PYGMALION'S SPECTACLES

"But what is reality?" asked the gnome-like man. He pointed at the tall buildings that towered around Central Park, their countless windows shining like the cave fires of a Cro-Magnon city. "Everything is a dream, everything is an illusion; I am your perception just as you are mine."

Dan Burke, struggling to think clearly through the haze of alcohol, stared in confusion at the small figure of his companion. He started to regret the impulse that had made him leave the party to get some fresh air in the park and accidentally fall into the company of this quirky old man. But he had needed to escape; this was one party too many, and not even the presence of Claire with her cute ankles could keep him there. He felt a strong urge to go home—not to his hotel, but back to Chicago and the relative peace of the Board of Trade. But he was leaving tomorrow anyway.

"You drink," said the elfin, bearded face, "to make a dream come true. Isn't that right? Either to imagine that what you desire is yours, or to envision that what you despise is defeated. You drink to escape reality, and the ironic part is that even reality is just a dream."

"Cracked!" Dan thought again.

"Or so," concluded the other, "says the philosopher Berkeley."

"Berkeley?" Dan echoed. His mind was getting clearer; memories of a sophomore class in Basic Philosophy came rushing back. "Bishop Berkeley, huh?"

"You know him, right? The philosopher of Idealism—no?—the one who claims that we don’t actually see, feel, hear, or taste the object, but that we only have the experience of seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting."

"I kind of remember it."

"Hah! But sensations are mental experiences. They exist in our minds. So, how do we know that the objects themselves aren't just in our heads?" He gestured again at the light-speckled buildings. "You don't actually see that wall of bricks; you only experience a sensation, a feeling of sight. The rest is your interpretation."

"You see it the same way," Dan shot back.

"How do you know I do? Even if you knew that what I call red isn’t green, could you see through my eyes? Even if you knew that, how do you know I’m not just a dream of yours?"

Dan laughed. "Of course, nobody knows anything. You just gather whatever information you can through your five senses and then make your best guesses. When you're wrong, you face the consequences." His mind was clear now, except for a slight headache. "Listen," he said suddenly. "You can argue reality into 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 wiggled; bright, elf-like eyes sparkled oddly at him. "All artists do that," the old man said quietly. Dan sensed that something more was about to be said.

"That's avoiding the issue," he grunted. "Anyone can tell the difference between a picture and reality, or between a movie and real life."

"But," whispered the other, "the more real, the better, right? And if someone could make a—a movie—super real indeed, what would you say then?"

"Nobody can do that, though."

The eyes sparkled oddly once more. "I can!" he whispered. "I did!"

"Did what?"

"Made a dream come true." The voice grew angry. "Idiots! I brought it here to sell to Westman and the camera crew, and what do they say? 'It's not clear. Only one person can use it at a time. It's too pricey.' Idiots! Idiots!"

"Huh?"

"Listen! I'm Albert Ludwig—Professor Ludwig." When Dan didn’t respond, he continued, "It doesn’t mean anything to you, does it? But hear me out—a movie that gives you sight and sound. Now, imagine if I added taste, smell, even touch, all while you’re invested in the story. What if I made it so that you’re part of the story, talking to the shadows, and they talk back, and instead of it just being on a screen, the story revolves around you, and you’re right in the middle of it. Would that make a dream come true?"

"How on earth could you do that?"

"How? How? It's simple! First, I use my liquid positive, then my special glasses. I capture the story in a liquid with light-sensitive chemicals. I create a complex mixture—do you get it? I add flavor chemically and sound electrically. Once the story is recorded, I load the mixture into my glasses—my movie projector. I break down the mixture; the older chemicals go first, and out comes the story, sight, sound, smell, taste—all!"

"Touch?"

"If you're interested, your mind will fill in the gaps." Eagerness crept into his voice. "You'll take a look at it, Mr.——?"

"Burke," Dan said. "A scam!" he thought. Then a spark of recklessness flickered from the fading fumes of alcohol. "Why not?" he grunted.

He stood up; Ludwig, standing, barely reached his shoulder. A strange, gnome-like old man, Dan thought as he followed him across the park and into one of the many apartment hotels nearby.

