd never otherwise be able to visit, so I populate these far reaches of the mind with individuals 1'd like to meet. Or in the case of the bad guys, with people I wouldn't like to meet. Just for variety, I once wrote a book where I flip flopped completely and based every character in the story on someone I'd actually met (the book was Caehalot).

Never did I have the audacity to base a character on a colleague. But as I mentioned previously, there are times when a story forces itself on the writer. There's nothing tougher to banish from your mind than a story that insists on being written, even if it doesn't take long to tell it.

The character trait I saw in this colleague that so intrigued me I also saw in other creative individuals to a greater or lesser degree. I could not, would not make the character in the resultant story a straightforward portrait of my colleague. My work is fiction. That does not prohibit a real person from serving as the springboard.

I first encountered Nevis Grampion at the one man show of his work the Met put on last winter. Or maybe I should say the show he put on for the Met. Never was an artist greater than the sum of his aesthetic parts than Grampion. He was his own best canvas, utilizing words with the same skill as he did his palette. His paintings were bold, shocking, sometimes outrageous, never dull. He'd perfected his technique through twenty years of arduous practice in his barn loft studio. Arizona is full of old barns and new artists. The longevity of the barns usually exceeds that of the artists.

His work ranged from the competent to the brilliant. Not that the critics cared. Grampion was good copy, and they delighted in provoking him to comment on the state of art today, the position of critics, the power of the large museums and galleries. Grampion's response rarely disappointed them.

What attracted me to him, however, was neither his skill with the brush nor his calculatedly abrasive personality but rather the demon squatting on his right shoulder.

He was not an easy man to isolate. People cl.u.s.tered about him like cat hair on an angora sweater. He both attracted and repelled. Nevis Grampion, the Elephant' Man of art. I watched the people watching him and was reminded of witnesses to an auto accident.

Eventually I managed to get him alone by dint of following him through the gallery hall until the novelty that was himself had begun to wear off. He was polite to me, indeed, cordial. I think he sensed something of a kindred artistic spirit. Besides, I didn't want something from him. Only to chat. I think that made me unique among those attending the show.

We discussed respective influences, I alluding to Wyeth and Bierstadt and Lindsay, he to Goya and Klee and Dali. We debated the relative merits of acrylic and airbrush, which I prefer, to his choice of oil. He bawled me out for employing the easier media, and I suffered his well meant criticisms patiently.

Eventually I could stand it no longer. I gestured toward his right shoulder, said, "Nevis, maybe I'm crazy "

"Ain't we all?" he put in. He was unable to resist a chance to be clever. A congenital condition, I believe, that did not endear him to his public. The moreso because he usually was.

" but is there or is there not what appears to be a small gargoyle perched on your shoulder?"

For the first time that day some of the slick veneer he wore for his fans slid away, and I had a rare glimpse of the real Nevis Grampion.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned. You can see him?"

"Quite clearly." I moved close to study the apparition, which was ignoring me completely. I believe it was asleep at the time. It was quite solid, with nothing of the aspect of a dream about it.

"It is bright red, with splotches of orange, about a foot high in its squatting position, and has four horns projecting from its bald skull."

Grampion nodded slowly, watching me closely. "You see him, all right. You're the first . . . no, the second one, ever. Maxwell was the other."

I thought of Jarod Maxwell, Grampion's close friend and an exquisite portraitist in his own right.

"What," I asked, "is it doing there?"

Grampion made that funny half pleased, half angry grin that was featured so prominently in the papers. "His name's Clamad. He's my artistic muse."

Having already accepted the presence of this strange creature, it was easy to accept this new revelation. "Your artistic muse? You mean he inspires you?" In truth, upon close inspection I thought I could see certain qualities in the creature's face that had been reproduced numerous times in Grampion's paintings.

"You could say that. Clamad's been with me a long time. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be a painter."

"Really? What would you be?"

He shrugged. "Something more relaxing, less demanding of the mind. A long haul trucker, maybe, or s librarian. But not a painter. Too painful. But I determined to be one long ago. I worked and worked at it, and one day, whammo, there he was. He's been with me ever since."

Of all of us, I'd always thought of Grampion as a born painter. To learn otherwise was something of a letdown, though it in no way detracted from the brilliance of his work.

"Can't you get rid of him?"

He smiled sadly. "Don't you think I've tried? He helped me master my technique, bring to the fore everything I always wanted to say in my work. But once I'd accomplished that, he refused to leave. He drives me to keep topping myself, to hunt for perfection. Won't even let me sleep unless I at least begin a new study every day." His eyes were growing slightly wild as his voice dropped to a whisper.

"Look, you can see him. That means you must understand, at least a little, even if your own work is still too facile, too untested. What if I could persuade him to switch places? Would you have him?"

The offer took me aback. Around our little corner the party continued to seethe. Conversation, cookies, dried-out little sandwiches, liquor, and carbonated waters, and in the middle of it Grampion, the demon, myself.

Clamad the muse shifted slightly on his clawed crimson feet, grunting in his sleep. I shivered and even so was tempted.

"If I agree, what will happen to me?"

