Wave Without A Shore

XVII

The scaffolding in days after was lowered again to permit work on the detailing of the triple shell, and there was solid stone overhead. There was no more sound from the cranes, which had filled the center of Kierkegaard with their groaning and grinding for what had begun to seem forever; their job was done. The crane operators took their leave, returning now and again as other jobs or simply the course of coming and going through Kierkegaard took them through the dome.

Most of the workers of other sorts were discharged with their bonuses, only a few kept for the labor of clearing away the dust and the fragments. It was work for the skilled apprentices now.

For weeks the dome remained dark except for the lights which shone inside it. And then the perforations of the innermost shell revealed the lacery which had been made by apprentices burrowing wormlike between the second and outermost shells, and light began to break upon the interior, flowing moment by moment in teardrops and shafts across the pavings and the curtain-pillars and upon the walls of the shells . . . and upon the central pillar, where the stonework became the uplifted countenance of Waden Jenks, which became first calm and then, as the hours passed and the light angles changed, shifted.

Watchers came. Citizens passed time watching and from time to time invisibles strayed through . . . few, and tolerable, a momentary chill, like the passing of a cloud; at times Herrin truly failed to notice, rapt at his work, until the shadow of a robe swept by. It was inconsequential. He paid far more attention to the shadowing of a brow, to the small indentation at the corner of the mouth, to the detailed modeling of illusory hair which swept to join the design itself. He worked and sometimes after work must straighten with caution, as if his bones had assumed permanently the position his muscles had held for hours, ignoring pain, ignoring warmth and cold, until sometimes one of the apprentices had to help him from the position in which he had frozen himself.

"It's beautiful," one said, who was steadying him on his feet, on the platform. Gentle hands, careful of him. "It's beautiful, sir."

He laughed softly, because it was the only word that could came to the man's tongue; beautiful was only one aspect of it. But he was pleased by the praise. He got down from the platform, which was a man's height from the ground, was steadied by another apprentice who waited below, with a group of others, and there was a pause among the workers, a small space of silence.

It struck him that this had been going on, that at times they did pause when he walked through, or when he was in difficulty, or when he began work or when he stopped.

"What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Back to work." His back hurt still; he managed to straighten, and heads turned. He looked back and met the faces of the apprentices who had been helping him, eyes anxious and unflinching from his outburst. He shook off their further assistance and walked on, flexed aching hands and turned to look back at the Work, which was bathed in the play of light from the trilevel perforations of the dome.

He took in his own breath, held for the moment in contemplation.

Not finished yet. The central work was not finished. The outer shells were all but complete. Apprentice after apprentice had been sent off. Perhaps, he thought, he should acknowledge those departures, offer some tribute; he realized he was himself the object of a second silence, all the heads which had formerly turned to feign work turned back again.

"Good," he said simply, and turned and walked away.

It took him at least through dinner each night to get the knots out of his muscles. It was not just the hands and back; every joint in his body stiffened, every muscle, from the greater which held his arm steady to the tiny one of a toe which had been balancing him, rigidly, his whole body a brace for his hand which held the cutter, for hour after hour, without interruption. He had given up on lunch; often omitted breakfast because once awake he had not the patience to divert himself to eat; dinner was all there was left, and he had his plate of stew at Fellows' Hall, and a second and a drink which helped ease his aches and relax his muscles . . . not too much any longer. It had occurred to him that such a regime might utimately affect his coordination and his health; he attempted moderation. He sat in Fellows' Hall at dinnertime, in Student's Black well dusted with white marble dust, and swallowed savory food which he did not fully taste because his mind was elsewhere, and drank cold beer which was more relief because of the temperature than because he tasted it. He saw little of where, he was, perceived instead the dusting of marble, the cutting of the beam, the image itself, as if it were indelibly impressed on his retinas, persisting even here. He walked back to the Residency and without noticing the desk and the night guard on duty there, walked to his room and stripped off the dusty Black to bathe in hot water, to soak the aches out, to wrap himself in his robe against the chill and look a last time out the window. He gazed on the night-floods and the dome far beyond the tall hedge of Port Street, the lighted dome resting there as the bright heart of Kierkegaard. This he did always before going to bed . . . no reason, except that his thoughts went in that direction, and it was more real to him than the room was; more real than the Residency, than any other thing about him. He looked to know, to set his world in order, because it was there, and seeing it made the day worth the pain.

