"But what is reality?" asked
the gnomelike man. He gestured at the tall banks of buildings
that loomed around Central Park, with their countless windows
glowing like the cave fires of a city of Cro-Magnon people.
"All is dream, all is illusion; I am your vision as you are mine."
Dan Burke, struggling for clarity of thought through the
fumes of liquor, stared without comprehension at the tiny figure
of his companion. He began to regret the impulse that had
driven him to leave the party to seek fresh air in the park, and
to fall by chance into the company of this diminutive old madman.
But he had needed escape; this was one party too many,
and not even the presence of Claire with her trim ankles could
hold him there. He felt an angry desire to go home—not to
his hotel, but home to Chicago and to the comparative peace of
the Board of Trade. But he was leaving tomorrow anyway.
"You drink," said the elfin, bearded face, "to make real a
dream. Is it not so? Either to dream that what you seek is
yours, or else to dream that what you hate is conquered. You
drink to escape reality, and the irony is that even reality is a
"Cracked!" thought Dan again.
"Or so," concluded the other, "says the philosopher
"Berkeley?" echoed Dan. His head was clearing; memories
of a Sophomore course in Elementary Philosophy drifted back.
"Bishop Berkeley, eh?"
"You know him, then? The philosopher of Idealism—no?—the
one who argues that we do not see, feel, hear, taste the
object, but that we have only the sensation of seeing, feeling,
"I—sort of recall it."
"Hah! But sensations are mental phenomena. They exist
in our minds. How, then, do we know that the objects themselves
do not exist only in our minds?" He waved again at the
light-flecked buildings. "You do not see that wall of masonry;
you perceive only a sensation, a feeling of sight. The rest you
"You see the same thing," retorted Dan.
"How do you know I do? Even if you knew that what I
call red would not be green could you see through my eyes—even
if you knew that, how do you know that I too am not a
dream of yours?"
Dan laughed. "Of course nobody knows anything. You
just get what information you can through the windows of your
five senses, and then make your guesses. When they're wrong,
you pay the penalty." His mind was clear now save for a mild
headache. "Listen," he said suddenly. "You can argue a
reality away to an illusion; that's easy. But if your friend
Berkeley is right, why can't you take a dream and make it real?
If it works one way, it must work the other."
The beard waggled; elf-bright eyes glittered queerly at him.
"All artists do that," said the old man softly. Dan felt that
something more quivered on the verge of utterance.
"That's an evasion," he grunted. "Anybody can tell the
difference between a picture and the real thing, or between a
movie and life."
"But," whispered the other, "the realer the better, no? And
if one could make a—a movie—very real indeed, what would
you say then?"
"Nobody can, though."
The eyes glittered strangely again. "I can!" he whispered.
"Made real a dream." The voice turned angry. "Fools! I
bring it here to sell to Westman, the camera people, and what
do they say? 'It isn't clear. Only one person can use it at a
time. It's too expensive.' Fools! Fools!"
"Listen! I'm Albert Ludwig—Professor Ludwig." As Dan
was silent, he continued, "It means nothing to you, eh? But
listen—a movie that gives one sight and sound. Suppose now
I add taste, smell, even touch, if your interest is taken by the
story. Suppose I make it so that you are in the story, you speak
to the shadows, and the shadows reply, and instead of being on
a screen, the story is all about you, and you are in it. Would
that be to make real a dream?"
"How the devil could you do that?"
"How? How? But simply! First my liquid positive, then
my magic spectacles. I photograph the story in a liquid with
light-sensitive chromates. I build up a complex solution—do
you see? I add taste chemically and sound electrically. And
when the story is recorded, then I put the solution in my spectacle—my
movie projector. I electrolyze the solution, break it
down; the older chromates go first, and out comes the story,
sight, sound, smell, taste—all!"
"If your interest is taken, your mind supplies that." Eagerness
crept into his voice. "You will look at it, Mr.——?"
"Burke," said Dan. "A swindle!" he thought. Then a
spark of recklessness glowed out of the vanishing fumes of
alcohol. "Why not?" he grunted.
He rose; Ludwig, standing, came scarcely to his shoulder.
A queer gnomelike old man, Dan thought as he followed him
across the park and into one of the scores of apartment hotels
in the vicinity.
In his room Ludwig fumbled in a bag, producing a device
vaguely reminiscent of a gas mask. There were goggles and a
rubber mouthpiece; Dan examined it curiously, while the little
bearded professor brandished a bottle of watery liquid.
