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That was to him a tremendous insight, first into the thinking of the less than brilliant, with whom he had had little association and less conversation; and secondly, into possibilities and levels of the sculpture’s reality which he had himself hardly yet grasped. “Indeed,” he said, sucking in his breath, stirred by the concept of others falling within this design of his making. “Do you know—what isyour name?”
“John Ree, sir,” said the worker, jamming uncertain hands into his pockets as if seeking refuge for them. He was a big man, graying and weathered from work out of doors. “Ree.”
“John Ree. It occurs to me to make a great bronze plaque when all’s done; to set the name of every hand that worked to rear this sculpture, the apprentices, the stonemasons, the crane operators, the ru
“Would be splendid, sir,” Ree murmured, looking confused, and Herrin laughed, walked away with energy in his step.
Within the hour, before dawn, the word had traveled. Supervisor Carl Gytha had heard, and asked him. “Everyone,” he confirmed, “every name,” and watched Gytha’s eyes grow round, for Gytha was competent and knew at least a degree of ambition within the University.
“Yes, sir,” the supervisor said earnestly.
“Make a list; keep it absolutely accurate. Cross check with Leona Pace.”
“Yes, s ir.”
“To the least. To the sweepers. Everyone.”
“Yes, sir.” Gytha went off. Herrin smiled after him, marvelously self-content. “Come on,” he heard yelled from the top of the courses, workers exhorting each other. No different than had been ... but was there yet a sudden kee
He sculpted lives, and intents. Promised John Ree a place in time along with Waden Jenks and Herrin Law. Created ... in John Ree ... a possibility which had never been there in his wildest fancies.
See, John Ree would say to his son or daughter, to his children’s children, see... there. There I am.
I.
Ambition ... for ten thousand years of that unremarkable worker’s descendants. And what might it not do?
He felt a sudden lassitude, physical impact of half a night awake, as he considered creative energies expended, looked at the dawning which began to pale the glare of lamps, realized what sleep he had missed. But the brain was awake, seldom so much awake. He paced a time longer, finally knew that he was exhausted, and headed outward, through the developing maze of the shells, out into the pink daylight.
A row of dark figures stood there, robes flapping in the slight breeze. Eight, nine of them, all in a row vaguely artistic—an arc observing the arc of the dome itself, he realized; invisibles, all of them. Watching. He stopped, unease touching him like the touch of the wind, and on an impulse he turned and walked back through the maze to the otherside, the other gateway, to the south.
There were more invisibles, and more than one row, not appearing to have any symmetry to their standing, but symmetrical all the same, because they were focused on the dome.
He refused the sight. He turned and retraced his steps, the way he had started in the first place. Workers called out to each other, still shouting instructions. He swept through the dome, out past the line of watchers, managing this time not to see them, except as shadows.
He made no particular haste, walking in the dawning up through the street, on which morning walkers were begi
He moved to the Residency that morning. It was a matter of packing up a sackful of clothing and personal items from the studio and appearing at the Residency entry desk in the main hall, casting himself on Waden’s recommendation and the staff’s invention. The room turned out to be extravagant, by his standards, with white woodwork and a wide, soft bed. It had a magnificent view of the Port Street walkway, the hedge, the grand expanse of Main beyond, and most important, the dome, the Work.
He was delighted, grandly pleased, stood smiling into the daylight which was streaming over distant Jenks Square.
He did not delude himself that Keye would come here. She had an almost superstitious fear of being inside this place. He grimed with amusement. So much for Keye’s fears, and his twilight nightmares and watchers about the square.
So much for any assumption Keye might now make that she had dissuaded him from this venture into the Residency. He had, he thought, delayed overlong on her account ... or his own comfort. It was, after all, a mere change of address. And Keye’s apartment was still accessible from the Square ... when there was time. He foresaw a time of increasing preoccupation, when he would not indeed have time to have made the shift to the Residency, and he would not have Keye pouring her own opinions into his ear without also doing what he chose on the contrary tack. That Keye should know his independence ... he had no vanity in that regard—in fact whatever she wanted to think was very well, and better if she deceived herself—but he would not be dissuaded by her, or oppose her for its own sake, which was likewise to move at her direction. It was simply a good morning to get around to the move, when he could do so without particular reason one way or the other.
He found it even more pleasant than he had thought.
The door opened uninvited. “Welcome,” said Waden’s voice from behind him.
He turned, raised brows. “Well. It’s splendid hospitality, First Citizen.”
“It’s nothing too good for you, is it?
“Of course not.”
Waden laughed softly. “Breakfast?”
“Gladly.”
“You choose strange hours for moving.”
“Convenient to my schedule.”
Waden’s eyes traveled over him minutely. “You worked all night? Zeal, Artist,”
“I enjoy my work.”
“Doubtless you do.”
Waden walked to the window, turned, wiped a finger across the brooch he wore on his collar, smiled quizzically. “Bizarre ornament.”
Herrin smiled, said nothing, which brought a spark of amusement to Waden’s eyes. Herrin laid a hand on Waden’s back, turned him toward the door. “Fellows’ Hall?”
Waden agreed. They walked together, ate together; Waden went back to his offices and his work; Herrin went back to his, in the studio, at peace with his reality. He gathered up his own cutter for the first time since the project began, selected his tools, went out to the Square on the nervous energy which had fired him since midway through the night.
The cranes groaned and ground their way about their business. Leona Pace came up with her checklist to see if there was anything that wanted doing; he refused her, waved off a question about the plaque and the proposal of the names to be engraved there.
“True,” he said simply, and knelt down and began unwrapping his tools, his own, which were the finest available, before the pillar which would be the central sculpture. He was sure now. That had been the reason for the lack of sleep, the anxiety, the energy which had suffused him and dictated so many shiftings and changes and readjustments in recent days.
He focused himself now on his own phase of the work. The cranes hefted enormous weights which sailed like clouds overhead, any one of which, slipping, could have crushed him to grease, but he refused even the slight concern the possibility suggested.
He focused the beam, and began, oblivious to all else.
XVI
Student: Is there reality outside Freedom?
Master Law: I imagine that there is.
He dropped the cutter, finally—saw his hand was wobbling and jerked it away from the stone before disaster could happen. It fell, and he sank down where he was, dropped head into arms and arms onto knees and sat there, aware finally that he was getting wet, that rain was splashing onto his shoulders and begi