In his room, Ludwig rummaged through a bag and pulled out a device that looked a bit like a gas mask. It had goggles and a rubber mouthpiece; Dan looked at it with curiosity while the small bearded professor waved a bottle of clear liquid around.

"Here it is!" he bragged. "My liquid positive, the story. Hard photography—extremely difficult, but that's what makes it the simplest story. A Utopia—just two characters and you, the audience. Now, put your glasses on. Put them on and tell me how foolish the Westman people are!" He poured some of the liquid into the mask and connected a twisted wire to a device on the table. "A rectifier," he said. "For the electrolysis."

"Do you have to use all the liquid?" asked Dan. "If you only use some, do you only get part of the story? And which part?"

"Every drop contains everything, but you need to fill the eye-pieces." Then as Dan carefully put on the device, "So! What do you see now?"

"Not a single thing. Just the windows and the lights across the street."

"Of course. But now I’m starting the electrolysis. Now!"

There was a moment of chaos. The liquid in front of Dan turned suddenly white, and vague sounds buzzed around him. He tried to pull the device off his head, but the shapes emerging from the mist caught his attention. Massive figures were twisting in there.

The scene settled; the whiteness faded away like summer mist. In disbelief, still holding on to the arms of that invisible chair, he was staring at a forest. But what a forest! Unbelievable, otherworldly, beautiful! Smooth trunks stretched impossibly towards a brightening sky, with trees as strange as those from the Carboniferous era. High above, misty fronds waved, and the greenery appeared brown and green in the treetops. And there were birds—at least, there were lovely sounds of chirping and singing all around him, though he couldn’t see any creatures—thin, delicate whistlings like fairy trumpets echoed softly.

He sat still, captivated. A louder piece of the melody floated down to him, rising in beautiful, ecstatic waves, sometimes sharp like ringing metal, other times soft like a familiar tune. For a moment, he forgot about the chair he was gripping, the miserable hotel room around him, old Ludwig, and his pounding headache. He pictured himself alone in the middle of that beautiful clearing. "Eden!" he murmured, and the growing music of unseen voices responded.

Some sense of reason came back. "It's just an illusion!" he told himself. Clever tricks of optics, not the real thing. He searched for the arm of the chair, found it, and held on tight; he shuffled his feet and found another contradiction. To his eyes, the ground looked like lush moss; to his touch, it was just a thin hotel carpet.

The soft sounds of the fairy bells echoed around him. A light, wonderfully sweet scent wafted toward him; he looked up to see a large crimson flower blooming on the nearest tree, and a small reddish sun appeared in the sky above him. The fairy orchestra grew louder in its glow, and the music filled him with a sense of longing. Was it an illusion? If it was, it made reality almost too much to bear; he desperately wanted to believe that somewhere—somewhere beyond dreams—this beautiful place actually existed. An outpost of Paradise? Maybe.

And then—way through the softening mists, he noticed a movement that wasn't the swaying of plants, a shimmer of silver more solid than mist. Something was coming closer. He observed the figure as it moved, now visible, now hidden by trees; soon he realized that it was human, but it was almost right in front of him before he realized it was a girl.

She wore a robe made of a silvery, semi-transparent material that shimmered like starlight; a thin silver band held her glowing black hair back from her forehead, and she had no other clothing or accessories. Her small white feet were bare against the mossy forest floor as she stood just a step away from him, gazing at him with dark eyes. The soft music played again; she smiled.

Dan gathered his scattered thoughts. Was this being just an illusion too? Did she have any more reality than the beauty of the forest? He opened his mouth to speak, but a tense, excited voice echoed in his ears. "Who are you?" Had he said that? The voice seemed to come from someone else, like hearing your own words in a fever dream.

The girl smiled again. "English!" she said in a soft, unusual tone. "I can speak a little English." She spoke slowly and carefully. "I learned it from"—she paused—"my grandfather, whom they call the Grey Weaver."

Again came the voice in Dan's ears. "Who are you?"

"I’m called Galatea," she said. "I came to find you."

"To find me?" echoed Dan's voice.

"Leucon, known as the Grey Weaver, told me," she said with a smile. "He said you’ll be with us until the second noon from now." She shot a quick sideways glance at the pale sun now high above the clearing, then moved closer. "What do they call you?"

"Dan," he muttered. His voice sounded strangely different.

