"Good," Ben said, the slightest hint of a smile in his eyes—eyes which, now that Neville was looking into them, he was surprised to find were green, not dark as he had been picturing them. The dark, vivid green of the trees and grass and hills of the valley. He shivered, then looked down at the hand that continued to press against his chest.
"It's false," Ben said. "The hand, I mean. I lost the original in an accident. A mirror fell on it."
Neville noted the faint rim around the wrist, then looked up again. Ben was smiling broadly now.
"What didn't you like about my work?"
Neville considered a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing. I thought it was perfect. I—"
"No. Perfection . . . that's when it ceases. It's the flaws that make the art. The uncertainties. The gaps. The . . . hesitancies. Perfection. Well, perfection is death."
"And yet you seem to seek perfection?"
Ben's eyes seemed amused by that. "Yes," he said. "I guess I do. Maybe that's why I'm fascinated by the darkness. After all, nothing's more perfect than the dark, no?"
Neville shrugged. He had no view on it. Had never even thought of it. But the mere fact that Ben had spoken of it meant he would now. He knew that: knew it almost as certainly as he knew that he would never see things the same again—not after having experienced Ben's work. No, and nor would millions of others. If what he suspected was correct, Ben's The Familiar would change the lives of everyone it touched. But not yet. First they had to come up with suitable forms of technology that would allow people to experience it in all its glory. Ben's art was so new—so revolutionary—that right now there was not even a means of presenting it. But there would be. And that, too, would change people's lives.
He felt the pressure on his chest cease. Ben stepped back, giving him a nod. "You must excuse me now, Jack Neville, for I have work to do. But come again, please. We must talk at greater length."
Neville smiled and bowed his head, then watched Ben turn and leave the room. When he had gone, he let a long breath escape him and turned, looking to Meg again. While Ben had been there he had almost forgotten her, but now he was gone. . . . "Would you have more tea, Mister Neville?"
"Jack," he said, emboldened by her brother's friendliness. "Please, call me Jack."
BEN PULLED THE CURTAINS TO, then sat behind his desk, watching the screen. A hidden camera perched high in the corner of their quarters gave him a view of the four daymen. They were sitting on the bottom bunks, two to each side of the stone gangway, their heads leaning in close as they talked.
Ben pushed the slide to maximum. At once the sound of their voices filled the room.
". . . that's as may be," Crefter said angrily, "but the Clay! It's too risky."
"That's right," Blonegek said, coming in on Crefter's side. "It's much too dangerous."
"But it's where we're from," Scaf answered them reasonably. "And this is what we've been trained for."
"Were we ever given a choice?" Kygek asked. "Do you forget those early days?"
Scaf shook his head. "I remember it well, Kygek. Yet it was necessary. We were wild, remember? Little more than animals. What we are now ... all that is down to the Master. We would be nothing without him."
Crefter made a small noise of dissent, yet it was clear Scaf s words had had some effect. Even so, the thought of going back into the Clay was clearly disturbing them, for they returned to it immediately.
"I would do anything for him," Blonegek said. "You know that, Scaf. But this . . ." He physically shuddered. "It makes me uneasy. The dark . . . I've come to hate the dark."
Scaf nodded, then rested his hand on Blonegek's shoulder.
"Can't we talk to him," Blonegek asked, "—persuade him not to go inside?"
Kygek laughed. "Persuade the Master? How? He's set on this. Couldn't you see that? His face—"
"His face was like the shining moon," the normally unpoetic Crefter said, surprising them. "I'd never seen . . ."
He fell silent and dropped his head, abashed.
Scaf looked from face to face. "If that's how we all feel, I'll talk to him. Tell him—"
"Tell him what?" Kygek asked, his face sneering. The drug, which had given Scaf insight and Crefter poetry, had darkened Kygek's natural cynicism. Only Blonegek seemed vaguely what he'd been, but then, there had been so little of note in his character to begin with. Blonegek was a born follower.
Scaf looked at Kygek and smiled. "I'll tell him we won't go."
Both Crefter and Blonegek made noises of surprise, while Kygek simply stared, open mouthed.
"But you can't," Crefter said. "He's the Master."
"No?" Scaf looked about him. "Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes, but . . ."
"But what? Either we go or we don't go. It's that simple, neh?"
Yet it was clearly far from simple. From the looks on their faces Ben could tell they were really torn by this matter.
"How do you feel, Scaf?" Crefter asked after a while.
"Uneasy." Scaf sighed, then studied his hands as if he were seeing them anew. "Given the choice, I would prefer not to go back inside. I have nightmares."
There were nods at that. In the shadows of his room Ben sat back a little. He hadn't known.
"So what are we going to do?" Kygek asked.
"Simple," Scaf answered. "We have a vote."
"Vote?" Blonegek stared blankly at Scaf. To either side of him Crefter and Kygek shrugged.
"It's easy," Scaf said. "First I ask all of you if you want to stay here. If you do, you put your hand up. Then I ask all of you if you want to go inside. If you do you put your hand up."
"What if you want to do both?" Blonegek asked.
"You won't. That's the point. And whichever idea gets the most hands up for it, that's the course we'll choose. Okay? Right. Then let me ask you if you want to stay in the Domain."
Kygek's hand went up at once, Crefter's following it hesitantly a moment later. Blonegek stared from one to the other of them, then, frowning, put up his hand. Last of all, Scaf raised his.
"That's settled, then," he said.
"Aren't you going to ask the other question?" Blonegek asked.
"There's no point," Scaf said, with infinite patience. "We all want to stay."
"Ah . . ." Blonegek said, but there was still confusion in his face. And Ben, watching, realized he would probably have to give him a barrelful of the enhancement drug before it made any difference.
Scaf, however . . . Well, already he was displaying some interesting traits. Before the treatment his leadership had been of a passive, reluctant sort, but now he was coming out of himself.
Ben watched Scaf stand, steeling himself to come up to the cottage and speak to him, then leaned forward and switched off the screen. It was time to deal with them. Time for drastic measures.
THERE WAS A KNOCK on the cottage door. Ben opened it and looked out into the garden. Scaf stood there, the other three at his back. He shuffled awkwardly, tugging at the sleeve of his jerkin, then opened his mouth to speak.
"What is it, Scaf?" Ben asked, preempting him. "Is something troubling you?"
He could see how Scaf wanted to withdraw. If he'd been alone, he would probably have stepped away, murmuring something like "It's nothing, Master." But he was conscious of the three behind him, and of the plan he'd drawn up for them, and so he stood his ground, and, swallowing, began again.
"It's about the Clay, Master."
Ben smiled. "You don't want to go, is that it?"
Scaf s eyes widened, then, made speechless by Ben's anticipation, he nodded.
"You'd better come in," he said. "There's something I have to show you."
Scaf hesitated. He had never been inside the cottage: none of them had, not since the very early days, and then they had been punished— and punished severely—for stepping inside the Shepherd family home.
"Come on," Ben said, standing back to let them pass. "I order you. And you three. Come on now, this is important."