The three men entered the cab, and were immersed in the harmonic tones of a lush string quartet. Weller smiled broadly. "The genius of Transor, even in a humble cab. Since we landed here, the music is in the air. Look, even in the Rococo design of these buildings we pass."

"You mean these slums," interjected the driver. "You must not be from these parts. It looks centuries old, but its not the weather, or time. We don't have the means or the money. Art is all we have. For that we will sacrifice all, including the appearances of wealth."

"But you are in a wealthy society! Your monuments are in the distance. Your leaders no doubt have an equal obsession with the arts."

The driver laughed. "Oh yes indeed! It is something they want to preserve too, like a corpse in a mausoleum." He looked at them contemptuously. "They are chicken pluckers and bathroom attendants all! You will see for yourself their estimation of art!"

Moore leaned towards Weller and whispered. "This is supposed to be a union of artists, a commune of like minded souls. Chicken pluckers?"

Weller was unruffled. "Steady, Jacov! Art is served by passions, by jealousies. They came here to be one with their muse. You can forgive them a bit of discord. It's part of the process."

"I don't know if I can forgive them that!" said Belden with a blank expression. It was still far off in the distance, but it loomed large like a piece of junk discarded by the gods.

"It's a banjo!" Belden exclaimed. "It's as long as a football field, and as tall."

Moore looked pained. "This is awful. And it's humming!"

"More like strumming!" laughed Belden. "And no doubt dropped by him!"

It revealed itself slowly from behind a hill. It was a gargantuan statue of a fat middle aged man, dressed in a jumpsuit too sizes too small. He was beckoning to the sky.

"What is that thing?"

The cabby smiled sarcastically. "Oh, that's Crooner Tooner. The great music idol, genius even, or so 'they' say. He fell down a flight of stairs while eating a foot long hot dog. So tragic, and such a loss to our culture."

Belden smirked. "Somehow, I feel your loss."

Soon the administration building came into view. It was a multi-story building, slightly leaning, and shaped like a top hat.

"Well, there it is," said the cabby. "Our monument to bad taste. You'll find your answers here. Let them surprise you with their special flavor of genius."

The cab sped off, and the three men surveyed a surreal landscape that testified either to the future of art, or the culmination of bad taste.

"Funny thing," said Belden. "The poorer areas, so much in abundance here, have the age old charm of a renaissance principality. You could not place it, but from my world I can. The churches, statuary, chamber players in the plaza, poets in the street. It's like something from Shakespeare's or Michelangelo's day. But you would expect at the center of it all something glorious, monumental even, like a cathedral or obelisk rising into the sky." He sighed. "And what do I see but a colossal lounge singer and a crummy top hat!"

"They are waiting for us in their hat," said Weller with obvious befuddlement. "We'll know there. Possibly it's all a joke, genius is often not without a sense of humor."

As they entered the hat, its purpose became immediately apparent. It was a cavernous room strewn with exhibits, paintings, and dangling mobiles of the bric a brac of a wayward culture. Belden thought it bizarre, an attic of bad taste. Silk screen paintings of half-naked women, Tupperware sculpture, paint by numbers farmhouses and landscapes. A mural of dogs playing cards, and above it all was a scratchy din, an irritating twang in the aid. The lyrics were loud, irritating, and relentless: 'Standing by my man! Standing by my man! Oh my man, where is he! Stand by, stand by!'

"A sort of barn music," said Moore. "We've been in here thirty seconds, and I can't stand it!"

Suddenly, there was a voice in the distance, a slight echo that grew along with the portly outlines of the figure that approached them. He had a fat, oval face, a jovial smile, and wore a blowsy white shirt covered with red flowers the size of a fist. Belden thought he looked like a Hawaiian tourist.

"Our guests form Transor I presume!" he gushed. "My name is Opie Pyle. I am overjoyed to meet you! A meeting in our administration office would have been too dull. I hope you understand why I suggested this place. I am sure you are thrilled to see this testimony to our fine arts!"

Belden and Moore muffled smiles, but Weller kept his composure. "It is remarkable, something I've not quite seen before. Part of a grander design I suppose?"

"Grander? This is an island of beauty in a sea of dross. I am sure you noticed it along your journey here. This is the repository of the acme of our culture; it is the summary of our genius."

"But the music, the poetry, the art, the very things we say and heard on the way here?"

Opie shrugged. "What of it? It's old, dated stuff, done better in Transor anyways. Besides, it's boring, bland, not cutting edge like the accomplishments you now see before you!"

Stunned, Weller surveyed the hall again. "But why the difference? Why now? Why here? I have not seen the likes of this in Transor or any world we know."

Opie beamed. "Ah! Then you see it too! It's remarkable, and worth preserving. Funny, it took the likes of us to create it, and save it!"

"Us?"

"Well of course, we are a different breed from the rest of them. Without us, they would starve, or sink slowly in their own effluvium."

"Chicken pluckers!" said Moore. "The cabby said chicken pluckers."

Opie scowled. "We prefer food engineers. Yes, engineer is the word for it, whether it be food processing, sewerage, even sweeping the streets, we were there to do the job."

"And be paid handsomely for it I gather." Said Belden. "Of course, the others wanted no part of it, obsessing as they did with their word play and fiddling. We were the only ones, the few who care to make this place truly habitable. The meek shall inherit the work, and the wealth you might say."

Weller laughed. "At least they had a sense of equity, a laudable Transorian trait. But life can't be all work for you. What of your artistic interests, I presume that they are fruits of your labor."

Yes, said Opie in a proud voice. "You see them before you. We didn't have the luxury of time, but you can see our inspiration has not suffered. Indeed, our domestic labors have sharpened them. We are a credit to the original purpose of this expedition, even to Transor itself. We have used our position to build marvelous and beautiful things."

"And immortality?" asked Belden. Is that the purpose in your taste for the monumental?"

"Yes, you might say that. It's also a reason why I met you here."

Weller was bemused. "And what is our role in this save the part of admiring tourists?"

"We would like you to bring back a sample of our genius to Transor. Perhaps there it will take root. I fear though that this place does not have the intellectual soil for it."

"I don't.."

"Please, please. It's but a capsule, no bigger a teakettle. It contains the wealth of our genius, our literature, even instruction as to how to paint by the numbers!"

Weller turned to Belden. "Can you take this in. Something for you to remember, not?"

Belden winced. "I suppose, I have the memory for such things down to the last atom. But why…"

Weller turned to Opie. "Then it's done! Load us up Mr. Opie. We'll preserve your heritage, to the very atom. I guarantee it!"

Opie smiled broadly. "Splendid, splendid! Then you'll take it. But I have more, some parting presents, T-shirts, mugs, hats. You and your friend will always remember this place!"

"Well, I don't think…"

"No, no. I insist. And you must bring back some of these." He pointed to a bright room in the corner, a souvenir stand. "Just help yourself gentlemen, just help yourself!"

____________________________

Weller stood on the bridge of the Nole like a wayward tourist looking out from an observation deck. As he saw the world shrink into nothingness, he knew he would share a similar state of mind if his life was fated to scrubbing floors, and was given no time, no time at all. Belden remembered, but Weller wished to forget. The ship moved on, and in its wake, arching into the sun, was a bronze object, no bigger than a teakettle.