"Here it is!" he gloated. "My liquid positive, the story.
Hard photography—infernally hard, therefore the simplest story.
A Utopia—just two characters and you, the audience. Now,
put the spectacles on. Put them on and tell me what fools
the Westman people are!" He decanted some of the liquid
into the mask, and trailed a twisted wire to a device on the
table. "A rectifier," he explained. "For the electrolysis."
"Must you use all the liquid?" asked Dan. "If you use part,
do you see only part of the story? And which part?"
"Every drop has all of it, but you must fill the eye-pieces."
Then as Dan slipped the device gingerly on, "So! Now what
do you see?"
"Not a damn' thing. Just the windows and the lights
across the street."
"Of course. But now I start the electrolysis. Now!"
There was a moment of chaos. The liquid before Dan's
eyes clouded suddenly white, and formless sounds buzzed. He
moved to tear the device from his head, but emerging forms in
the mistiness caught his interest. Giant things were writhing
The scene steadied; the whiteness was dissipating like mist
in summer. Unbelieving, still gripping the arms of that unseen
chair, he was staring at a forest. But what a forest! Incredible,
unearthly, beautiful! Smooth boles ascended inconceivably toward
a brightening sky, trees bizarre as the forests of the Carboniferous
age. Infinitely overhead swayed misty fronds, and
the verdure showed brown and green in the heights. And there
were birds—at least, curiously lovely pipings and twitterings were
all about him though he saw no creatures—thin elfin whistlings
like fairy bugles sounded softly.
He sat frozen, entranced. A louder fragment of melody
drifted down to him, mounting in exquisite, ecstatic bursts,
now clear as sounding metal, now soft as remembered music.
For a moment he forgot the chair whose arms he gripped, the
miserable hotel room invisibly about him, old Ludwig, his aching
head. He imagined himself alone in the midst of that
lovely glade. "Eden!" he muttered, and the swelling music of
unseen voices answered.
Some measure of reason returned. "Illusion!" he told himself.
Clever optical devices, not reality. He groped for the chair's
arm, found it, and clung to it; he scraped his feet and found again
an inconsistency. To his eyes the ground was mossy verdure;
to his touch it was merely a thin hotel carpet.
The elfin buglings sounded gently. A faint, deliciously
sweet perfume breathed against him; he glanced up to watch
the opening of a great crimson blossom on the nearest tree, and
a tiny reddish sun edged into the circle of sky above him. The
fairy orchestra swelled louder in its light, and the notes sent a
thrill of wistfulness through him. Illusion? If it were, it made
reality almost unbearable; he wanted to believe that somewhere—somewhere
this side of dreams, there actually existed this region
of loveliness. An outpost of Paradise? Perhaps.
And then—far through the softening mists, he caught a movement
that was not the swaying of verdure, a shimmer of silver
more solid than mist. Something approached. He watched the
figure as it moved, now visible, now hidden by trees; very soon
he perceived that it was human, but it was almost upon him
before he realized that it was a girl.
She wore a robe of silvery, half-translucent stuff, luminous
as starbeams; a thin band of silver bound glowing black hair
about her forehead, and other garment or ornament she had
none. Her tiny white feet were bare to the mossy forest floor
as she stood no more than a pace from him, staring dark-eyed.
The thin music sounded again; she smiled.
Dan summoned stumbling thoughts. Was this being also—illusion?
Had she no more reality than the loveliness of the
forest? He opened his lips to speak, but a strained excited
voice sounded in his ears. "Who are you?" Had he spoken?
The voice had come as if from another, like the sound of one's
words in fever.
The girl smiled again. "English!" she said in queer soft
tones. "I can speak a little English." She spoke slowly, carefully.
"I learned it from"—she hesitated—"my mother's father,
whom they call the Grey Weaver."
Again came the voice in Dan's ears. "Who are you?"
"I am called Galatea," she said. "I came to find you."
"To find me?" echoed the voice that was Dan's.
"Leucon, who is called the Grey Weaver, told me," she
explained smiling. "He said you will stay with us until the
second noon from this." She cast a quick slanting glance at
the pale sun now full above the clearing, then stepped closer.
"What are you called?"
"Dan," he muttered. His voice sounded oddly different.
"What a strange name!" said the girl. She stretched out
her bare arm. "Come," she smiled.
