People did not make crowds in Kierkegaard; citizens were rational, cautious and conservative of their own Reality, avoided masses in which they could lose their own Selves. People gathered here, in this shell. And suddenly, when he looked at them in general and Waden did they began a polite applause, as people might, to express approval of something they had accepted as real and true—something they desired.
Strangers applauded, and the sound went up into the triple perforated dome, and echoed down again like rain! "Herrin . . ." he heard amid it, "Herrin" "Herrin Law" as if his name had become their possession too. "Master Herrin Law"
He smiled, sucked in the air as if sipping wine and nodded his head in appreciation of the offering. More, he spread his arms, seeing some of his chief apprentices near at hand, and invited them. "Carl Gytha," he said, "Andrew Phelps . . . ." He went on naming names, and the gathering applauded and faces grinned in pleasure. "Were you one of them?" people asked each other, and when one claimed to be, those standing next would all ask his name and touch him. Theirs were names written in bronze; names to last . . . and it was the only art which had come out of the cloistered University into the streets of Kierkegaard.
"It's unprecedented," said Keye, gazing with analytical eye on the chaos.
"Of course it is," said Herrin.
Waden laughed and squeezed his shoulder. "You are unprecedented, Artist; now it's unveiled, not before. That's the nature of your art, isn't it? It's not stone you shape—time, yes, and Realities. You're dangerous, Artist. I always knew you were."
"Complementary powers, Waden Jenks." He lifted his arm toward the face, which had lost its inner glow, which began to shadow with doubt, which led toward the other shadows of itself. "That . . . will be with generations to come. The weak will emulate it; the strong will be obsessed by it—because it challenges them. You'll always be there. Give me substance, you asked, and there you stand."
"I chose you well. Dispute what you will, I chose you well." Waden grinned like a child, pulled him round and embraced him in public, to the applause of all the crowd; and the doorways were jammed with more people seeking to know what happened there. "Walk back with me, to the Residency. They'll give you no rest here; walk back with us and let's celebrate this thing."
Herrin hesitated; he had planned to stay, or to do something else; to talk to Gytha and Phelps, he supposed, but the crowd overwhelmed him. He nodded, agreeing, and walked with Waden, with Keye, with the escort of invisibles who suddenly organized themselves to stay with them.
At the first wall of the dome, Waden stopped and looked back, with awed reluctance, but Keye watched him, and Herrin watched him and Keye.
Then they parted the crowd and headed back the way they had come, changed, Herrin thought, as everyone who came inside that place must be changed.
No one followed them—no one would dare—but the invisibles stayed at their heels, silent as they had been from the beginning.
XX
Student: How does a person fit death into his reality, sir?
Master Law: Whose?
Student: How do you fit your own death into yours, sir?
Master Law: One has nothing to do with another.
Student: You deny the reality of death?
Master Law: (After reflection.) With all my reality.
It was a pleasant day, Waden in high spirits and prone to argue. "I find myself too tired for fine discussion," Herrin confessed.
"You've grown thin," Waden said. They sat at a table in Waden's rooms in the Residency, with exquisite tableware, Waden's ordinary set . . . "Eat something, Herrin; you'll waste away."
"By my standards I have." Herrin leaned back, drinking tea and comfortable with a full belly. "A supper last night, a lunch today . . . gluttony. I plan to increase my tolerance."
"You have to," said Keye, third in their threesome at table. "I know your habits, Herrin, and they're abominable."
He grinned pleasantly and briefly. "I fear the Residency is responsible. I find myself reluctant to bestir the whole array of kitchens and servants. It's easier in the University to go downstairs and trouble cook for sandwiches. I'll be leaving for awhile."
Waden shrugged. "Wherever you're comfortable."
"You'll have new projects," said Keye.
He shrugged.
"What do you propose?" Waden asked.
He smiled. "I'll know when I find it."
"Ah, then you don't know."
"I suspect that I know but that it hasn't surfaced. Allow me my methods."
"You . . . have no interest in exterior events?"
"What, yours?"
"Exterior events."
"Are there any?"
"Rhetorical question?"
"No. Inform me. What's happening with your Outsiders? Anything of interest?"
Waden shrugged and toyed with the handle of his cup, lips pursed. He looked up suddenly. "The station module is due to arrive. Past that point it begins to grow, a station, widening of the port . . . ."
"Irrevocably."
"My art, Herrin. Trust that I know what I'm doing."
Herrin smiled tautly.
"Ah," said Waden Jenks. "I see the thought passing. You say nothing; ergo you have very much to say. It's only on trivialities that you debate motivation. You think—using that creation out in the Square, to have some great part in me."
"I do. I'm very self-interested."
Waden smiled. "I'll never carry your argument for you. Only be sure I know what it is, even unspoken."
"I'd expect nothing less. So why should I bother? Mine's a nonverbal art form."
"Beware him," Keye said, chin on hand and smiling over her empty plate.
"Which of us?" asked Waden.
"Both of you."
"And you?" asked Herrin.
"I'm always wary," she said.
That had the feel of the old, the hungry days. Herrin laughed, set down his cup. "Surely," he said, "Waden, your appointments are waiting; and I'm due a rest. I'm going to Walk off this excellent meal. And rest."
He tried. He left the upper hall of the Residency and Walked downstairs, thought about going to his room and attempting a nap. He was tired enough to be very much tempted, but he also knew that the moment his head touched the pillow, he would begin thinking about what was in the Square or about something equally preoccupying, and he would lie awake miserable.
He walked outside, and onto the streets, and onto Main . . . alone this time. He stopped and looked at the crowd which still clustered about the dome, almost lost his taste for going there at all, ever. It gave him a sense of loss, that what had been his private possession now belonged to everyone and he could never get to it in private again.
The crew was dispersed . . . or if they were not, at least they would work together no more until he could conceive of some new idea.
But the Work had its power. It drew at him inexorably, and he strayed slowly in that unwanted direction.
"Master Law," they whispered where he passed. There was no anonymity.
"It's beautiful," some boy ventured to say to him, a breathless whisper in passing on the street, in fleeing his presence: a University Master did not converse with townsfolk, for their sakes, for their realities' sake—because theirs were so vulnerable; but someone interrupted that silence to offer opinion. The boy was not the last. There were others who called it beautiful; and some who said nothing, but just came close to him. "My father worked on it," said a freckled girl, as if that was supposed to mean something.