"What a strange name!" said the girl. She stretched out her bare arm. "Come on," she smiled.

Dan touched her outstretched hand, feeling the warm life in her fingers without any surprise. He had forgotten the confusing nature of illusion; to him, this was no longer an illusion, but reality itself. It felt like he was following her, walking on the shadowy grass that crunched softly beneath his feet, even though Galatea barely left a mark. He looked down, noticing that he was wearing a silver outfit and that his feet were bare; with that glance, he felt a light breeze on his skin and the soft touch of mossy earth underfoot.

"Galatea," his voice said. "Galatea, where are we? What language do you speak?"

She looked back laughing. "Well, this is Paracosma, of course, and this is our language."

"Paracosma," muttered Dan. "Para—cosma!" A piece of Greek that had somehow stuck with him from a sophomore class ten years ago came back to him surprisingly. Paracosma! Land-beyond-the-world!

Galatea smiled at him. "Does the real world feel weird," she asked, "after being in that shadowy place of yours?"

"Shadow land?" Dan repeated, confused. "This is shadow, not my world."

The girl's smile turned curious. "Poof!" she replied with an adorably cheeky pout. "And I guess that I'm the ghost instead of you!" She laughed. "Do I look ghostly?"

Dan didn’t respond; he was lost in unanswerable questions as he walked behind the graceful figure of his guide. The path between the otherworldly trees opened up, and the towering ones became less frequent. It felt like a mile, maybe, before the sound of trickling water drowned out that other strange music; they arrived at the edge of a small, fast-moving, crystal-clear river, which rippled and gurgled as it flowed from shimmering pools to rushing rapids, sparkling under the pale sun. Galatea leaned over the edge and cupped her hands, bringing a few handfuls of water to her lips; Dan did the same, finding the water shockingly cold.

"How do we get across?" he asked.

"You can wade over there," the dryad who led him pointed to a sunlit shallow area above a small waterfall, "but I always cross here." She balanced for a moment on the green bank, then dove into the pool like a silver arrow. Dan followed; the water stung his skin like champagne, but a stroke or two took him to where Galatea had already surfaced with shimmering, creamy bare limbs. Her dress clung tightly to her wet body like a metal sheath; he felt an exhilarating thrill at the sight of her. And then, miraculously, the silver cloth was dry, the droplets rolled off as if it were oiled silk, and they moved on quickly.

The amazing forest ended at the river; they crossed a meadow dotted with tiny, colorful, star-shaped flowers, whose petals felt as soft underfoot as grass. Yet still, the sweet melodies trailed after them, sometimes loud and other times barely a whisper, weaving a delicate tapestry of sound.

"Galatea!" Dan said suddenly. "Where's the music coming from?"

She turned back, surprised. "You silly!" she laughed. "From the flowers, of course. Look!" She picked a purple star and held it to his ear; sure enough, a soft and sad melody came from the blossom. She threw it at his shocked face and skipped away.

A small grove came into view ahead, not made up of huge forest trees, but of smaller plants with flowers and fruits in vibrant colors, and a little brook was bubbling through. And there stood the goal of their journey—a building made of white, marble-like stone, one story high and covered in vines, with wide openings instead of windows. They walked along a path of bright pebbles to the arched entrance, and there, on an elaborate stone bench, sat a wise-looking old man with a gray beard. Galatea spoke to him in a smooth language that reminded Dan of the sounds of flowers; then she turned. "This is Leucon," she said, as the old man rose from his seat and spoke in English.

"We're glad, Galatea and I, to welcome you, since visitors are a rare treat here, and those from your mysterious country are even rarer."

Dan spoke his confused thanks, and the old man nodded, settling back down on the carved bench. Galatea skipped through the archway, and Dan, after a moment of uncertainty, sat down on the other bench. Once again, his thoughts were in a chaotic swirl. Was all of this just an illusion? Was he really sitting in a boring hotel room, looking through some magical glasses that made this world around him? Or had he somehow been transported by a miracle to this beautiful land? He reached out to touch the bench; stone, hard and unyielding, met his fingers.

"Leucon," he said, "how did you know I was on my way?"

"I was told," said the other.

"Who did this?"

"By nobody."

"Why—someone must have told you!"