Dan touched her extended hand, feeling without any surprise
the living warmth of her fingers. He had forgotten the
paradoxes of illusion; this was no longer illusion to him, but
reality itself. It seemed to him that he followed her, walking
over the shadowed turf that gave with springy crunch beneath
his tread, though Galatea left hardly an imprint. He glanced
down, noting that he himself wore a silver garment, and that
his feet were bare; with the glance he felt a feathery breeze on
his body and a sense of mossy earth on his feet.
"Galatea," said his voice. "Galatea, what place is this?
What language do you speak?"
She glanced back laughing. "Why, this is Paracosma, of
course, and this is our language."
"Paracosma," muttered Dan. "Para—cosma!" A fragment
of Greek that had survived somehow from a Sophomore course
a decade in the past came strangely back to him. Paracosma!
Galatea cast a smiling glance at him. "Does the real world
seem strange," she queried, "after that shadow land of yours?"
"Shadow land?" echoed Dan, bewildered. "This is shadow,
not my world."
The girl's smile turned quizzical. "Poof!" she retorted with
an impudently lovely pout. "And I suppose, then, that I am
the phantom instead of you!" She laughed. "Do I seem ghostlike?"
Dan made no reply; he was puzzling over unanswerable
questions as he trod behind the lithe figure of his guide. The
aisle between the unearthly trees widened, and the giants were
fewer. It seemed a mile, perhaps, before a sound of tinkling
water obscured that other strange music; they emerged on the
bank of a little river, swift and crystalline, that rippled and
gurgled its way from glowing pool to flashing rapids, sparkling
under the pale sun. Galatea bent over the brink and cupped
her hands, raising a few mouthfuls of water to her lips; Dan
followed her example, finding the liquid stinging cold.
"How do we cross?" he asked.
"You can wade up there,"—the dryad who led him gestured
to a sun-lit shallows above a tiny falls—"but I always cross here."
She poised herself for a moment on the green bank, then dove
like a silver arrow into the pool. Dan followed; the water stung
his body like champagne, but a stroke or two carried him across
to where Galatea had already emerged with a glistening of
creamy bare limbs. Her garment clung tight as a metal sheath
to her wet body; he felt a breath-taking thrill at the sight of
her. And then, miraculously, the silver cloth was dry, the droplets
rolled off as if from oiled silk, and they moved briskly on.
The incredible forest had ended with the river; they walked
over a meadow studded with little, many-hued, star-shaped
flowers, whose fronds underfoot were soft as a lawn. Yet still
the sweet pipings followed them, now loud, now whisper-soft,
in a tenuous web of melody.
"Galatea!" said Dan suddenly. "Where is the music coming
She looked back amazed. "You silly one!" she laughed.
"From the flowers, of course. See!" she plucked a purple star
and held it to his ear; true enough, a faint and plaintive melody
hummed out of the blossom. She tossed it in his startled face
and skipped on.
A little copse appeared ahead, not of the gigantic forest
trees, but of lesser growths, bearing flowers and fruits of iridescent
colors, and a tiny brook bubbled through. And there stood the
objective of their journey—a building of white, marble-like stone,
single-storied and vine covered, with broad glassless windows.
They trod upon a path of bright pebbles to the arched entrance,
and here, on an intricate stone bench, sat a grey-bearded
patriarchal individual. Galatea addressed him in a liquid
language that reminded Dan of the flower-pipings; then she
turned. "This is Leucon," she said, as the ancient rose from
his seat and spoke in English.
"We are happy, Galatea and I, to welcome you, since visitors
are a rare pleasure here, and those from your shadowy country
Dan uttered puzzled words of thanks, and the old man
nodded, reseating himself on the carven bench; Galatea skipped
through the arched entrance, and Dan, after an irresolute moment,
dropped to the remaining bench. Once more his thoughts
were whirling in perplexed turbulence. Was all this indeed
but illusion? Was he sitting, in actuality, in a prosaic hotel
room, peering through magic spectacles that pictured this world
about him, or was he, transported by some miracle, really sitting
here in this land of loveliness? He touched the bench; stone,
hard and unyielding, met his fingers.
"Leucon," said his voice, "how did you know I was coming?"
"I was told," said the other.
"By no one."
"Why—someone must have told you!"
The Grey Weaver shook his solemn head. "I was just told."
