He worked it furiously in his hands, dipped it into the water several times, and finally brought it to the soft, workable consistency he wanted. Then he slapped it down at the very center of his bench, on a round wooden platform that was fixed there, like a primitive plate or dish. His feet reached for a treadle like that of a sewing machine, set on a pivot under the bench. He worked the treadle, faster and faster, and the platform began to turn swiftly. While it spun around, Tasman’s hands made themselves busy with the clay. Randy glanced up between paragraphs, watching briefly. Jebs, quiet in his own chair, became absorbed in Tasman’s work. Tasman kept dipping one hand into the pan for palmfuls of water to sprinkle on the clay, while the fingers of the other quested along the lump’s outer edge. Those fingers acted like the blade of a lathe against a turning block of wood. The clay gradually changed shape to a thick bunlike disk, still spinning around and around.
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