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His head hurt in the morning, as expected; he had a bewildered recollection of himself and his wanderings, and with light pouring in the studio window and peace everywhere the series of encounters seemed entirely surreal and his fear somewhat amusing.
He shaved, washed, dressed, in spirits as ebullient as an aching head and slight embarrassment would allow.
Keye, he decided. The fact was that he missed Keye and therefore he indulged himself in such nonsense. If he had had Keye’s apartment to go to he should never have been doing such incredible things—the market, the portmarket at night, of all things!—and making a spectacle of himself. He had fallen quite seriously. He had let Keye disturb him, that was it; she had gotten to him and he had wobbled from the blow. There was nothing for it but to reestablish himself with her, move back in on his own terms, ignore her attempts to manipulate him. It could only make him stronger. He had to school himself to withstand her undermining effects, and on the contrary to affect her. He was the superior, and anything else was unthinkable.
He dressed, and clipped the ahnit brooch to his collar, which no citizen of Kierkegaard would daredo, adorning himself with invisible jewelry made by invisibles and Others. It smacked of madness.
But so did dancing in the main square of Kierkegaard, and he had done that. And laughed there. And as for dread of what others might think, he was too powerful for that. If they thought they saw him wearing something which invisibles had made, then let them say so; it was a dilemma for them, a discomfort for all about him, a challenge. He wanted challenges this morning; he was, perhaps because of the headache, in an aggressive mood, and the humor of it vastly appealed to him.
He swung out the door of his studio, headed for the square, with a lightness in his step, skipping down the stairs.
He had met all there was to fear; had bested it; had come out of a bad dream, and headed for his work with enthusiasm.
XIV
Waden Jenks: Ah, Herrin, respect me.
Master Law: Fearme , if I’m your outlet to the world. Your substance flows through my hands.
Waden Jenks: I’ve told you what I fear. What do you fear, Artist?
“ I’m back,” he a
“Oh. Should I be happy?”
“Be what you choose. I trust there’s something in the pantry.”
“See to it,” Keye told the servant, waving her hand, and indicated the other chair. “So you’re back. And how much else do you assume?”
“Oh, be yourself. I’d never interfere.”
She dropped the smile, sat there looking as if something had gone down the wrong way, and stared at him a moment. He kept smiling, because if she threw him out he would have won, and if she let him stay he would have won.
He stayed.
If Keye noticed the brooch she said nothing, nor touched it, nor commented on the rift which had been between them. Keye was either on the retreat or, falsely self-assured, thought that she had won. He did not think the latter. “Have you,” she asked, “moved to the Residency yet?”
He shrugged. “I’m waiting a moment of convenience. I’ve been too busy lately to consider an interruption.”
“The work out there is going much faster than I would have believed.”
“What, do I surprise you?”
“If you like.”
“I’m satisfied with it.”
He wondered for a moment about Keye. Meekness was not her style, but possibly she was lonely, as he was. He admitted that much, having also admitted to himself that he could live in solitude if he chose. And Keye, who was superior to all but him and Waden, had to have come to similar decisions.
His reality, he concluded, was flexible enough to tolerate Keye. And to laugh at her pretensions.
XV
Master Law: How fine shall I dice it?
Master Ly
Master Law: I confess to it then; but I’m politically unconsenting. I live in larger scope than Waden Jenks, our arenas are different.
Master Ly
He looked out Keye’s window at a night somewhat removed from that night, when the whole apartment was dark and the only light was coming in from the glaring floods outside. The noise went on, the grinding of cranes, the voices of workmen and the voices of apprentices giving orders, the occasional ring of hammer and chisel. The twelfth course was laid. What had been three rings from above, with the thick central pillar and the apparent random placement of additional touch-points to act as supports ... began to show other curves. The inward curve of the dome began to be apparent, and the curve of the pillar which was headed to meet it in three levels. That slamming of pipe ... the scaffolding was going into place, the supports which would hold the developing dome until the last courses could be laid, and their keystones settled. During the next several days, the cranes would work nonstop. The whole shell would be put up; lighting was being arranged interior to the shell as well as exterior. Apprentices with their computer printouts and their cutters would sit at the base of a surface completing their tasks in sculpture, while cranes swung the vast stones into place above them. The major perforations would be made only when the whole structure stood solid. Minor texturing proceeded.
He put on his clothes, disturbing Keye as little as possible: “Difficulty?” she lifted her bead from the pillow to ask. “Restless,” he said. “Make love?” she murmured politely. “No need,” he said, and Keye snuggled contentedly into the sheets and pillows, having had what she wanted and as happy, he knew well enough, to have the bed to herself thereafter; Keye was an active sleeper. He finished his dressing, padded out and down the hall, down to the foyer and out, into the glare of the floods and the business of the workmen and apprentices.
“Is it stable?” he asked of the night supervisor, Carl Gytha. “Any difficulty?”
“None,” Gytha assured him. “The engineers assure us so.”
He nodded, pleased with himself, looked about him where now the bone-white marble formed the strong bend of an arch against the velvet sky and the staring eyes of the floods. While he watched, another block settled, homed by the seeker-sensor that told the crane operator it was coming down on target. It hovered. The sensor plate became aligned with its mate as it settled. Workmen hastened to strip off the paired sensors, free the fore and aft clamps, scrambling along the scaffolding. Liberated, the crane swung with ponderous grace and dipped its cable after the next block the master apprentice would designate. The clamps settled, embraced, seized, lifted.
That smoothly.
Block after block, through the night. The operation had smoothed itself into a precision and a pace which held without falter; shifts worked and rested in alternation, enjoyed food and warm drink, cups which sent curls of steam up into the air. Herrin savored the hot sweet liquid, fruited milk and sugar, which fueled the crews and, keeping them off stronger drink, kept their perception straight and their reflexes instant. They were bright-eyed and enthusiastic, pampered by the project, afforded whatever they reasonably desired while on the project and promised a bonus if it met deadline, and wherever Herrin walked there was a flurry of zeal and an offering of respect.
“I’m not great, sir,” an older worker said to him, when he inquired the view of the man, who had been rigging scaffolding. “But this thing is real and it’s going to go on standing here and I’ll look at those stones and remember doing them.”