Dan ceased his questioning, content for the moment to
drink in the beauty about him and then Galatea returned bearing
a crystal bowl of the strange fruits. They were piled in
colorful disorder, red, purple, orange and yellow, pear-shaped,
egg-shaped, and clustered spheroids—fantastic, unearthly. He
selected a pale, transparent ovoid, bit into it, and was deluged
by a flood of sweet liquid, to the amusement of the girl. She
laughed and chose a similar morsel; biting a tiny puncture in
the end, she squeezed the contents into her mouth. Dan took
a different sort, purple and tart as Rhenish wine, and then
another, filled with edible, almond-like seeds. Galatea laughed
delightedly at his surprises, and even Leucon smiled a grey smile.
Finally Dan tossed the last husk into the brook beside them,
where it danced briskly toward the river.
"Galatea," he said, "do you ever go to a city? What cities
are in Paracosma?"
"Cities? What are cities?"
"Places where many people live close together."
"Oh," said the girl frowning. "No. There are no cities
"Then where are the people of Paracosma? You must
The girl looked puzzled. "A man and a woman live off
there," she said, gesturing toward a distant blue range of hills
dim on the horizon. "Far away over there. I went there once,
but Leucon and I prefer the valley."
"But Galatea!" protested Dan. "Are you and Leucon alone
in this valley? Where—what happened to your parents—your
father and mother?"
"They went away. That way—toward the sunrise. They'll
return some day."
"And if they don't?"
"Why, foolish one! What could hinder them?"
"Wild beasts," said Dan. "Poisonous insects, disease,
flood, storm, lawless people, death!"
"I never heard those words," said Galatea. "There are no
such things here." She sniffed contemptuously. "Lawless people!"
"What is death?"
"It's—" Dan paused helplessly. "It's like falling asleep
and never waking. It's what happens to everyone at the end
"I never heard of such a thing as the end of life!" said
the girl decidedly. "There isn't such a thing."
"What happens, then," queried Dan desperately, "when
one grows old?"
"Nothing, silly! No one grows old unless he wants to, like
Leucon. A person grows to the age he likes best and then stops.
It's a law!"
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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
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
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
"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 his surroundings as if he had not slept at
all; the pool tempted him and he bathed in stinging water.
Thereafter he emerged into the central chamber, noting curiously
that the globes still glowed in dim rivalry to the daylight. He
touched one casually; it was cool as metal to his fingers, and
lifted freely from its standard. For a moment he held the cold
flaming thing in his hands, then replaced it and wandered into
Galatea was dancing up the path, eating a strange fruit as
rosy as her lips. She was merry again, once more the happy
nymph who had greeted him, and she gave him a bright smile
as he chose a sweet green ovoid for his breakfast.
"Come on!" she called. "To the river!"
She skipped away toward the unbelievable forest; Dan followed,
marveling that her lithe speed was so easy a match for
his stronger muscles. Then they were laughing in the pool,
splashing about until Galatea drew herself to the bank, glowing
and panting. He followed her as she lay relaxed; strangely, he
was neither tired nor breathless, with no sense of exertion. A
question recurred to him, as yet unasked.
"Galatea," said his voice, "Whom will you take as mate?"
Her eyes went serious. "I don't know," she said. "At the
proper time he will come. That is a law."
"And will you be happy?"
"Of course." She seemed troubled. "Isn't everyone happy?"
"Not where I live, Galatea."
"Then that must be a strange place—that ghostly world
of yours. A rather terrible place."
"It is, often enough," Dan agreed. "I wish—" He paused.
What did he wish? Was he not talking to an illusion, a dream,
an apparition? He looked at the girl, at her glistening black
hair, her eyes, her soft white skin, and then, for a tragic moment,
he tried to feel the arms of that drab hotel chair beneath his
hands—and failed. He smiled; he reached out his fingers to
touch her bare arm, and for an instant she looked back at him
with startled, sober eyes, and sprang to her feet.
"Come on! I want to show you my country." She set off
down the stream, and Dan rose reluctantly to follow.
What a day that was! They traced the little river from
still pool to singing rapids, and ever about them were the
strange twitterings and pipings that were the voices of the
flowers. Every turn brought a new vista of beauty; every moment
brought a new sense of delight. They talked or were
silent; when they were thirsty, the cool river was at hand; when
they were hungry, fruit offered itself. When they were tired,
there was always a deep pool and a mossy bank; and when they
were rested, a new beauty beckoned. The incredible trees towered
in numberless forms of fantasy, but on their own side of the
river was still the flower-starred meadow. Galatea twisted him
a bright-blossomed garland for his head, and thereafter he
moved always with a sweet singing about him. But little by
little the red sun slanted toward the forest, and the hours
dripped away. It was Dan who pointed it out, and reluctantly
they turned homeward.
