movement — otherwise Renard would score even more points — and for that the car would have to be practically at a standstill. Renard glanced sideways at Dallen and promptly accelerated, hastening the alternation of tree- shadow and sunlight over the curving gold hood.
'You'll enjoy meeting Silvia,' he said. 'You've got to see her jugs.'
'Maybe I'm not interested in pottery.'
'Maybe that's not what I mean, old son.' Dallen kept his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. 'I know what you meant, old son.'
'1 do believe he's angry!' Renard craned his neck to look into Dalten's face. 'I do believe I've succeeded in provoking the puritanical Mr. Dallen. Well, well!' Shaking his head in amusement, Renard turned the car into a wide driveway with scarcely any slackening of speed. The level of illumination dropped abruptly as walls of foliage closed in on each side.
'These reactionary times we're living in must suit you very well.' Renard spoke with quietly ruminative tones, surprising Dallen with the change of tack. 'Personally, I'd have been happier thirty years ago, back in the Sixties. I suppose you've noticed the pattern in the last few centuries? The steady build-up of liberalism… peaking two-thirds of the way through… then the violent swing the other way to close out the century and start the next. Why do you think it happens? Why is it that Mary Poppins concepts like mortality and monogamy and family refuse to lie down and the?'
Vm going to presume be doesn't know what happened to Cona and Mikel, Dallen told himself. When the car stops Fm going to walk way, and if be has enough sense to let me go that will be the end of it…
The house which was coming into view on a low hill was not what Dallen had expected. All he knew about the Londons was that they were supposed to be wealthy and that they were a focal point for an unorthodox philosophical society — the sort of people whose chosen setting would abound in gabled roofs, leaded glass and all the overt signs of respectability and tradition. Instead, the London residence turned out to be a three-storey redbrick house — rather too small for its imposing location — around which had been tacked an untidy skirt of timber-framed extensions. Additions had been made to additions in an undisciplined manner which would not have been tolerated in the days when zoning regulations were taken seriously. A stack of greying lumber had been left near the entrance to the main building.
'Rebecca's replacement wouldn't have lost much sleep over this place,' Renard said, bringing the car to a crunching halt on a square of brown gravel in front of the house.
Dallen nodded and remained silent, guessing that the allusion had been literary. He got out of the car and was turning to leave when a tall brunette in her late twenties came out to the front steps of the house to greet Renard. She was wearing a close-fitting white shirt and white pants which showed off a full-bosomed but lean- hipped figure. A hint of muscularity about her forearms suggested to Dallen that here was a woman who kept in trim by sheer expenditure of energy. Her face was small and quite square, with neat features and a slight prominence of chin which gave a near-truculent fullness to her lower lip. It was a face which in spite of its liveliness and intelligence, many would have considered disappointing, but Dallen found himself alerted and oddly disturbed, like one who is on the verge of recalling a vital missed appointment.
'…and his name is Carry,' Renard was saying to the woman. 'I've never seen him go into a trance like this before — perhaps if you pointed your chest somewhere else…'
'Shut up. Rick. Hello, Carry.' She gave Dallen a brief smile, her attention already focused on two transit cartons which rested on the rear seat of the car. 'Is this my glass?'
'It certainly is, courtesy of Renard's doorstep delivery service. I'll carry it in for you.'
'Thanks, but I'm quite capable of moving a box or two.' The woman reached into the car, picked up a carton and bore it away into the house.
'I'll say you are,' Renard said admiringly, his gaze lingering on the white-clad figure before he turned to Dallen. 'What did I tell you?'
Dallen felt a pang of annoyance then realised that what he disliked about the question was not so much the sexism as the proprietary pride. This is crazy, he thought, alarmed at the speed and uncontrollability of what was happening inside of him. If a woman like that is mixed up with Renard she can't be a wanton like that. Unwilling to consider what his motives might be, he picked up the second carton and carried it into the house. Its weightiness confirmed his guess about Silvia London being physically strong. She met him at a doorway on the left of the hall, smiled again and gestured for him to go on through. 'Thanks,' she said. 'Straight ahead to the studio, please.'
'Okey-dokey.' Brilliant conversational opening, he thought, appalled. Where did I dredge that one from? He went through a high-ceil inged, conventionally furnished room and into another whose airiness and overhead windows proclaimed it to be part of the house extension. He came to a halt, transfixed, as he saw that the fierce light in the outer room was transformed into a multi-hued blaze by a screen of stained glass which reached almost to the ceiling.
Da Hen's first impression was of a huge trefoil flower. All edges of the three enormous petals were in the same plane, which would have made it possible for the construction to serve as an incredibly ornate window, but the central surfaces were a bewildering series of complex three-dimensional curves, sculptures in glass. Geometric patterns based on circles and ellipses radiated from a sunburst centre, swirling and interacting, generating areas of incense complication in some places and smoothing into calm simplicity in others. The technique was almost point-ille, deriving its effect from myriad thousands of colour fragments, most of which were no bigger than coins. Dallen's sense of awe increased, rippling coolness down his spine, as he realised that the glowing tesserae — which he had taken to be brush-dabs of transparent paint — were actually individual chips of stained glass bonded with metal.
'My God,' he said, with genuine reverence. 'It's… I've never…'
Silvia London laughed as she took the carton from him and placed it on a nearby workbench. 'You like it?'
'That has to be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.' Dallen filled his eyes with mingling rays, mesmerising himself. 'But…'
'A third of a million.'
'I'm sorry?'
'The first thing everybody asks is how many separate pieces of glass,' Silvia said. 'The answer is a third of a million, almost. I've been working on it continuously for four years.'
'Why? For God's sake, why?' Renard spoke from behind Dallen, having entered the studio unnoticed. 'With an imager you could have built up the same effect in a few days. Throw continuous computer variation and it would be even better. What do you say, Garry?'
'I'm not an artist.'
'You could still venture an opinion.' Silvia spoke lightly, but her brown eyes were holding steady on Dallen's. 'Why should I give up four years of my life to one unnecessary project?'
His answer was instinctive. 'Something which sets itself up as a mosaic really has to be a mosaic — otherwise it's no use.'
'Near enough,' she said. 'You can come back anytime.'
'Crawler,' Renard sneered. 'Silvia, when are you going to drop this phoney reverence for old… what's his name… Tiffany and his methods? You know perfectly well that you cheat.'
She shook her head, glancing at Dallen to include him in what she was saying. 'I cut the glass with a valency knife because it's so fast and accurate. And instead of edging each piece with copper foil so that it can be soldered 1 transmute a couple of millimetres of it into copper, for reasons of speed and strength. But Tiffany himself would have used those methods if they'd been available to him — therefore in my book it isn't cheating.'
'And how about the cold solder?'
'Same criterion applies.'
'I should know better than to argue with a woman,' Renard said, cheerfully unconvinced. 'When are you and I going to have dinner?'
'We've been over all that.'
Renard picked up a fish-shaped piece of streaky blue glass from the bench and peered through it, 'How is Karal these days?'
'His condition is stable, thank you.'
Renard held the strip of glass closer to his eyes, converting it into a mask. 'I'm glad about that.'