He looked his fill, and started for the bed, with his eyes and his mind full of the Work, seeing nothing about him, his thoughts occupied wholly with the alteration which he had to make tomorrow, which could only be made when the sun passed a certain mark, and he had to see in advance, and do the cutting then.

There was a knock at the door.

It took him a moment, to blink, to accept the intrusion. Waden. No one else ever disturbed him here. He knew no one else in the Residency . . . and in fact, no one else in the city ever called on him.

"Waden?" he invited the caller without even going that way; and the door opened.

It was, of course. Waden walked in, casual-suited, in the Student's Black he affected at some hours and on some days. "Sorry. Ill?"

"Tired." Herrin sat down in one of the chairs, reached to the convenient table to pour wine from a decanter, two glasses. Waden took his and sat down. "Social call?" Herrin asked, constrained to observe amenities.

"I haven't seen you in two weeks."

Herrin blinked, sipped, sat holding the glass. "That long?"

"I see . . ." Waden made a loose gesture toward the nighted window. "That. From my office upstairs. I get reports."

Games. Herrin refused to ask, to plead for reaction, which Waden would surely like, that being the old game between them. He simply raised his glass and took another slow sip.

"They talk," Waden said, "as if you're really doing something special out there."

"I am."

Waden smiled. "And on budget. Amazing."

"I told you what we'd need."

"I could wish for equal efficiency elsewhere . . . Am I keeping you from . . . someone?"

"No." Herrin almost laughed. "I'm afraid I'm quite dull lately. Preoccupied."

"Not seeing Keye?"

He shook his head.

"What, a falling out?"

"No time." He had not, in fact, realized that he had not seen Keye in the better part of two months. He had simply postponed events. Waden, Keye, whatever had been important before . . . waited. He was amazed, too, to realize that so much time elapsed, like someone disturbed from a long sleep. "I'm afraid I haven't been social at all To try to hold the details in my memory . . . you understand . . . It shuts out everything else."

"Details."

"Perhaps you don't understand. Your art is different, First Citizen."

" 'Not creative.' I recall your judgment I am capable of such concentration; I currently have nothing that demands it; the limits of Freedom do not exercise me."

Herrin raised a quizzical brow, drained his glass, added more. "I heard a shuttle land last week."

"Two weeks ago," Waden laughed, and chuckled. "You are enveloped, Artist. Are you really that far from consciousness? A shuttle, a considerable volume of trade, a fair deal of traffic on Port Street, and none of this reached you."

"It made no shortage of anything I needed."

"You are master of your reality," Waden mocked him. "And it's all made of stone."

"No," Herrin said softly, "your reality, First Citizen. You are my obsession."

"An interesting fancy."

"Should I have noticed?"

"What, the shuttle?"

"Should it have been of interest to me?"

Waden smiled and refilled his own glass. "A man who forgets his personal affairs would hardly think it of interest, no. It was a military landing, Artist. There's a campaign on. They were interested in Singularity's itinerary. I've opened negotiations with them. I happen to have years of McWilliams's past records, cargo, statistics on all the pirates. The military is very interested. But that's very far from you, isn't it?"

"What negotiations?" he was genuinely perplexed. Waden had come here for a reason, bursting with something pent up. He drew a deep breath and looked Waden in the eyes. "Let me venture a guess. Your ministers and your departments are beyond their depth and you have no confidence in them. This is no casual call."

"Your intelligence surpasses theirs."

"Of course it does; it surpasses yours, but of course you have no intention of admitting it. What have you gotten yourself into?"

For a moment there was a baleful look in Waden's brown eyes, and then humor. "Indulge your fancies. They're of no consequence. You're only moderately wrong, my Dionysus: rationality is always superior to impulsive acts, even creative ones. But no, I don't want your advice; I don't need it."

"What do you need?"

Waden laughed. "Nothing, of course. But possibly what I've always needed, a little less solitude. Already you relieve my mind. I've shaken the world, Artist, and you've not even felt the tremors; what marvelous concentration you have."

"Have you taken sides?"

"Ah. To the point and dead on. Negotiations: Freedom will always be commercially poor so long as it relies on piratical commerce. And I am too great for this world."

"What have you done?"

"What would you do, as Waden Jenks?"