As they returned, Galatea sang a strange song, plaintive and
sweet as the medley of river and flower music. And again her
eyes were sad.
"What song is that?" he asked.
"It is a song sung by another Galatea," she answered, "who
is my mother." She laid her hand on his arm. "I will make it
into English for you." She sang:
"The River lies in flower and fern,
In flower and fern it breathes a song.
It breathes a song of your return,
Of your return in years too long.
In years too long its murmurs bring
Its murmurs bring their vain replies,
Their vain replies the flowers sing,
The flowers sing, 'The River lies!'"
Her voice quavered on the final notes; there was silence
save for the tinkle of water and the flower bugles. Dan said,
"Galatea—" and paused. The girl was again somber-eyed, tearful.
He said huskily, "That's a sad song, Galatea. Why was
your mother sad? You said everyone was happy in Paracosma."
"She broke a law," replied the girl tonelessly. "It is the
inevitable way to sorrow." She faced him. "She fell in love
with a phantom!" Galatea said. "One of your shadowy race,
who came and stayed and then had to go back. So when her
appointed lover came, it was too late; do you understand? But
she yielded finally to the law, and is forever unhappy, and goes
wandering from place to place about the world." She paused.
"I shall never break a law," she said defiantly.
Dan took her hand. "I would not have you unhappy,
Galatea. I want you always happy."
She shook her head. "I am happy," she said, and smiled a
tender, wistful smile.
They were silent a long time as they trudged the way homeward.
The shadows of the forest giants reached out across the
river as the sun slipped behind them. For a distance they walked
hand in hand, but as they reached the path of pebbly brightness
near the house, Galatea drew away and sped swiftly before
him. Dan followed as quickly as he might; when he arrived,
Leucon sat on his bench by the portal, and Galatea had paused
on the threshold. She watched his approach with eyes in which
he again fancied the glint of tears.
"I am very tired," she said, and slipped within.
Dan moved to follow, but the old man raised a staying
"Friend from the shadows," he said, "will you hear me a
Dan paused, acquiesced, and dropped to the opposite bench.
He felt a sense of foreboding; nothing pleasant awaited him.
"There is something to be said," Leucon continued, "and
I say it without desire to pain you, if phantoms feel pain. It
is this: Galatea loves you, though I think she has not yet
"I love her too," said Dan.
The Grey Weaver stared at him. "I do not understand.
Substance, indeed, may love shadow, but how can shadow love
"I love her," insisted Dan.
"Then woe to both of you! For this is impossible in Paracosma;
it is a confliction with the laws. Galatea's mate is appointed,
perhaps even now approaching."
"Laws! Laws!" muttered Dan. "Whose laws are they?
Not Galatea's nor mine!"
"But they are," said the Grey Weaver. "It is not for you
nor for me to criticize them—though I yet wonder what power
could annul them to permit your presence here!"
"I had no voice in your laws."
The old man peered at him in the dusk. "Has anyone, anywhere,
a voice in the laws?" he queried.
"In my country we have," retorted Dan.
"Madness!" growled Leucon. "Man-made laws! Of what
use are man-made laws with only man-made penalties, or none
at all? If you shadows make a law that the wind shall blow
only from the east, does the west wind obey it?"
"We do pass such laws," acknowledged Dan bitterly. "They
may be stupid, but they're no more unjust than yours."
"Ours," said the Grey Weaver, "are the unalterable laws
of the world, the laws of Nature. Violation is always unhappiness.
I have seen it; I have known it in another, in Galatea's
mother, though Galatea is stronger than she." He paused.
"Now," he continued, "I ask only for mercy; your stay is short,
and I ask that you do no more harm than is already done. Be
merciful; give her no more to regret."
He rose and moved through the archway; when Dan followed
a moment later, he was already removing a square of silver
from his device in the corner. Dan turned silent and unhappy
to his own chamber, where the jet of water tinkled faintly as a
Again he rose at the glow of dawn, and again Galatea was
before him, meeting him at the door with her bowl of fruit.
She deposited her burden, giving him a wan little smile of greeting,
and stood facing him as if waiting.
"Come with me, Galatea," he said.
"To the river bank. To talk."
