"Possibly. I admit it."
"Now I suspect you of arrogance."
"There's inferiority in arrogance. It assumes one cares. I'm simply as I am. I'll come to the Residency. It seems adequate for my comfort."
"Pathetic games. You're my guest, my employee."
Herrin turned a cold smile on him. "I'm your immortality. Your interpreter."
"Mine. What other message goes out, Artist?"
"Black and white, an interlocked pattern, lovers inextricably entwined."
"Ah, I've discovered your reality."
"You are involved in it."
"Does it occur to you, Herrin, that I'm using you?"
"Yes," he said, leaving pregnant silence, staring into Waden's brown eyes. He smiled finally, as did Waden.
"If you were master," Waden said, "you wouldn't have to argue from silences. But you must."
"I don't contend in politics. I argued that from the beginning, and the power you have is not mine. Since you lend it to me, I accept it, and I shall doubtless enjoy it. But rival me. I defy you."
Waden chuckled. "Come to the Residency when it pleases you. We'll drink together."
"You'll sit for me. I'll need both holographs and sketches. You'll come to my studio for the holographs, where I have the equipment."
"When?"
"Tomorrow at ten."
"You realize I have other schedules."
"At ten."
Waden laughed. "I accept. As for you, come when you please." He walked a distance, looked back. "Bring Keye to the Residency, if it suits."
"She may be amused. I wouldn't venture to predict."
Waden nodded, turned, walked his way back toward the Residency, as everyone walked in Kierkegaard, except the incapacitated, the infant, and the drivers of trucks which carried, things too large or too heavy for carrying by hand. Herrin turned a cold eye on the apprentices, who put themselves as coldly to work, knowing they could not daunt him, but each attempting to assert an independent reality. They were not accustomed to such handling as he gave them . . . well, but they took it.
He walked about, directing this and that team as he had previously. He found himself ill at ease, knowing the temper of Waden Jenks, knowing that Waden had touched perilously close to the heart of matters. Cade Jenks was dead, and this proved certain things about Waden which Herrin had suspected; but then, there had been in that father-son relationship no love, or pleasure, or respect.
He also had power, by reason of his position in the University and in Kierkegaard. The apprentices regarded him with fear, because he had authority to hire and dismiss any Student or laborer from the project. At a word from him even an Apprentice would be banished from University and disgraced, condemned to the provinces; or a worker sent among the invisible Unemployed. The Students coveted the chance at Jenks Square. The laborers coveted the government support. They worked with zeal, in consequence. The dread with which they regarded that possibility of dismissal and the pride they took in being assigned to the project were evident in their application.
He watched the stacks of stone arranged, which were already waist high, and eventually, toward dusk, he spoke to his chief apprentice, Leona Pace, and saw to it that due care would be taken in unloading the stone which was still coming in on trucks from the warehouses.
"I shall hold you accountable," he told her, "if any damage is done; and twice accountable if there is any weak stone set into the structure. Remember the weight this foundation must bear. If there is a flaw in any stone, however it came there, set it aside and hold it for my personal inspection. If you have doubt in any stone, set it aside. The supply of stone is endless; the State provides. Am I understood?"
"Master Law, without question."
He nodded, walked away, through the stone circles and to that apartment overlooking Jenks Square which belonged to Keye.
"I've been watching," she told him when he had, in front of the window looking down on the building, taken her in his arms and kissed her. Their relationship was by turns cool and by turns warm, and lately the latter.
"It looks like nothing at all as yet," he said, relieving her of any duty to flatter him. He let her lead him to the table. She had promised dinner, and dinner there was, with flower-lights drifting in bowls among the dishes, and incense in the air. Keye had a servant to provide such touches, while he had never bothered, tossing things aside when done with them, to live in a warren of discarded stones and clothes piled according to washed and unwashed, cleanly—he was obsessive about cleanliness—but he confined his art to stone, not house-holding.
This was not, however, to say that he failed to appreciate beauty offered him. He sat down, gave the flowerlight nearest a push which sent it drifting through the maze of the crystal serpentine bowl and smiled at her.
"That was Waden down there today."
"What, spying from the window? I thought you had classes."
"Canceled still. The official, dreary respect goes on. You've been my sole entertainment—watching the trucks, considering your plight."
"How, plight?"
"You understand me. Nothing escapes you; you take such pride in it."
"Because I work for him?"
"No."
"You mean to drag this through dessert, I can see."
"I trust not. I've warned you, but you see only endurance. You plan to outlast him, encompass him, and he . . . has his vanity. There was a time you knew where you were going; now you apply to Waden Jenks for a roadmap."
"I am not political."
"Where do you live?"
He frowned, patient with her games. "On Freedom, in Sartre, in Kierkegaard, in the University, in specific—how fine shall I dice it?"
"Until you smell the air and know you are political."
"I confess to it then, but I'm politically unconsenting. I live in larger scope than Waden Jenks; our arenas are different."
"Yours embraces his. As you embrace that monument— shells within shells—he won't laugh when he perceives that Reality."
"You are uncommonly keen this evening."
"Only talkative."
"He asked you to the Residency, as my companion."
"What, are you going?"
"I said yes."
"Well, I'll not. Those who become embraced by stones of another's shaping . . . take what shapes they dictate, don't they? I have my own comforts. I'll watch. Come here, when you will; I'll even give you the key. It may be a refuge more convenient than your own."
"I suspect you of unguessed talents. You think I've erred."
"Go if you like."
He smiled slowly. "I shall, and come, and take the key too. I thank you."
"I remind you I am fastidious in housekeeping."
There was a time when he looked into Keye's eyes and saw something reserved, and again not; he was never sure. Keye deserved regard. He had never caught her at humor, but sometimes, he suspected, at kindness. When he was with her sometimes he smelled earth and old boards, recalled a world quite different from the competition of the University and the fierce, cold Residency. Recalled that provincial reality where in their Self and for their pleasure, or perhaps because they were bound by primal instincts—his parents had surprised him with kind acts. He had treasured surprises of that nature, unpredictable in the main because there was no particular reason for them, and they were small—a favorite dish, something of the sort. Keye, he thought, had come from such a provincial origin, even farther up the river; Keye did some things which had nothing to do with the study and practice of creative ethics, simply because there were unrecognized patterns within her behavior.
Or doing such things pleased her, because the following of childhood patterns was in itself satisfying, and she played purposeful games watching others' reactions to them, which was within her art. Keye's field was, like his and unlike Waden's, creative, and at moments when he thought of that, he reckoned Keye as greater than Waden gave her credit for being.