"So I began with a kind of cartoon. Ten frames a second, rough-cast. That gave me the pace, the shape of the thing. Then I developed it a stage further. Put in the detail. Recorded it at twenty-five a second. Finally I polished and honed it, perfecting each separate strand, rerecording at fifty a second. Slowly making it more real."
His hands made a delicate little movement, as if drawing the finest of wires from within a tight wad of fibers.
"It occurred to me that there really was no other way of doing it. I simply had to make it as real as 1 possibly could."
"But how? I can't see how you did it. It's . . ." She shrugged, laughing, amazed by him. "No. It's simply not possible. You couldn't have!"
And yet he had.
"How?" He grew very still. A faint smile played on his lips, then was gone. For a moment she didn't understand what he was doing with his body, with the expression on his face. Then, suddenly, her mouth fell open, shocked by the accuracy of his imitation, his stance, the very look of him.
And then he spoke. "But how? I can't see how you did it. It's . . ." He shrugged and laughed, a soft, feminine laugh of surprise. "No. It's simply not possible. You couldn't have!"
It was perfect. Not her exactly, yet a perfect copy all the same of her gestures, her facial movements, her voice. Every nuance and intonation caught precisely. As if the mirror talked.
She sat forward, spilling her coffee. "That's ..."
But she could not say. It was frightening. She felt her nerves tingle. For a moment everything slowed about her. She had the sensation of falling, then checked herself.
He was watching her, seeing how she looked: all the time watching her, like a camera eye, noting and storing every last nuance of her behavior.
"You have to look, Catherine. Really look at things. You have to try to see them from the other side. To get right inside of them and see how they feel. There's no other way."
He paused, looking at her differently now, as if gauging whether she was still following him. She nodded, her fingers wiping absently at the spilled coffee on his robe, but her eyes were half-lidded now, uncertain.
"An artist—any artist—is an actor. His function is mimetic, even at its most expressive. And, like an actor, he must learn to play his audience." He smiled, opening out his arms as if to encompass the world, his eyes shining darkly with the enormousness of his vision. "You've seen a tiny piece of it. You've glimpsed what it can be. But it's bigger than that, Catherine. Much, much bigger. What you experienced today was but the merest suggestion of its final form."
He laughed, a short, sharp explosion of laughter that was like a shout of joy.
"The art—that's what I'm talking about! The thing all true artists dream of!"
Slowly he brought down his arms. The smile faded on his lips and his eyes grew suddenly fierce. Clenching his fists, he curled them in toward his chest, hunching his body into itself like a dancer's. For a moment he held himself there, tensed, the whole of him gathered there at the center.
"Not art like you know it now. No . . ." He shook his head, as if in great pain. "No. This would be something almost unendurable. Something terrible and yet beautiful. Too beautiful for words."
He laughed coldly, his eyes burning now with an intensity that frightened her.
"It would be an art to fear, Catherine. An art so cold it would pierce the heart with its iciness yet so hot that it would blaze like a tiny sun, burning in the darkness of the skull.
"Can you imagine that? Can you imagine what such an art would be like?" Hi's laughter rang out again, a pitiless, hideous sound. "That would be no art for the weak. No. Such an art would destroy the little men!"
She shuddered, unable to take her eyes from him. He was like a demon now, his eyes like dark, smoldering coals. His body seemed transfigured; horrible, almost alien.
She sat forward sharply, the cup falling from her hands.
Across from her Ben saw it fall and noted how it lay; saw how its contents spread across the carpet. Saw, and stored the memory.
He looked up at her, surprised, seeing how her breasts had slipped from within the robe and lay between the rich blue folds of cloth, exposed, strangely different.
And as he looked, desire beat up in him fiercely, like a raging fire.
He sat beside her, reaching within the robe to gently touch the soft warmth of her flesh, his hands moving slowly upward until they cupped her breasts. Then, lowering his face to hers, he let his lips brush softly against her lips.
She tensed, trembling in his arms; then, suddenly, she was pressing up against him, her mouth pushing urgently against his, her arms pulling him down. He shivered, amazed by the sudden change in her, the hunger in her eyes.
For a moment he held back, looking down into her face, surprised by the strength of what he suddenly felt. Then, gently, tenderly, he pushed her down, accepting what she offered, casting off the bright, fierce light that had had him in its grasp only moments before, letting himself slip down into the darkness of her, like a stone falling into the heart of a deep, dark well.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Lost Bride
wELL, MINISTER HENG, what was it you wished to see me about?" Heng Yu had been kneeling, his head touched to the cold, stone floor.
Now he rose, looking up at his T'ang for the first time.
Li Shai Tung was sitting in the throne of state, his tall, angular body clothed in imperial yellow. The Council of Ministers had ended an hour earlier, but Heng Yu had stayed on, requesting a private audience with his T'ang. Three broad steps led up to the presense dais. At the bottom of those steps stood the T'ang's Chancellor, Chung Hu-yan. In the past few months, as the old man had grown visibly weaker, more power had devolved onto the shoulders of the capable and honest Chung; and it was to Chung that Heng had gone, immediately the Council had finished. Now Chung gave the slightest smile as he looked at Heng.
"I am grateful for this chance to talk with you, Chieh Hsia," Heng began. "I would not have asked had it not been a matter of the greatest urgency."
The T'ang smiled. "Of course. But please, Heng Yu, be brief. I am already late for my next appointment."
Heng bowed again, conscious of the debt he owed the Chancellor for securing this audience.
"It is about young Shepherd, Chieh Hsia."
The T'ang raised an eyebrow. "Hal's boy? What of him?"
"He is at College, I understand, Chieh Hsia."
Li Shai Tung laughed. "You know it for a certainty, Heng Yu, else you would not have mentioned the matter. But what of it? Is the boy in trouble?"
Heng hesitated. '"I am not sure, Chieh Hsia. It does not seem that he is in any immediate danger, yet certain facts have come to my notice that suggest he might be in the days ahead."
Li Shai Tung leaned forward, his left hand smoothing his plaited beard.
"I see. But why come to me, Heng Yu? This is a matter for General Nocenzi, surely?"
Heng gave a small bow. "Normally I would agree, Chieh Hsia, but in view of the father's illness and the boy's possible future relationship with Prince Yuan . . ."
He left the rest unsaid, but Li Shai Tung took his point. Heng was right. This was much more important than any normal Security matter. Whatever Ben said just now of his intentions, he had been bred to be Li Yuan's advisor; and genes, surely, would win out eventually? For anything to happen to him now, therefore, was unthinkable.
"What do you suggest, Heng Yu?"
In answer, Heng Yu bowed, then held out the scroll he had prepared in advance. Chung Hu-yan took it from him and handed it up to the T'ang who unfurled it and began to read. When he had finished he looked back at Heng.
"Good. You have my sanction for this, Heng Yu. I'll sign this and give the General a copy of the authority. But don't delay. I want this acted upon at once."