"Build this world. You're about to swallow too much, First Citizen. Digest what you have already; what more do you need, what—?" He lifted a hand toward the roof and the unseen stars. "What is that? Distances that will add to the vacancy you already govern. Hesse is still uncolonized. Half this world is vacant. What need of more so soon? Your ambition is for size. And you will swallow until you burst."

Waden Jenks tended to laugh at his advice, to take it in humor. There was no humor in Waden now.

"I will jar your Reality, Artist. Come with me. Come. Let me show you figures."

Herrin sucked in his breath, vexed and bothered and inwardly disturbed already; arguments with Waden were not, at this stage, productive of anything good. "My Reality is what I'm doing out there, First Citizen. Don't interfere with my work. I have no time to be bothered with trivialities."

Waden's eyes grew darker, amazed, and then he burst out laughing. "With trivialities! O my Dionysus, I love you. There's all a universe out there. There's scale against which all your ambition is nothing; there are places you'll never reach, peoples who'll never hear of you and never care, and you're nothing. But you shut that out, no different from the citizen who sweeps the streets, who has all the Reality he can handle."

"No. You'll give it all to me. That's what you're for. You asked me what I would do. I'd build up this world and attract the commerce you say we have to have. You're looking for a quick means, because Waden Jenks has no duration, only breadth. You'll devour everything you can, First Citizen, and those same people beyond your reach will always gall you; but not me. Because someday . . . at some time however far away . . . someone who's known my work will get out there, and carry my reputation there, and in time, in time, First Citizen—when we're both gone—I'll get there. My way."

"Will you?" Waden's grin looked frozen for the moment, and Herrin, wine-warmed, felt a little impulse of caution. "A little time giving orders has improved your confidence, hasn't it? I neglect to mention your program would simply build an economy the pirates would delight to plunder. We have one commodity now which we have to sell: the pirates themselves, which will buy us what will save us great expense. But I did invite comment. Plan as you choose. You've taught me something."

"What, I?"

"That duration itself is worth the risk; and that's my choice as well, Artist. By what I do . . . neither Freedom nor other worlds will go unshaken."

"Whom have you dealt with?"

"The trade . . . we can't get from merchants. But there's more than one way to get it, isn't there? The military wants a base in this sector; wants to build a station, to do for us what would take us generations. So I give them our cooperation. And Camden McWilliams ceases to annoy us."

"You've cut us off from the only commerce we get," Herrin exclaimed. "They'll desert you, this foreign military. They'll leave you once they've got what they want. They'll change things here, impose their own reality, never mind yours."

Waden shook his head.

"You're confident," Herrin said. "Do you really think you can handle them? It's wide, Waden."

"Does it daunt you? You talk about posterities. Does that length of time daunt you? And does it occur to you that what I do cannot be without effect in duration as well as breadth?"

"It occurs to me," he admitted.

"You never fail me," Waden said. "Whenever I'm in the least perplexed, you're the best reflection of my thoughts. My unfailing mirror. Arguing with you is like arguing with myself."

"You no longer have to flatter, First Citizen. Do you merely flex your unpracticed talents?"

"Oh, excellent. Still barbed. What of that masterwork of yours? Shall I come to see it?"

"Not yet. When it's done."

"What, afraid of my reaction?"

"When it's done."

"When will that be?"

Herrin shrugged. "Possibly a week."

"So soon?"

"Before deadline. I have had outstanding cooperation."

"I've heard you plan a tribute to the workers."

"Out of my account."

"No, no, the State will fund it."

"Will you? That's quite generous."

"A gesture seems in order. An inspiration to the city. I'm really impressed, Herrin, truly I am. I have administrators accustomed to such tasks of coordinating workers and supply who find less success. You have a certain talent there too, by no means minor."

"I should not care to exercise it. My sculpture is the important thing. I credit my choice of supervisors."

"One lost. Most unfortunate."

Herrin fidgeted and recrossed his ankles, feet extended before him. The reference was in total bad taste.

"An invisible."

"One supposes," Herrin said. "I'm sure I don't know."

"You're a disturbance," Waden said.

"Do I disturb you?"

Waden tossed off the rest of his drink, set the glass down, still smiling. "I shall expect to see this wonder of yours next week. Dare I?"

"Barring rain. I don't fancy working in the wet."

"Ah, you're admirably restrained. You're dying for me to see it, and probably a little apprehensive."