The Grey Weaver shook his serious head. "I was just informed."

Dan stopped his questioning, happy for the moment to soak in the beauty around him. Then Galatea returned with a crystal bowl of the strange fruits. They were piled in colorful chaos—red, purple, orange, and yellow; pear-shaped, egg-shaped, and clustered like little spheres—fantastic and otherworldly. He picked a pale, transparent oval, took a bite, and was flooded with sweet juice, much to the girl’s amusement. She laughed and chose a similar piece; biting a tiny hole in the end, she squeezed the juice into her mouth. Dan tried a different one, purple and tart like Rhenish wine, and then another, filled with edible almond-like seeds. Galatea laughed joyfully at his reactions, and even Leucon managed a faint smile. Finally, Dan tossed the last husk into the stream beside them, where it floated quickly toward the river.

"Galatea," he said, "do you ever visit a city? What cities are in Paracosma?"

"Cities? What are they?"

"Areas where a lot of people live in close proximity."

"Oh," the girl said with a frown. "No. There are no cities here."

"Then where are the people of Paracosma? You must have neighbors."

The girl looked confused. "A man and a woman live over there," she said, pointing to a far-off blue line of hills fading into the horizon. "Way over there. I went there once, but Leucon and I like the valley better."

"But Galatea!" Dan protested. "Are you and Leucon the only ones in this valley? Where—what happened to your parents—your dad and mom?"

"They left. That way—toward the sunrise. They'll come back someday."

"And what if they don't?"

"Why, you fool! What could stop them?"

"Wild animals," Dan said. "Poisonous insects, illness, floods, storms, criminals, death!"

"I never heard those words," Galatea said. "There’s no such thing here." She sniffed in disdain. "Lawless people!"

"Not—death?"

"What is dying?"

"It's—" Dan paused, feeling lost. "It's like falling asleep and never waking up. It's what happens to everyone at the end of life."

"I've never heard of anything like the end of life!" the girl said firmly. "It doesn't exist."

"What happens, then," Dan asked desperately, "when you grow old?"

"Nothing, silly! No one gets old unless they want to, like Leucon. A person grows to the age they like best and then just stops. It's a rule!"

Dan collected his scattered thoughts. He looked into Galatea's deep, beautiful eyes. "Have you stopped yet?"

The dark eyes lowered; he was surprised to see a deep, embarrassed blush spread across her cheeks. She glanced at Leucon, who was nodding thoughtfully on his bench, then back to Dan, locking eyes with him.

"Not yet," he replied.

"And when will you, Galatea?"

"When I have had the one child allowed to me. You see"—she looked down at her delicate toes—"one cannot—have children—after that."

"Allowed? Allowed by whom?"

"Under a law."

"Laws! Is everything here regulated by laws? What about chance and accidents?"

"What are those—randomness and accidents?"

"Unexpected things—unforeseen things."

"Nothing is unexpected," Galatea said, still seriously. She repeated slowly, "Nothing is unexpected." He thought her voice sounded a bit wistful.

Leucon looked up. "Enough of this," he said suddenly. He turned to Dan, "I know these words of yours—chance, disease, death. They're not for Paracosma. Keep them in your imaginary world."

"Where did you hear that?"

"From Galatea's mother," said the Grey Weaver, "who received them from your predecessor—a ghost who came here before Galatea was born."

Dan pictured Ludwig's face. "What was he like?"

"Just like you."

"But what's his name?"

The old man's expression turned serious. "We don't talk about him," he said, getting up and walking into the house in complete silence.

"He goes to weave," Galatea said after a moment. Her beautiful, sharp face was still anxious.

"What is he making?"

"This," she said, running her fingers over the silver fabric of her dress, "he creates it from metal threads using a really clever machine. I have no idea how it works."

"Who created the machine?"

"It’s right here."

"But—Galatea! Who made the house? Who planted these fruit trees?"

"They were here. The house and trees were always here." She looked up. "I told you everything was planned, from the start to forever—everything. The house, the trees, and the machine were ready for Leucon, my parents, and me. There's a place for my daughter, who will be a girl, and a place for her child—and so on forever."

Dan paused for a moment. "Were you born here?"

"I don't know." He suddenly realized with concern that her eyes were shining with tears.

