Pygmalions Spectacles | Page 5

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