mr. replogle's dream By EVELYN E. SMITH This was a proud day in the life of modern art. This exhibition would prove that the machine could not conquer man. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe December 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _The Cimabue Gallery was the last stronghold of nostalgia--expensive nostalgia. Apart for the robot attendants--unfortunately necessary, the times being what they were--there was practically nothing machine-made about the Gallery, dedicated as it was to being more than a mere commercial venture. Evelyn E. Smith returns to these pages with a gently ironic story of men and dreams--the day after tomorrow...._ "This," said Mr. Ditmars, "is a proud day in the life of the Cimabue Gallery." "It is a proud day in the life of modern art," added Mr. Replogle, feeling that Mr. Ditmars was giving too parochial a picture of the situation, "for it proves with more force than ever that the machine will not conquer man." Both partners gazed with varying degrees of complacency at the large, brightly-colored oil paintings that covered the refined pastel walls of the Cimabue. There was almost nothing machine-made about the gallery--the thick, soft rugs had been hand-woven at fabulous expense by workmen in the less industrialized areas of the Middle East, the furnishings hand-carved by tribesmen deep in the heart of the Australian bush. The only exception was the robot attendants, which were, unfortunately, necessary, for no one paid attention to human beings any more unless they were top management or very high in the hierarchy of handcrafters. Cimabue could afford all this luxury, and more too, for, now that big business had become an art, art had become a big business. People saved the excess from their government subsidies--or, if they were lucky enough to have professional status, their salaries--to buy a painting, a holograph manuscript ... anything to distinguish their homes from the uniform grey mass of material comforts which the government bestowed on everyone alike. As a result, the partners were as wealthy as anyone outside the ruling class could hope to be. However, Mr. Replogle, at least, was not happy. He suffered from nightmares. "But where is Orville?" demanded the man from the _Times-Herald-Mirror_. "We haven't come to interview you two--you always say the same thing about every new artist you discover. In fact, we already have your words set up in type."