"Not much," said Grampion a little too eagerly. "He'll sharpen your style immediately, fasten on what natural uniqueness you possess, refine your technique, clarify your visions, bring out the hidden inside you and show you how to put it to canvas. Or Masonite, or art board, whatever you choose. You'll be world famous within a year."

"And what does he demand in return?" The demon yawned.

Grampion eyed his shoulder. "Only responsiveness and artistic dedication. His pleasures are simple. He fastens himself to artists with potential because he likes to see the results. Paradoxically, he can't paint a lick himself."

"Let me think about it." Suddenly the hall seemed dark, the overhead lights dim. The conversation around us had begun to fade as if something had deliberately muted all other talk, and I felt my throat constrict.

"Sure. Sure, you think about it. Think about what you're missing with your silly pretty pictures. Acclaim, fortune, the admiration of your colleagues. Think about it." He was as disappointed as he was sarcastic.

"If he's such a prize to have around, why are you so anxious to get rid of him?"

"Who said I was anxious? I'm just trying to help out a younger artist, that's all. I I need to rest. I've done it all, accomplished everything I'd hoped to do as a painter. It's time to share the wealth. Maybe I'll take up tatting. You think about it. When you're ready, come see me."

He fumbled in his pocket, produced a business card.

"You know Paradise Valley?"

"A little."

He nodded once, then turned and vanished into the crowd. I watched him borne away by several obsequious collectors, Clamed the demon visible like a red searchlight above the clutter of humanity. A searchlight only I could see.

I don't know why I went up to the house that night. Temptation, temptation. A subject I'd often tried to render in paint and now was acting out.

I went home thinking of Grampion's words, of the wealth and independence his work had brought him, the independence to thumb his nose at even the most influential critics, those same critics who casually dismissed my own work as purely "commercial," a stigma I had striven for years to escape.

Nowadays I am wiser, but then I was young and impatient.

There was no answer to the bell, but the door was unlocked. I considered. Had I not established a rapport of sorts with Grampion? Surely he would not object to my surprising him, even at so late an hour. He was said to be fond of surprises. I fancied he would be happy to see me, for though he had many casual friends, he knew few who understood him.

I called out past the opened door. There was no reply. Now that was odd, I thought. Surely he would not go out and leave the place unlocked. I entered, made my way through the central atrium, the kitchen area, down a hallway toward bedrooms unslept in. By my watch it was eleven o'clock. The moon lit my path.

Gone out for a minute, I thought. Artists are notoriously unpunctual eaters. Cake and chocolate at midnight in place of a balanced meal. I resolved to wait until he returned.

A grandfather clock boomed portentously from the salon, announcing the time. I perused the well stocked library, the objets d'art.

Then there was a sound. A stilled cry, almost a whining. I frowned and debated within myself. Grampion had many enemies. The door, unlocked. Could I have stumbled onto a burglary or worse? Was Grampion lying somewhere nearby, bleeding and in need of immediate help?

I armed myself with the nearest heavy object atrophy of carved marble, presented by some society of European avant garde artists and moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. As I drew near a part of the house I had not yet visited, the rhythmic roll of anxious breathing reached me. I was reminded of a marathon runner well along his course.

A door was open, and light stole from beyond. Cautiously I pushed it open all the way.

Grampion stood in his vaulted studio, in front of an easel. A half completed canvas rested there, full of mad, violent colors and strokes. The subject matter was still indistinct, but the breathtaking talent behind the work was already in evidence.

Crouching behind Grampion was a giant, glowing, red thing. Its eyes were open now, the pupils black slits that probed the canvas. No longer decorative and modest, it was immense and muscular. Each of its huge, clawed hands held one of Grampion's wrists prisoner. There was a brush in each hand.

Grampion turned and saw me. I was shocked at his appearance. His face was flushed, his eyes bulging and red, his expression one of desperation born of complete exhaustion.

"Help me, Malcolm!," he pleaded, his voice hoa.r.s.e, the words painful. "For the love of G.o.d, make him stop!"

My gaze moved from the thin, drawn specter of the painter to the demon who would not let him rest, who drove him to brilliance and madness and near death. At that moment he, Clamad, noticed me. He let out a threatening growl that turned unexpectedly into something else. Something at once less and more inimical.

A flicker of interest.

I turned and fled screaming from the studio, from that accursed house, down the road outside, my path lit only by the moon. I fled past my parked car and did not stop running until I was aboard a city bus and on my way home. The other pa.s.sengers stared at me. I did not see them.

I saw Grampion several times after that. He was always unnaturally subdued in my presence but unapologetic. Only I knew the real reason for those circles around his eyes and the nervous, jittery movements of his body. Clamad rode his shoulders as always, asleep as always, each time seemingly a little plumper. I wondered just how he fed off Grampion, for it was evident that he did, but by mutual consent we restricted our subsequent conversations to art and related topics.

I've given up art for art's sake. Now I make my living in advertising, where there is little need for the dirty inspiration a muse like Clamad can provide. But every so often I will see a thoughtful shadow flitting about the room, probing the work of Mark or Jillian or Carrie, searching for promise, for talent, for a victim.

I avoid mirrors.