"Galatea, dear! Why are you feeling down? What's the matter?"

"Why, nothing!" She shook her black curls and suddenly smiled at him. "What could possibly be wrong? How can anyone be unhappy in Paracosma?" She stood up straight and took his hand. "Come on! Let's pick some fruit for tomorrow."

She shot off in a blur of shining silver, and Dan chased her around the side of the building. As graceful as a dancer, she jumped for a branch overhead, caught it with a laugh, and tossed him a big golden ball. She filled his arms with the bright treasures and sent him back to the bench. When he returned, she piled so much fruit on him that a flood of colorful spheres tumbled around him. She laughed again and sent them spinning into the creek with nudges from her pink toes, while Dan watched her with a deep yearning. Then suddenly she was facing him; for a long, tense moment, they stood frozen, eyes locked, and then she turned away and walked slowly to the arched entrance. He followed her with his load of fruit, his mind once again swirling with doubt and confusion.

The little sun was disappearing behind the trees of that huge forest to the west, and a coolness floated among the long shadows. The brook looked purple in the twilight, but its cheerful sounds still blended with the music of the flowers. Then the sun was gone; the shadows darkened the meadow; suddenly, the flowers were quiet, and the brook gurgled by itself in a world of silence. In silence too, Dan stepped through the doorway.

The room inside was big, with large black and white tiles on the floor; elegant benches made of carved marble were scattered throughout. Old Leucon, in a distant corner, was focused on a complex, shining device, and as Dan walked in, he pulled out a shiny piece of silver fabric, folded it, and set it aside carefully. Dan noticed something strange and otherworldly; even though the windows were open to the evening, no night insects were buzzing around the glowing lights that illuminated from the wall niches.

Galatea stood in a doorway to his left, leaning wearily against the frame; he set the bowl of fruit on a bench at the entrance and moved to her side.

"This is yours," she said, pointing to the room beyond. He looked inside at a cozy, smaller chamber; a window framed a square filled with stars, and a thin, quick, almost silent stream of water flowed from the mouth of a carved human head on the left wall, curving into a six-foot basin set into the floor. A graceful bench draped with silver cloth completed the furniture; a single glowing sphere, hanging from a chain in the ceiling, lit up the room. Dan turned to the girl, whose eyes remained unusually serious.

"This is perfect," he said, "but, Galatea, how am I supposed to turn off the light?"

"Turn it off?" she said. "You need to cap it—like this!" A slight smile returned to her lips as she placed a metal cover over the glowing sphere. They stood anxiously in the dark; Dan could feel her closeness intensely, and then the light came back on. She walked toward the door and stopped there, taking his hand.

"Dear shadow," she said softly, "I hope your dreams are filled with music." She was gone.

Dan stood uncertain in his room; he peeked into the large space where Leucon was still focused on his work, and the Grey Weaver raised a hand in a serious greeting, but said nothing. He felt no desire for the old man's quiet company and turned back into his room to get ready for sleep.

Almost instantly, it seemed, dawn arrived, and bright, magical sounds surrounded him while the strange reddish sun cast a broad, slanting beam of light across the room. He got up fully aware of his surroundings, as if he hadn’t slept at all; the pool tempted him, and he bathed in sharp water. After that, he stepped into the central chamber, noting with curiosity that the globes still glowed dimly in competition with the daylight. He touched one lightly; it felt cool like metal under his fingers and lifted easily from its stand. For a moment, he held the cold, glowing object in his hands before putting it back and wandering into the dawn.

Galatea was dancing up the path, eating a strange fruit as rosy as her lips. She was cheerful again, once more the happy nymph who had welcomed him, and she gave him a bright smile while he picked a sweet green oval for his breakfast.

"Come on!" she shouted. "To the river!"

She dashed off toward the amazing forest; Dan followed, amazed that her agile speed matched his stronger muscles so easily. Soon they were laughing in the pool, splashing around until Galatea pulled herself onto the bank, glowing and out of breath. He followed her as she lay back, strangely feeling neither tired nor breathless, with no sense of effort. A question kept coming to his mind, still unasked.

"Galatea," his voice said, "Who will you choose as your partner?"

Her eyes grew serious. "I don't know," she said. "He will come at the right time. That’s a rule."

