rn 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!"

"Not--death?"

"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 of life."

"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 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."

"