She'd smuggled them in.

  Another person had cleared the place of students and activists. 

  "It's a big rift." Was listed as REASON FOR VISIT. 

  "There's no talking," a tiny woman in a simple cotton dress admonished.  And the booming voices hushed near the entrance while still booming at the back of the portico.  "Why?" A man demanded to know.  The tiny woman looked way up at him and blew air out and clicked a sound that implied, I can see why, rift.  Her own voice boomed in a female tone, "It's a Reading Room." 

  "BUT IT'S LUNCH TIME." 

  "You told me to be like the Hopping Fountain," the smuggler said to someone sitting on a bench.  The line of men in suits was filing in.  "Past a rather gaudy statue of a woman sweeping."  Gaudy because it had been covered in brass-colored paint, not actual metal.  And the very act of sweeping with a broom was an act of humility, here captured in majestic sculpturing.  The artist and the model had not argued but discussed method, style, and manner of message.  Students gawked at the happening.  Remarked on the privilege of witnessing such "profound" and "deep" deliberations.  Then it was temporarily covered in a trash bag.  The very trash bag that had been filled with INPUT.