"Not in the least apprehensive."

"But anxious."

"I should imagine the same of you."

"True," Waden said. "True. I'll leave you to your rest. I see you were on the verge." He tapped the decanter with his fingernail. "You ought not to indulge so much. I hate to see a great mind corrupted."

"Only on occasions. I've reformed since my Student days."

"Have you?" Waden rose, and Herrin did. Waden brushed his clothes into order. "A pleasant rest to you."

"Thank you."

Waden started out Stopped, halfway to the door, looked back. "Keye's well. Thought I'd tell you."

"My regards to her."

Waden registered mild surprise. "Bastard! Did you know?"

"She is with you, then."

"Ah, she visits. Says you've gone strange."

Herrin shrugged. "A matter of indifference to me."

"Do you know, I think she prefers you."

"Again a matter of indifference. Beware of Keye."

"Do you think so?"

"Creative ethics, Waden. She'll create yours for you; doubtless she's doing so at the moment. But that's your problem."

"Ah, you are offended."

"I'm not offended." He folded his arms to take the weight off his shoulders. His eyes were growing heavy from the drink. "I'm far too weary to cope with Keye, and she'll drift back again. Or back and forth. I'm quite surprised you two haven't reached an arrangement long before this. Evidently she feels herself in one of her stronger periods; she avoided you once; now she avoids me. I've always thought you underestimated her." A thought came to him and he penetrated his lethargy with a more direct look. "Ah! you've talked to Keye about this—plan, this ambition of yours. And lo, Keye is with you."

"Worth considering."

"Indeed it is."

Waden gnawed his lip, laughed softly. Nodded. "Warning taken, Herrin. Warning assuredly taken."

He left. Herrin walked to the bed and sat down, utterly weary, disturbed in his concentration. He had not asked for disturbances. What had been contentment deserted him.

He tried to put it all from his mind, revise the time, wipe it all out and start over. He failed. He was muddled, vaguely and irrationally, knowing Keye was not sitting in her apartment over the Square waiting for his attention. He was hurt Of course she would not wait. Of course there was no reason that she should. He would have had no objection had she

taken a horde of others to her bed. She had done so, in fact, while taking him on convenient days.

But Waden. Waden, who rivaled him. He took that maneuver seriously. The three greatest minds in all Freedom . . . and always Keye had maintained at least neutrality, with the balance tipped toward him. Waden conceived ambition and the Ethicist went to him like iron to a magnet.

When his great work was almost complete.

That desertion hurt, and the news of it had to come when he was tired, when his maintenance of his reality could be shaken. There was a cure for that. He got up, walked to the table and poured his abandoned glass full of wine. He sat down and he drank, and when he could no longer navigate Steadily, he headed for bed, to lie with the lights on because he was too muddled to turn them out, with a confusion of anger in hin that was not going to accept things as they were and an exhaustion too great to think his way out of it.

He slept, more a plummet into oblivion than a sinking into rest. And he waked, leaden-limbed and with a blinding headache. He lay abed until he could no longer ignore the day, then rolled out gingerly, bathed, which diminished the headache and finally cured it.

Thinking . . . was in abeyance. He toweled off, dressed, held out his hands to see if they were steady, and they were.

Possibly, he thought—because his mind was most brilliant—the restlessness at night would get worse. He thought of what Waden feared—the same perspective, to have no one equal, anywhere. To be throwing out thoughts and ideas which no one could criticize because there was no one competent to comprehend.

Life without walls. With endless, endless outpouring of ideas, and nothing coming back, being at the center of everything, and radiating like a star ... into void.

To be cursed with increasing intellect, and increasing comprehension of one's reality, and increasing grasp....

You'll swallow, he recalled saying to Waden Jenks, until you burst.

That was not, he thought, what Waden feared. It was rather expansion . . . until expansion became attenuation, became dissipation . . . until Waden had never been.

A wave with no shore.

The thought began to occur to him as well. As it might have occurred to Keye. He had left Keye alone, without a shore to break the wave, and she had gone to Waden; as Waden went to him when Keye did not suffice.

And where now did Herrin Law go?

To deaden his mind every night because the thoughts were too vivid and the brain too powerful, so powerful that the only way to deal with it was to anesthetize it, to get null, for a few precious hours?

Until the machine tore itself apart?

The hands were steady at the moment He had that confidence, at least.