They trudged in silence to the brink of Galatea's pool. Dan
noted a subtle difference in the world about him; outlines were
vague, the thin flower pipings less audible, and the very landscape
was queerly unstable, shifting like smoke when he wasn't
looking at it directly. And strangely, though he had brought
the girl here to talk to her, he had now nothing to say, but
sat in aching silence with his eyes on the loveliness of her face.
Galatea pointed at the red ascending sun. "So short a
time," she said, "before you go back to your phantom world. I
shall be sorry, very sorry." She touched his cheek with her
fingers. "Dear shadow!"
"Suppose," said Dan huskily, "that I won't go. What if I
won't leave here?" His voice grew fiercer. "I'll not go! I'm
going to stay!"
The calm mournfulness of the girl's face checked him; he
felt the irony of struggling against the inevitable progress of a
dream. She spoke. "Had I the making of the laws, you should
stay. But you can't, dear one. You can't!"
Forgotten now were the words of the Grey Weaver. "I love
you, Galatea," he said.
"And I you," she whispered. "See, dearest shadow, how I
break the same law my mother broke, and am glad to face the
sorrow it will bring." She placed her hand tenderly over his.
"Leucon is very wise and I am bound to obey him, but this is
beyond his wisdom because he let himself grow old." She
paused. "He let himself grow old," she repeated slowly. A
strange light gleamed in her dark eyes as she turned suddenly to
"Dear one!" she said tensely. "That thing that happens
to the old—that death of yours! What follows it?"
"What follows death?" he echoed. "Who knows?"
"But—" Her voice was quivering. "But one can't simply—vanish!
There must be an awakening."
"Who knows?" said Dan again. "There are those who believe
we wake to a happier world, but—" He shook his head
"It must be true! Oh, it must be!" Galatea cried.
"There must be more for you than the mad world you speak
of!" She leaned very close. "Suppose, dear," she said, "that
when my appointed lover arrives, I send him away. Suppose I
bear no child, but let myself grow old, older than Leucon, old
until death. Would I join you in your happier world?"
"Galatea!" he cried distractedly. "Oh, my dearest—what a
"More terrible than you know," she whispered, still very
close to him. "It is more than violation of a law; it is rebellion!
Everything is planned, everything was foreseen, except this; and
if I bear no child, her place will be left unfilled, and the places
of her children, and of their children, and so on until some day
the whole great plan of Paracosma fails of whatever its destiny
was to be." Her whisper grew very faint and fearful. "It is
destruction, but I love you more than I fear—death!"
Dan's arms were about her. "No, Galatea! No! Promise
She murmured, "I can promise and then break my promise."
She drew his head down; their lips touched, and he felt a
fragrance and a taste like honey in her kiss. "At least," she
breathed. "I can give you a name by which to love you. Philometros!
Measure of my love!"
"A name?" muttered Dan. A fantastic idea shot through
his mind—a way of proving to himself that all this was reality,
and not just a page that any one could read who wore old
Ludwig's magic spectacles. If Galatea would speak his name!
Perhaps, he thought daringly, perhaps then he could stay! He
thrust her away.
"Galatea!" he cried. "Do you remember my name?"
She nodded silently, her unhappy eyes on his.
"Then say it! Say it, dear!"
She stared at him dumbly, miserably, but made no sound.
"Say it, Galatea!" he pleaded desperately. "My name, dear—just
my name!" Her mouth moved; she grew pale with effort and
Dan could have sworn that his name trembled on her quivering
lips, though no sound came.
At last she spoke. "I can't, dearest one! Oh, I can't! A
law forbids it!" She stood suddenly erect, pallid as an ivory
carving. "Leucon calls!" she said, and darted away. Dan followed
along the pebbled path, but her speed was beyond his
powers; at the portal he found only the Grey Weaver standing
cold and stern. He raised his hand as Dan appeared.
"Your time is short," he said. "Go, thinking of the havoc
you have done."
"Where's Galatea?" gasped Dan.
"I have sent her away." The old man blocked the entrance;
for a moment Dan would have struck him aside, but something
withheld him. He stared wildly about the meadow—there! A
flash of silver beyond the river, at the edge of the forest. He
turned and raced toward it, while motionless and cold the Grey
Weaver watched him go.
"Galatea!" he called. "Galatea!"
He was over the river now, on the forest bank, running
through columned vistas that whirled about him like mist. The
world had gone cloudy; fine flakes danced like snow before his
eyes; Paracosma was dissolving around him. Through the chaos
he fancied a glimpse of the girl, but closer approach left him
still voicing his hopeless cry of "Galatea!"
