changes. But standards remained fixed. They were there in the
beginning; they are immutable. If they shifted, humanity could have
no goal."

"Is there a goal?"

"Where are you going, then?"

"Just on."

"In your profession there is a goal toward which you sculptors all
journey."

"Perfection?"

Guilder nodded.

"But," smiled Drene, "no two sculptors ever see it alike."

"It is still Perfection. It is still the goal to the color-blind
and normal alike, whatever they call it, however, they visualize it.
That is its only importance; it is The Goal. . . . . In things
spiritual the same obtains--whether one's vision embraces Nirvana,
or the Algonquin Ocean of Light, or a pallid Christ half hidden in
floating clouds--Drene, it is all one, all one. It is not the Goal
that changes; only our intelligence concerning its existence and its
immortality."

Drene lay looking at him: