“All of which might not have mattered if the work had not been selected for judging. Inevitably the critics noticed them; they were—bad art, and they disfigured the final work. There was some doubt in their minds as to whether or not the creation was worth preserving. That is why I am here.” He stopped, as if there were no more to say. Cynthia looked at him fearfully. “Are you . . . are you—” He smiled at her. “No, Cynthia, I am not the Creator of your world. You asked me my profession once. “I am an art critic.”
