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“It’s beautiful,” one said, who was steadying him on his feet, on the platform. Gentle hands, careful of him. “It’s beautiful, sir.”
He laughed softly, because it was the only word that would came to the man’s tongue; beautifulwas only one aspect of it. But he was pleased by the praise. He got down from the platform, which was a man’s height from the ground, was steadied by another apprentice who waited below, with a group of others, and there was a pause among the workers, a small space of silence.
It struck him that this had been going on, that at times they did pause when he walked through, or when he was in difficulty, or when he began work or when he stopped.
“What are you doing?” he asked roughly. “Back to work.” His back hurt still; he managed to straighten, and heads turned. He looked back and met the faces of the apprentices who had been helping him, eyes anxious and unflinching from his outburst. He shook off their further assistance and walked on, flexed aching hands and turned to look back at the Work, which was bathed in the play of light from the tri-level perforations of the dome.
He took in his own breath, held for the moment in contemplation.
Not finished yet. The central work was not finished. The outer shells were all but complete. Apprentice after apprentice had been sent off. Perhaps, he thought, he should acknowledge those departures, offer some tribute; he realized he was himself the object of a second silence, all the heads which had formerly turned to feign work turned back again.
“Good,” he said simply, and turned and walked away.
It took him at least through di
He looked his fill, and started for the bed, with his eyes and his mind full of the Work, seeing nothing about him, his thoughts occupied wholly with the alteration which he had to make tomorrow, which could only be made when the sun passed a certain mark, and he had to seein advance, and do the cutting then.
There was a knock at the door.
It took him a moment, to blink, to accept the intrusion. Waden. No one else ever disturbed him here. He knew no one else in the Residency ... and in fact, no one else in the city ever called on him.
“Waden?” he invited the caller without even going that way; and the door opened.
It was, of course. Waden walked in, casual-suited, in the Student’s Black he affected at some hours and on some days. “Sorry. Ill?”
“Tired.” Herrin sat down in one of the chairs, reached to the convenient table to pour wine from a decanter, two glasses. Waden took his and sat down. “Social call?” Herrin asked, constrained to observe amenities.
“I haven’t seen you in two weeks.”
Herrin blinked, sipped, sat holding the glass. “That long?”
“I see ...” Waden made a loose gesture toward the nighted window. “ That. From my office upstairs. I get reports.”
Games. Herrin refused to ask, to plead for reaction, which Waden would surely like, that being the old game between them. He simply raised his glass and took another slow sip.
“They talk,” Waden said, “as if you’re really doing something special out there.”
“I am.”
Waden smiled, “And on budget. Amazing.”
“I told you what we’d need.”
“I could wish for equal efficiency elsewhere ... Am I keeping you from ... someone?”
“No.” Herrin almost laughed. “I’m afraid I’m quite dull lately. Preoccupied.”
“Not seeing Keye?”
He shook his head ‘
“What, a falling out?”
“No time.” He had not, in fact, realized that he had not seen Keye in the better part of two months. He had simply postponed events. Waden, Keye, whatever had been important before ... waited. He was amazed, too, to realize that so much time elapsed, like someone disturbed from a long sleep. “I’m afraid I haven’t been social at all. To try to hold the details in my memory ... you understand ... it shuts out everything else.”
“Details.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand. Your art is different, First Citizen.”
“ ‘Not creative.’ I recall your judgment. I am capable of such concentration; I currently have nothing that demands it; the limits of Freedom do not exercise me.”
Herrin raised a quizzical brow, drained his glass, added more. “I heard a shuttle land last week.”
“Two weeks ago,” Waden laughed, and chuckled. “You areenveloped, Artist. Are you really that far from consciousness? A shuttle, a considerable volume of trade, a fair deal of traffic on Port Street, and none of this reached you.”
“It made no shortage of anything Ineeded.”
“You aremaster of your reality,” Waden mocked him. “And it’s all made of stone.”
“No,” Herrin said softly, “ yourreality, First Citizen. You are my obsession.”
“An interesting fancy.”
“ ShouldI have noticed?”
“What, the shuttle?”
“ Shouldit have been of interest to me?”
Waden smiled and refilled his own glass. “A man who forgets his personal affairs would hardly think it of interest, no. It was a military landing, Artist. There’s a campaign on. They were interested in Singularity’sitinerary. I’ve opened negotiations with them. I happen to have years of McWilliams’s past records, cargo, statistics on all the pirates. The military is very interested. But that’s very far from you, isn’t it?”
“What negotiations?” he was genuinely perplexed. Waden had come here for a reason, bursting with something pent up. He drew a deep breath and looked Waden in the eyes. “Let me venture a guess. Your ministers and your departments are beyond their depth and you have no confidence in them. This is no casual call.”
“Your intelligence surpasses theirs.”
“Of course it does; it surpasses yours, but of course you have no intention of admitting it. What have you gotten yourself into?”
For a moment there was a baleful look in Waden’s brown eyes, and then humor. “Indulge your fancies. They’re of no consequence. You’re only moderately wrong, my Dionysus: rationality is always superior to impulsive acts, even creative ones. But no, I don’t want your advice; I don’t need it.”