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We
went
down
a
marbled
hallway
hung
with
art
that
,
to
my
untutored
eye
,
looked
old
.
Sketches
of
Gagarin
and
Armstrong
,
Empathist
renderings
of
Konrad
Harlan
and
Angin
Chandra
.
At
the
end
of
this
gallery
,
set
on
a
plinth
,
was
something
like
a
narrow
tree
made
out
of
crumbling
red
stone
.
I
paused
in
front
of
it
and
Mrs
.
Bancroft
had
to
backtrack
from
the
left
turn
she
was
making
.
"
Do
you
like
it
?
"
she
asked
.
"
Very
much
.
This
is
from
Mars
,
isn
’
t
it
.
"
Her
face
underwent
a
change
that
I
caught
out
of
the
corner
of
my
eye
.
She
was
reassessing
.
I
turned
for
a
closer
look
at
her
face
.
"
I
’
m
impressed
,
"
she
said
.
"
People
often
are
.
Sometimes
I
do
handsprings
too
.
"
She
looked
at
me
narrowly
.
"
Do
you
really
know
what
this
is
?
"
"
Frankly
,
no
.
I
used
to
be
interested
in
structural
art
.
I
recognise
the
stone
from
pictures
,
but
…
"
"
It
’
s
a
Songspire
.
"
She
reached
past
me
and
let
her
fingers
trail
down
one
of
the
upright
branches
.
A
faint
sighing
awoke
from
the
thing
and
a
perfume
like
cherries
and
mustard
wafted
into
the
air
.
"
Is
it
alive
?
"