"And will you be happy?"

"Of course." She looked worried. "Isn't everyone happy?"

"Not where I live, Galatea."

"That must be a weird place—your ghostly world. A pretty awful place."

"It happens often enough," Dan agreed. "I wish—" He paused. What did he wish? Was he not talking to an illusion, a dream, a ghost? He looked at the girl, at her shiny black hair, her eyes, her soft white skin, and then, for a tragic moment, he tried to feel the arms of that dull hotel chair beneath his hands—and failed. He smiled; he reached out his fingers to touch her bare arm, and for a moment she looked back at him with surprised, serious eyes, and jumped to her feet.

"Come on! I want to show you my country." She started down the stream, and Dan got up hesitantly to follow.

What a day that was! They followed the little river from the calm pool to the lively rapids, and all around them were the strange chirps and sounds that were the voices of the flowers. Every turn revealed a new view of beauty; every moment brought a new sense of joy. They talked or stayed quiet; when they were thirsty, the cool river was nearby; when they were hungry, fruit was readily available. When they were tired, there was always a deep pool and a mossy bank; and when they felt rested, a new beauty called to them. The amazing trees stood in countless imaginative shapes, but on their side of the river was still the flower-filled meadow. Galatea twisted a bright-blossomed crown for his head, and from then on he moved with a sweet melody around him. But little by little the red sun dipped toward the forest, and the hours slipped away. It was Dan who noticed, and reluctantly they headed home.

As they went back, Galatea sang a strange song, both sorrowful and sweet, like the blend of river and flower sounds. And once more, her eyes were filled with sadness.

"What song is that?" he asked.

"It’s a song sung by another Galatea," she replied, "who is my mom." She placed her hand on his arm. "I'll translate it into English for you." She sang:

Her voice wavered on the last notes; there was silence except for the sound of water and the flower bells. Dan said, "Galatea—" and paused. The girl looked serious again, tears in her eyes. He said softly, "That's a sad song, Galatea. Why was your mom sad? You said everyone was happy in Paracosma."

"She broke a law," the girl replied flatly. "That's the sure path to sadness." She turned to face him. "She fell in love with a phantom!" Galatea said. "One of your shadowy kind, who came, stayed, and then had to leave. So when her destined lover arrived, it was too late; do you get it? But she eventually gave in to the law, and now she's always unhappy, wandering from place to place in the world." She paused. "I will never break a law," she said, defiantly.

Dan took her hand. "I don’t want you to be unhappy, Galatea. I want you to be happy all the time."

She shook her head. "I am happy," she said, and smiled a tender, wistful smile.

They were quiet for a long time as they made their way home. The shadows of the big trees stretched across the river as the sun disappeared behind them. For a while, they walked hand in hand, but as they reached the bright, pebbly path near the house, Galatea pulled away and hurried ahead. Dan followed as fast as he could; when he got there, Leucon was sitting on his bench by the doorway, and Galatea had stopped on the threshold. She watched him come closer with eyes that he thought he saw a hint of tears in again.

"I’m really tired," she said, and stepped inside.

Dan started to follow, but the old man raised a hand to stop him.

"Friend from the shadows," he said, "can you listen to me for a moment?"

Dan paused, agreed, and sat on the other bench. He felt a sense of unease; nothing good was coming his way.

"There’s something I need to mention," Leucon went on, "and I say this without wanting to hurt you, if phantoms can feel hurt. It’s this: Galatea loves you, although I don't think she’s figured it out yet."

"I love her too," Dan said.

The Grey Weaver looked at him. "I don't get it. Sure, substance can love shadow, but how can shadow love substance?"

"I love her," Dan insisted.

"Then woe to both of you! For this is impossible in Paracosma; it goes against the laws. Galatea's partner is chosen, and perhaps they're already on their way."

"Laws! Laws!" muttered Dan. "Whose laws are they? Not Galatea's or mine!"

"But they are," said the Grey Weaver. "It's not for you or me to judge them—though I still wonder what power could cancel them to allow for your presence here!"

"I had no say in your laws."

The old man looked at him in the fading light. "Does anyone, anywhere, have a say in the laws?" he asked.

"In my country, we have," Dan shot back.

