I did eventually find a way to write his story, and I sold it back to my old newspaper, the Martian Chronicle. It was good to visit the old planet again, especially now that they've moved it into a warmer orbit.
That was a long time ago. But I'm still not done with Zima, odd as it seems.
Every couple of decades, I still hop a lightbreaker to Murjek, descend to the streets of that gleaming white avatar of Venice, take a conveyor to the island and join the handful of other dogged witnesses scattered across the stands. Those that come, like me, must still feel that the artist has something else in store... one last surprise. They've read my article now, most of them, so they know what that slowly swimming figure means... but they still don't come in droves. The stands are always a little echoey and sad, even on a good day. But I've never seen them completely empty, which I suppose is some kind of testament. Some people get it. Most people never will.
But that's art.
我最终找到了写好了他的传记，并且把传记卖给了我工作的第一家报纸——《火星人编年史》。能回到过去待过的星球感觉真好，尤其是现在火星已经被人们迁移进了更温暖的轨道。
事情已经过去很长时间了，但我总觉得齐玛的事情还没完，实在有点奇怪。
每过几十年，我都会登上开往穆尔耶克的光速飞船，走进那座闪闪发光的威尼斯的化身，乘坐运输机来到小岛上，和其他一些顽固的目击者一起坐到看台上。这些人和我一样，依然认为这位艺术大师会留下什么东西，给人们最后的惊喜。他们都读过我写的文章了，大部分人都读过，所以他们知道那个慢慢游着的躯体意味着什么…但是他们依然不是成群结队地来。所以即使在极好的天气里，看台上却总是有点空旷和凄凉。但我从来没看见这些看台完全空过，我觉得这是某种神圣的誓约。一些人愿意接受这个誓约，但是大部分人永远都不会接受。
但这就是艺术。
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