Mr. Ditmars gave him a benign smile. "Orville's case is different. Never before in history has an absolutely unknown artist received such an immediate ovation from the public. Why, almost every picture on exhibit is already sold--the buyers have kindly allowed us to retain them on our walls for the duration of the show as a service to the public." "Cimabue is more than a mere commercial venture," Mr. Replogle added, wishing he could slip off for a paraspirin; his head hurt most mechanically. "It is a cultural institution." "Yeah, Orville did get pretty good write-ups," the _World-Post and Journal_ man conceded, "though any half-way decent artist sells like hotcakes these days. People naturally go for anything that's hand-made." And he fingered his hand-painted tie self-consciously. "But it can't last." This disturbed Mr. Replogle more than it should have. But he had been bothered for many years by his recurring dream--a dream so frightful that he did not dare to confide it to anyone because of its terrifying plausibility. And anything said or done by day that seemed to approach that midnight horror roused him to immediate defensiveness. "Oh, yes it can last!" he protested. "It will! It must! For art is the people's last bulwark against the machine--the one area which cannot be mechanized, which reassures the human race that it still is pre-eminent." "Kindly do not touch the pictures," the roboguard droned. "I was only feeling Orville's impasto," the lady from the _Woman's Own News_ defended herself. "Very thick." _I couldn't have told her to stop_, Mr. Replogle reflected bitterly. _Coming from me it would have been rude, but from a robot it's all right. Everyone knows a robot's only aim is to serve man. Our altruism depends on our individual consciences; theirs is built-in and, hence, more reliable._ "But where _is_ Orville?" the man from the _Times-Herald-Mirror_ persisted. "He was supposed to be here at three-thirty, and it's almost four now." "Softly, softly," said Mr. Ditmars. "The robobar doesn't open itself until four anyway, so you know you're in no hurry.... And, remember, a great artist mustn't be rushed--he is not a machine, you know." "Hervey McGeachin is bringing him," Mr. Replogle explained. "One could hardly hurry McGeachin," he added ... unnecessarily, for everyone knew that one didn't hurry the richest man in the United States--one awaited his pleasure. Beside being fabulously wealthy, McGeachin had the reputation of being something of a recluse, but this did not make him more newsworthy, for all members of top management tended to be a bit eccentric. The rank was hereditary--it took more than one generation for a family to begin to understand its machines--and there was a lot of inbreeding, with the usual results. "Orville is a protege of Mr. McGeachin's, isn't he?" asked the lady from _Woman's Own_.