Dan gathered his chaotic thoughts. He stared into Galatea’s dark, lovely eyes. “Have you stopped yet?”
The dark eyes dropped; he was amazed to see a deep, embarrassed flush spread over her cheeks. She looked at Leucon nodding reflectively on his bench, then back to Dan, meeting his gaze.
“Not yet,” he said.
“And when will you, Galatea?”
“When I have had the one child permitted me. You see”—she stared down at her dainty toes—“one cannot—bear children—afterwards.”
“Permitted? Permitted by whom?”
“By a law.”
“Laws! Is everything here governed by laws? What of chance and accidents?”
“What are those—chance and accidents?”
“Things unexpected—things unforeseen.”
“Nothing is unforeseen,” said Galatea, still soberly. She repeated slowly, “Nothing is unforeseen.” He fancied her voice was wistful.
Leucon looked up. “Enough of this,” he said abruptly. He turned to Dan, “I know these words of yours—chance, disease, death. They are not for Paracosma. Keep them in your unreal country.”
“Where did you hear them, then?”
“From Galatea’s mother,” said the Grey Weaver, “who had them from your predecessor—a phantom who visited here before Galatea was born.”
Dan had a vision of Ludwig’s face. “What was he like?”
“Much like you.”
“But his name?”
The old man’s mouth was suddenly grim. “We do not speak of him,” he said and rose, entering the dwelling in cold silence.
“He goes to weave,” said Galatea after a moment. Her lovely, piquant face was still troubled.
“What does he weave?”
“This,” She fingered the silver cloth of her gown. “He weaves it out of metal bars on a very clever machine. I do not know the method.”
“Who made the machine?”
“It was here.”
“But—Galatea! Who built the house? Who planted these fruit trees?”
“They were here. The house and trees were always here.” She lifted her eyes. “I told you everything had been foreseen, from the beginning until eternity—everything. The house and trees and machine were ready for Leucon and my parents and me. There is a place for my child, who will be a girl, and a place for her child—and so on forever.”
Dan thought a moment. “Were you born here?”
“I don’t know.” He noted in sudden concern that her eyes were glistening with tears.
“Galatea, dear! Why are you unhappy? What’s wrong?”
“Why, nothing!” She shook her black curls, smiled suddenly at him. “What could be wrong? How can one be unhappy in Paracosma?” She sprang erect and seized his hand. “Come! Let’s gather fruit for tomorrow.”
She darted off in a whirl of flashing silver, and Dan followed her around the wing of the edifice. Graceful as a dancer she leaped for a branch above her head, caught it laughingly, and tossed a great golden globe to him. She loaded his arms with the bright prizes and sent him back to the bench, and when he returned, she piled it so full of fruit that a deluge of colorful spheres dropped around him. She laughed again, and sent them spinning into the brook with thrusts of her rosy toes, while Dan watched her with an aching wistfulness. Then suddenly she was facing him; for a long, tense instant they stood motionless, eyes upon eyes, and then she turned away and walked slowly around to the arched portal. He followed her with his burden of fruit; his mind was once more in a turmoil of doubt and perplexity.
The little sun was losing itself behind the trees of that colossal forest to the west, and a coolness stirred among long shadows. The brook was purple-hued in the dusk, but its cheery notes mingled still with the flower music. Then the sun was hidden; the shadow fingers darkened the meadow; of a sudden the flowers were still, and the brook gurgled alone in a world of silence. In silence too, Dan entered the doorway.
The chamber within was a spacious one, floored with large black and white squares; exquisite benches of carved marble were here and there. Old Leucon, in a far corner, bent over an intricate, glistening mechanism, and as Dan entered he drew a shining length of silver cloth from it, folded it, and placed it carefully aside. There was a curious, unearthly fact that Dan noted; despite windows open to the evening, no night insects circled the globes that glowed at intervals from niches in the walls.
Galatea stood in a doorway to his left, leaning half-wearily against the frame; he placed the bowl of fruit on a bench at the entrance and moved to her side.
“This is yours,” she said, indicating the room beyond. He looked in upon a pleasant, smaller chamber; a window framed a starry square, and a thin, swift, nearly silent stream of water gushed from the mouth of a carved human head on the left wall, curving into a six-foot basin sunk in the floor. Another of the graceful benches covered with the silver cloth completed the furnishings; a single glowing sphere, pendant by a chain from the ceiling, illuminated the room. Dan turned to the girl, whose eyes were still unwontedly serious.
“This is ideal,” he said, “but, Galatea, how am I to turn out the light?”
“Turn it out?” she said. “You must cap it—so!” A faint smile showed again on her lips as she dropped a metal covering over the shining sphere. They stood tense in the darkness; Dan sensed her nearness achingly, and then the light was on once more. She moved toward the door, and there paused, taking his hand.
“Dear shadow,” she said softly, “I hope your dreams are music.” She was gone.
Dan stood irresolute in his chamber; he glanced into the large room where Leucon still bent over his work, and the Grey Weaver raised a hand in a solemn salutation, but said nothing. He felt no urge for the old man’s silent company and turned back into his room to prepare for slumber.
Almost instantly, it seemed, the dawn was upon him and bright elfin pipings were all about him, while the odd ruddy sun sent a broad slanting plane of light across the room. He rose as fully aware of
