They did, held their breath collectively through his inspection of it, which was exactly the size of one of the meter square paving blocks. It was set in and true as John Ree had said. They had lights on it to help dry the plastic. WADEN ASHLEN JENKS, the plaque said, FIRST CITIZEN OF FREEDOM, BY THE ART OF MASTER HERRIN ALTON LAW and . . . Leona Kyle Pace, Carl Ellis Gytha, Andrew Lee Phelps, master apprentices . . . Lara Catherin Anderssen, Myron Inders Andrews . . . .
The names went on, and on, and filled the surface of the plaque, down to the foundry which had cast it.
Pace. That name was there, and how it had gotten there, whether they had used an old list and no one had wanted to see the name to take it off before they had given it to the foundry, or no one wanted to take it off at all, or both of those things ... it was there, and an invisible was atop the whole list of workers and apprentices. He fingered the pin he wore, tempting the vision of those about him, and nodded slowly, and looked back past the encircling crowd of those who had gathered in the dark, where light still showed inside the dome and the scaffolding was coming down.
"Let's get it all done," he said, "so the sun comes up on it whole, and finished."
They moved, and all of them worked, carrying out the pieces of the scaffolding, worked even with polishing cloths and on hands and knees, cleaning up any hint of debris or stain, polishing away any mark the scaffolding itself might have made.
The lights went out, and there was only the night sky for illumination, a sky which had begun to be clear and full of stars. Those who walked here now shed echoes, and began to
be hushed and careful. The sculpted face of Waden Jenks, gazing slightly upward, took on an illusory quality in the starlight, like something waiting for birth, biding, and lacking sharp edges.
Some went home to bed, a trickle which ebbed away the bystanders, and more went home nursing sore hands and exhaustion, probably to lie awake all night with aches and pains; but some stayed, and simply watched.
Herrin was one, for a time. He looked at what he had created, and listened, and it still seemed part of him, a moment he did not want to end. Gytha and Phelps were still there. He offered his hand to them finally and walked away, out through the silent gates of the dome and into the presence of Others, who had come as they often did, harming nothing.
The silence then was profound. He looked back, and stood there a time, and enjoyed the sight, the white marble dome in the starlight, the promise of the morning.
Keye's window . . . was dark.
Not at home, perhaps.
He looked aside then, and walked on up Main, occasionally flexing a shoulder, recalling that he had missed supper. He resented the human need to eat, to sleep; there was a sense of time weighing on him. The mind, which he had vowed not to anesthetize again, was still wide awake and promised to remain so, working on everything about it, alive and alert and taking no heed of a body which trembled with exhaustion and ached with cramps. He thought of the port, with Waden's guests; of Keye, with Waden; of Pace, whether she might have come this night and gone away unnoticed; of Gytha and Phelps; of dinner and what it was he could force his stomach to bear; of Outside and ambitions and stations and the other continent and what he should do with that and how the morning was going to be and whether it would rain; and how he could keep going if he were to go to bed without supper, whether he could force himself to have the patience for breakfast, and how long he could keep going if he skipped both—and whether Waden Jenks, in perverse humor, would not try to make little of the day and the moment and all that he had accomplished. All this poured through his mind in an endlessly recycling rush, robbing him of any hope of sleep.
He was alone on the street; it was that kind of hour, and a chill night, and sane citizens were not given to walking by night without a purpose. He passed the arch in the hedge which led onto Port Street and remarked with tired relief that there were no Outsiders about and no prospect of meeting any.
"Tell the First Citizen I expect him at the Square tomorrow morning," he told the night secretary. "Master Law," said the secretary, "the First Citizen has it in his appointments." That relieved his mind, and when he was about to walk away, "Master Law," the secretary said to him, "is it finished?"
The interest, the question itself pleased him. "Yes," he said, and walked away, suddenly possessed of an appetite.
He slept, on a moderately full stomach, in his own bed and without the wine.
And he wakened with the sense of a presence leaning over him, stared up startled into the face of Waden Jenks.
"Good morning, Artist. What a day to oversleep, eh?"
He blinked, gathering his wits, decided no one just wakened was capable of matching words with Waden, and rolled out of bed in silence, stalked off to the bath and showered and shaved while Waden waited.
"Hardly conversational," Waden complained from the other room.
"What shall I say?" He negotiated the razor past his moving lips. "People who break into rooms shouldn't expect coherent responses. What time is it?"
"Nine. I didn't want to go without you."
"Well, I wasn't sure I'd go. After all, my part's done."
"You're incredible."
"Meaning you don't believe me?"
"Meaning I don't."
Herrin smiled at the mirror, ducked his head, washed off and dried his face. He walked out where Waden was standing, searched the closet for clean clothes, nothing splendid, but rather his ordinary Student's Black. Waden was resplendent in gray, expensive, elegant; but he usually was.
"You know," Waden said, watching him, "that you could have better than that."
"I don't take care of things like that. I forget. I start to work and ruin clothes. I'm afraid I'll never achieve elegance."
He pulled on trousers and pulled on his shirt and fastened the collar and the cuffs, sat down and put on socks and boots, all sober black.
"You really mean to wear that?"
"Of course I do."
"Incredible."
"I'm simply not ostentatious." He finished, stood up, and combed his hair in the room mirror . . . paused there, recalling the invisible brooch which was his private absurdity, his only ornament. He found Waden's presence intimidating in that regard, and for a moment entertained the thought that this day at least he should not play the joke.
No. On those terms he had to, or Waden did intimidate him.
He hunted out the clothes he had dropped the night before, undipped the brooch and stood up, smiled at Waden, clipping it to his collar. "I'm ready to go if you are. Will Keye come?"
"She's waiting outside."
"That's remarkable. She's always refused. Possibly a taste for the finished and not the inchoate."
"Do you suggest so?"
"Ah, I was speaking of art."
Waden smiled tautly. "Such deprecation isn't like you. Are you hesitant?"
"What, to offend you? Never. You thrive on it. But we're both finished now, while before, you'd achieved and I'd done nothing. Something stands out there now."
"Not to win Keye's attention."
Herrin laughed. "Hardly. Keye's attentions are to herself and always have been." He opened the door, stopped because there were Outsiders there. Blue-uniformed Outsiders.
"Something wrong?" Waden asked.
Half a heartbeat he hesitated, seeing the game and still finding it early in the morning for maneuvers like this. Invisibles. He wore a brooch. Waden Jenks had attendants. He stepped aside to let Waden out and closed the door. Keye was there, sitting in a chair a little distance down the hall, reading, legs crossed and nonchalant.
"Keye," he said, and she looked up, folded the book and tucked it into her pocket, rising with every evidence of delight in the day.