‘Nothing,’ he replies.

‘It will soon be too late,’ says the young man, in that stern voice.

‘Yes, let me pass!’ says the arrow polisher, and the man steps aside at once, but still does not give up.

‘It’s not far ahead,’ he says.

Perhaps he is the outermost watchman of the house, on the way to the centre? Are they all made to stop here?

Am I not to get past him? thinks the arrow polisher. Must I turn back here?

It feels as if a burden would fall away from him if he did. But the way is not barred for long. Whether he wants it or not he is helped by the gilded arrows. They are swimming around him and he sees how beautiful they are, and he takes a couple of steps forward and at once the last awkward questioner has disappeared like an empty shadow. It is no use calling after him. He was the last one and his authority was weak.

And now a door opens and out comes a man with gilded arrows on his uniform. He approaches like a magnificent official. He must be here to receive people, for he approaches as if he is carrying out his duty.

‘Good day,’ he says.

The arrow polisher wants to return his greeting but cannot get it out. It’s the fault of the walls and everything behind them. They have turned into an obstacle to saying good day, so much so that communication is broken. The arrow polisher realizes that he is being honoured. This great gilded official has a look about him as if he consorts with the powers that be.

‘You wish to come in?’ he asks.

The arrow polisher cannot find his voice because the house around him is so silent and deathly still. But he nods his assent. He knows that the centre is round the corner. Just let me get out of this last corridor. The young man who stopped him and asked where he was going has brought an end to his intoxication. Now he is merely out of breath, knowing that he must go forward, that there is no way back, and that he wants to go forward, and yet….

The gilded official does not seem worried that the arrow polisher is speechless; he seems used to it. He gestures towards the last arrow corridor.

‘This way, then,’ he says.

The arrow polisher stays stock-still.

‘Well, wasn’t that your intention?’ asks the magnificent man coldly and indifferently.

The arrow polisher nods. If only he can get past these final walls of the house he will at least be able to say yes and no. He realizes that this nodding looks stupid. But the walls frighten him. He feels he is under observation, as they said.

The official says no more, but goes. The arrow polisher follows close on his heels. Not on a level with him, but at his heels. Inwards. Always inwards. The arrows point the way. Another arrow polisher has been at work here – he does not know this area – but the arrows are just as beautiful as they swim alongside him. Perfect, and with movement in them, crowding towards the centre, where they find a home in a smoothly scoured brain chamber, brilliant with flame. But they no longer intoxicate the arrow polisher. The young man snuffed that out. They only exert a strong evil suction, an insistence that one must belong to them.