He washed, stiff-muscled and shivering in the unheated studio; dressed, because he had not taken all his clothes away to the Residency, against some time that he would want this place. He paused time and time again to stare at what he had done in the fit of last night, and it no more let him go than before, except that he had spent all his vision and was drained for the time. He knew better than to lay hands on it now, when nothing would come out true, when his hands and his eye would betray him and warp what he remembered. The vision was retreated into the distance and hands alone could not produce it or impatience force it. It was waiting. It would come back and gather force and break out in him again when he had rested. He had only to think about it and wait.
Never—he was sure—never exactly as it had been last night; those impulses, once faded, could not be recovered. He mourned over that, and paused in his intention to go downstairs to breakfast, just to look toward that disturbing face.
He laughed then at his own doubt. It had more in it than the work he had just finished, more of potential. It could be greater than what was in Jenks Square. It could become . . . far greater. He suffered another impulse to work on it, which was not an impulse he ought to follow. After breakfast; after rest; then.
People approached the door; classes were starting, he reckoned. It was daybreak; maybe someone was starting early.
The door opened. It was Waden.
"Well," Herrin said, because Waden's visits to University were normally limited to the dining hall. Outsiders were with him. Evidently that was going to be a permanent attachment. "I was headed downstairs."
"You've been working." Waden walked to the table, touched the clay, walked around it. Frowned and touched it again. "That's what you're doing next."
"It's far from finished."
"McWilliams. He's not like that. He's a narrow, narrow man. You make him a god."
"I've only borrowed his features. It's not McWilliams; just the shell of him."
"This is good."
"Of course it is."
"Did you have this in mind all along?"
"Started it last night . . . . Do you have a point, Waden? Come down to breakfast with me."
"I don't want you to do any more statues."
Herrin stood still and looked at him. "Am I to take you seriously?"
"Absolutely."
"First Citizen, you're given to bizarre humor, but this—whatever it demonstrates—is not for discussion at breakfast."
"It has rational explanation, Herrin. I'm sure you even understand it."
He thought about it. The best thing to do, he thought, was to walk out the door on the spot and give Waden's absurdity the treatment it deserved; but the doorway was occupied: invisibles stood there, Waden's escort, large men with foreign weapons. And he did see them and Waden knew that he saw them.
"You were useful," Waden said, "in creating what you did. Art's the more valuable while it's unique. If you go on creating such things, you'll eventually overshadow it. I'm telling you . . . there'll not be another. You've created something unique. Protect it, you said; time is your enemy, you said; and I believe you, Herrin."
He was cold inside and out. It was very difficult to relax and laugh, but he did so. "I recall what your art is; but do you fancy years of Keye alone? You need me more than ever, First Citizen. Look at your allies and imagine dialogue with them."
"I know," Waden said. "I agree with you on all of that. I don't want to lose you. You've accomplished a great deal. You're a powerful force; you've swallowed up Kierkegaard itself; you have people doing strange things and Kierkegaard will never be the same. But, Herrin, you've done as much as I want you to do. As much as I want you to do. Enjoy everything you have. Bask in your success. Know that you've warped a great many things about your influence, and that you'll have your duration. Look, they'll say for ages to come, look at the work of Herrin Law; he only made one, and laid down his tools and stopped, because it was a masterwork, and it was perfect Quit while your reputation is whole. Stop at this apex of your career, and you'll challenge ages to come with what you've done; you'll have accomplished everything you ever said you wanted. Paint, if it suits you. Painting's not the same kind of art; your sketches are brilliant. Be rich. Teach others. Continue here as a Master. Do anything in the World you like. You want comfort—have it. You want influence—I'll give you control of the whole University. Just don't do another sculpture."
"At your asking."
"I ask this," Waden said quietly, "I plead with you—which I have never done with anyone and never shall again."
"Meaning that you're threatened; meaning that my art has to give way to yours, and you mean I should admit that."
"Mine is the more important, Herrin. My art guides and governs, but yours is Dionysian and dangerous. It provokes emotion; it gathers irrational responses about it; it touches and it moves, like energy itself. While your energy serves me I use it, but you've done enough. It's time to stop, Herrin, because if you go further you put yourself in conflict with me. You threaten order. And you threaten other things. I asked you to lend me duration; and now I have to be sure you don't lend it to anyone else. Like that—" He gestured toward the sculpture. "That, a man hunted by agencies friendly to us—"
"Your reality's becoming bent indeed if you care in the least what they think. If you had power you'd tell them what to think. But aren't you losing your grip on it—that the best you can do is come here and tell me not to create, that your reality can't withstand me and what I do? Are you that fragile, Waden Jenks? I never thought so until now."
"You misunderstand. The power is not illusory. It is real, Artist, and it can be used. I've told you what I want and don't want, and the fact that I can tell you is at issue here, do you see that? All you have to do is admit that I can. And think about it. And take the rational course. Leave off making statues. That's all I ask."
Herrin shook his head. "Really an excellent piece of your art, Waden. Consummate skill. I am intimidated. But I exist, I do what I do, and it's not to be changed."
"I understand. You won't give in, reckoning this is a bluff, that at any moment I'll let you know you've been taken." Waden reached to the table beside him, took up dried clay in his fingers and crumbled it. Suddenly he grasped the table edge and upended it
Herrin exclaimed in shock and grabbed for it; but it fell; the head hit the floor and distorted itself and he grabbed for Waden, seized up a handful of impeccable suit and headed Waden for the wall.
The Outsiders grabbed him from behind, hauled him back while he was still too shocked at the touch itself; and at the destruction; and at Waden Jenks.
"I'm very serious," Waden said. "Believe me that you won't go on working as you please, and I know what it is to you—admit it, admit that after all, you don't control what happens, and ask me, just ask me for what I've offered you, on my terms . . . because those are the terms you'll get Those are the terms you have to live with. It's my world. I can make it comfortable for you—or harsh; and all you have to do to save yourself a great deal of grief is to admit that truth, and follow orders, which is all you've ever really done. Only now you have to see it and to deal with that fact. Admit it. When you can—you're quite safe."