Actually, he had to admit he preferred Themiscyra. Situated on both banks of a winding river, something like Nouvelle Paris, architecture was based on ancient Greek. Or, at least, a modernized ancient Greek, if that made sense. It occured to Guy Thomas that present day man knew precious little about Greek architecture save for a few temples and theatres that had come down through the ages. The Parthenon and Theseum in Athens and the even better preserved Greek temples in Magna Graecia of Southern Italy, and on Sicily. But what had the ancient Greeks themselves lived in? What sort of house did Pericles or Aristotle call home? He didn’t know, and he rather doubted than anyone else did.
Which hadn’t prevented the Amazonians from using their imagination. And their imagination was tasteful— give them that. The city was a planned dream. Wide boulevards, spacious parks and plazas. An unbelievable number of fountains, monuments and statuary. Marble and stone predominated as building materials, especially on the grand boulevards.
It was well into the night and the streets were comparatively free of pedestrains and of motor vehicles. However, Guy, staring in obvious fascination, could make out a few of the citizenry, in spite of the speed at which the major was hurrying them through to their destination. She was obviously pushing to get him under wraps, soonest. Well, considering the circumstances, that was understandable to Guy Thomas.
Those pedestrians he did see, set him back somewhat. He had gained the impression from the major, Clete, Minythyia and Lysippe that all Amazons, or nearly all, were warriors and hence probably garbed in much the same manner as were his guards. To the contrary, he spied no uniforms whatsoever on the streets, save what were probably some form of police involved with traffic. But what surprised him even more was that at the speed they were traveling, and due partially without doubt to the darkness, he couldn’t distinguish woman from man. There didn’t seem to be enough difference in dress to differentiate. Every pedestrian he saw in the half light could have been either man or woman, so far as clothing was concerned.
But then he brought himself up abruptly as a new thought occured. Possibly all of these citizens he was seeing were women. Was the institution of the gynaecum so strong that men, particularly married men, were not allowed on the streets at all? Or could it be that they simply were not allowed out after dark? Some of the things he had read about the Arabian harem, the Turkish seraglio, came back to him. Could a person really be forced to spend his adult lifetime in the confined quarters of a few rooms? What difference between that and prison?
He got the impression that the major was trying to direct them down back streets. But whether or not that was true and for whatever reason, they eventually pulled up before a two-story building of some magnitude which reminded Guy vaguely of the reconstructed Agora in Athens.
“Where are we?” he said.
The major was opening the hovercar’s hatch. “One of the bachelor sanctuaries,” she said.
He didn’t ask what that meant. For one thing, it seemed self-explanatory; for another, he realized he’d soon find out.
“Come along, Sweety,” Clete said.
They hurried him up a walk, through a rather elaborate garden which surrounded the building, and to a door. There were neither doorman nor guards. Somehow, he had expected a guard. Some burly wench, possibly, to keep off the predatory warriors bent on acquiring a husband or two.
Lysippe threw open the door and held it for them. Guy went on through, the major following.
The major looked back over her shoulder and said, “What in the name of the Goddess is the matter with you two?”
Lysippe was embarassed. “I’ve never been in one of these places.”
“Me either,” Clete said.
“It’d be like going into a beauty parlor,” Lysippe said. She squirmed her shoulders under her military cloak.
The major said in disgust. “All right, you two flats. Stay out here. I won’t be long. There’s nothing to be done tonight.” She slammed the door shut behind her. However, Guy Thomas got the impression that she wasn’t any too happy about this atmosphere herself.
He looked about him. The place wasn’t as offbeat as all that. It looked like an apartment hotel, minus much in the way of public rooms. Perhaps the public rooms, lounges, reading rooms, restaurant, card rooms and such were tucked away here and there in other parts of the building.
“Where’s my luggage?” he demanded. They had taken that down the first day, and he hadn’t seen it since.
“Already in your room,” the major said. “Where in the name of Artimis is that confounded cloddy?”
A figure came hurrying toward them.
A wrist fluttered. “Oh dear, I am so very sorry, my sweets. I didn’t truly, not
Guy Thomas closed his eyes in pain.
He shouldn’t have. He opened them again just in time to avoid getting himself kissed on the cheek.
“Zen!” he said, taking a half-step backward.
The major bit out, “Citizen Guy Thomas, of Earth; Bachelor Podner Bates.” She looked at Guy. “Bachelor Bates is in charge of this sanctuary. He’ll take care of you. Clete and Lysippe are stationed in quarters across the street. Their number is on the vizo-phone table in your room. So is mine. In any emergency, the smallest beginning of emergency, call either or both numbers. Don’t leave this building alone under any circumstances, understand? The Hippolyte and her council will interview you tomorrow. They wouldn’t be at all happy if something happened so that you were unable to complete your mission. Evidently, this need for columbium is much more pressing than I had thought. Frankly, I don’t know much about mineral matters.”
“Oh, it’s so lovely to meet you,” Podner Bates gushed.
Guy Thomas winced perceptibly again. The other, although approximately of Guy’s own weight and build, and, for that matter, dressed almost identically, projected an effeminancy that would have passed for slapstick comedy in a Greater Washington floorshow. His obviously artifically curled hair alone was enough.
“Thanks,” Guy got out. He looked at the major. “Who’s the Hippolyte?”
“Who’s the Hippolyte! Are you being funny?”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Don’t you cloddies back on Earth know anything at
He was embarassed. “Frankly, you don’t encourage much intercourse. I know as little about your institutions as you seem to know about ours.”
She glowered at him. “The Hippolyte is the living reincarnation of the Hippolyte!” She spun, so that her cloak billowed out, and snapped over her shoulder. “I’ll be here in the morning. Keep your windows barred.” She was gone, slamming the door behind her.
Guy looked at Podner Bates.
Podner giggled. “Isn’t she
Guy Thomas said, “Uh, look, uh, Bachelor Bates—”
“Oh, darling, just call me Podner.”
Guy scowled at him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name before.”
Podner giggled. “It was my sainted father. Ordinarily, he was very masculine, but he did love to watch the old, old historical Tri-Di tapes, from Earth. The wild, wild West.” Bates fluttered a hand. “He did so love a Western. Podner was one of the most popular names used in those old days. So nothing would do but he must name me Podner.”
Guy looked at him bitterly.
“You’re lucky he didn’t call you Stranger,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon, darling?”
Guy said, “What’s the chance of showing me my room?”
“Your