After an endless time, he paused; something familiar about
the spot struck him, and just as the red sun edged above him,
he recognized the place—the very point at which he had entered
Paracosma! A sense of futility overwhelmed him as for a moment
he gazed at an unbelievable apparition—a dark window
hung in midair before him through which glowed rows of electric
lights. Ludwig's window!
It vanished. But the trees writhed and the sky darkened,
and he swayed dizzily in turmoil. He realized suddenly that
he was no longer standing, but sitting in the midst of the crazy
glade, and his hands clutched something smooth and hard—the
arms of that miserable hotel chair. Then at last he saw her,
close before him—Galatea, with sorrow-stricken features, her
tear-filled eyes on his. He made a terrific effort to rise, stood
erect, and fell sprawling in a blaze of coruscating lights.
He struggled to his knees; walls—Ludwig's room—encompassed
him; he must have slipped from the chair. The magic
spectacles lay before him, one lens splintered and spilling a
fluid no longer water-clear, but white as milk.
"God!" he muttered. He felt shaken, sick, exhausted, with
a bitter sense of bereavement, and his head ached fiercely. The
room was drab, disgusting; he wanted to get out of it. He
glanced automatically at his watch: four o'clock—he must have
sat here nearly five hours. For the first time he noticed Ludwig's
absence; he was glad of it and walked dully out of the door to
an automatic elevator. There was no response to his ring; someone
was using the thing. He walked three flights to the street
and back to his own room.
In love with a vision! Worse—in love with a girl who had
never lived, in a fantastic Utopia that was literally nowhere!
He threw himself on his bed with a groan that was half a sob.
He saw finally the implication of the name Galatea. Galatea—Pygmalion's
statue, given life by Venus in the ancient Grecian
myth. But his Galatea, warm and lovely and vital, must remain
forever without the gift of life, since he was neither Pygmalion
He woke late in the morning, staring uncomprehendingly
about for the fountain and pool of Paracosma. Slow comprehension
dawned; how much—how much—of last night's experience
had been real? How much was the product of alcohol?
Or had old Ludwig been right, and was there no difference between
reality and dream?
He changed his rumpled attire and wandered despondently
to the street. He found Ludwig's hotel at last; inquiry revealed
that the diminutive professor had checked out, leaving no
What of it? Even Ludwig couldn't give what he sought,
a living Galatea. Dan was glad that he had disappeared; he
hated the little professor. Professor? Hypnotists called themselves
"professors." He dragged through a weary day and then
a sleepless night back to Chicago.
It was mid-winter when he saw a suggestively tiny figure
ahead of him in the Loop. Ludwig! Yet what use to hail
him? His cry was automatic. "Professor Ludwig!"
The elfin figure turned, recognized him, smiled. They
stepped into the shelter of a building.
"I'm sorry about your machine, Professor. I'd be glad to
pay for the damage."
"Ach, that was nothing—a cracked glass. But you—have
you been ill? You look much the worse."
"It's nothing," said Dan. "Your show was marvelous, Professor—marvelous!
I'd have told you so, but you were gone
when it ended."
Ludwig shrugged. "I went to the lobby for a cigar. Five
hours with a wax dummy, you know!"
"It was marvelous!" repeated Dan.
"So real?" smiled the other. "Only because you co-operated,
then. It takes self-hypnosis."
"It was real, all right," agreed Dan glumly. "I don't understand
it—that strange beautiful country."
"The trees were club-mosses enlarged by a lens," said Ludwig.
"All was trick photography, but stereoscopic, as I told
you—three dimensional. The fruits were rubber; the house is
a summer building on our campus—Northern University. And
the voice was mine; you didn't speak at all, except your name
at the first, and I left a blank for that. I played your part, you
see; I went around with the photographic apparatus strapped on
my head, to keep the viewpoint always that of the observer. See?"
He grinned wryly. "Luckily I'm rather short, or you'd have
seemed a giant."
"Wait a minute!" said Dan, his mind whirling. "You
say you played my part. Then Galatea—is she real too?"
"Tea's real enough," said the Professor. "My niece, a
senior at Northern, and likes dramatics. She helped me out
with the thing. Why? Want to meet her?"
Dan answered vaguely, happily. An ache had vanished; a
pain was eased. Paracosma was attainable at last!
This etext was produced from A Martian Odyssey and Others published in
1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.