"When I am ready," said Frost, and a little later, "Now."

He opened the compartment and Mordel descended to the ground. Hestudied the statue: an old woman, bent like a question mark, her bonyhands covering her face, the fingers spread, so that only part of herexpression of horror could be seen.

"It is an excellent copy," said Mordel, "of the one we saw in BrightDefile. Why did you make it?"

"The production of a work of art is supposed to give rise to humanfeelings such as catharsis, pride in achivement, love, satisfaction."

"Yes, Frost," said Mordel, "but a work of art is only a work of art thefirst time. After that, it is a copy."

"Then this must be why I felt nothing."

"Perhaps, Frost."

"What do you mean 'perhaps'? I will make a work of art for the firsttime, then."

He unearthed another stone and attacked it with his toold. For threedays he labored. Then, "There, it is finished," he said.

"It is a simple cube of stone," said Mordel. "What does it represent?"

"Myself," said Frost, "it is a statue of me. It is smaller thannatural size because it is only a representation of my form, not my dimen -"

"It is not art," said Mordel.

"What makes you an art critic?"

"I do not know art, but I know what art is not. I know that it is notan exact replication of an object in another medium."

"Then this must be why I felt nothing at all," said Frost.

"Perhaps," said Mordel.

Frost took Mordel back into his compartment and rose once more abovethe Earth. Then he rushed away, leaving his statues behind him in thedesert, the old woman bent above the cube.

They came down in a small valley, bounded by green rolling hills, cutby a narrow stream, and holding a small clean lake and several stands ofspring-green trees.

"Why have we come here?" asked Mordel.