"Madness!" Leucon shouted. "Human laws! What good are human laws if they come with only human punishments, or none at all? If you shadows create a law that the wind can only blow from the east, does the west wind follow it?"

"We do make those laws," Dan admitted resentfully. "They might be foolish, but they're not any more unfair than yours."

"Ours," said the Grey Weaver, "are the unchangeable laws of the world, the laws of Nature. Breaking them always leads to unhappiness. I've seen it; I've known it in someone else, in Galatea's mother, even though Galatea is stronger than she was." He paused. "Now," he continued, "I only ask for mercy; your time here is limited, and I ask that you cause no more harm than what's already been done. Be merciful; give her nothing more to regret."

He got up and walked through the archway; when Dan followed a moment later, he was already taking a piece of silver from his device in the corner. Dan turned away, feeling quiet and unhappy, and went to his own room, where the sound of water trickled softly like a distant bell.

Again he got up at dawn, and again Galatea was there, greeting him at the door with her bowl of fruit. She set down her load, giving him a faint little smile, and stood in front of him as if she was waiting.

"Come with me, Galatea," he said.

"Where at?"

"By the riverbank. To talk."

They walked quietly to the edge of Galatea's pool. Dan noticed a slight change in the world around him; shapes were blurry, the soft sounds of flowers were harder to hear, and the entire landscape seemed oddly wobbly, shifting like smoke when he wasn't looking directly at it. And strangely, even though he had brought the girl here to talk, he found he had nothing to say and just sat in painful silence, his eyes on the beauty of her face.

Galatea pointed at the rising red sun. "Just a little while longer," she said, "before you go back to your ghostly world. I’ll miss you, really miss you." She gently touched his cheek with her fingers. "Dear shadow!"

"Suppose," Dan said in a rough voice, "that I just won’t go. What if I refuse to leave here?" His tone became more intense. "I’m not going! I’m staying!"

The peaceful sadness on the girl's face stopped him; he realized the irony of fighting against the unstoppable movement of a dream. She said, "If I could make the rules, you would stay. But you can't, my dear. You can't!"

Forgotten now were the words of the Grey Weaver. "I love you, Galatea," he said.

"And I you," she whispered. "Look, my dear shadow, how I’m breaking the same rule my mother did, and I’m okay with facing the sadness it will bring." She gently placed her hand over his. "Leucon is very wise, and I have to follow his guidance, but this situation is beyond his understanding because he allowed himself to grow old." She paused. "He allowed himself to grow old," she repeated slowly. A strange light shone in her dark eyes as she suddenly turned to Dan.

"Dear one!" she said anxiously. "That thing that happens to the elderly—that death of yours! What comes after it?"

"What comes after death?" he repeated. "Who knows?"

"But—" Her voice was trembling. "But you can't just—disappear! There has to be a realization."

"Who knows?" Dan said again. "Some people think we wake up to a happier world, but—" He shook his head in despair.

"It has to be true! Oh, it really has to be!" Galatea exclaimed. "There must be more for you than the crazy world you're talking about!" She leaned in closer. "What if, my dear," she said, "when my destined lover arrives, I turn him away? What if I never have children, but let myself grow old, older than Leucon, old until I die? Would I then join you in your happier world?"

"Galatea!" he exclaimed, feeling overwhelmed. "Oh, my beloved—what an awful thought!"

"More terrible than you know," she whispered, still very close to him. "It's more than just breaking a law; it's an act of rebellion! Everything is planned, everything was anticipated, except for this; and if I don't have a child, her place will remain empty, along with the places of her children, and their children, and so on until one day the entire grand plan of Paracosma fails, whatever its destiny was meant to be." Her whisper became very soft and anxious. "It’s destruction, but I love you more than I fear—death!"

Dan's arms were around her. "No, Galatea! No! Promise me!"

She whispered, "I can promise and then break my promise." She pulled his head down; their lips met, and he sensed a fragrance and a sweetness like honey in her kiss. "At least," she sighed. "I can give you a name to love you by. Philometros! Measure of my love!"

"A name?" murmured Dan. A brilliant idea flashed through his mind—a way to prove to himself that this was real, and not just something anyone could see while wearing old Ludwig's magic glasses. If Galatea would say his name! Perhaps, he thought boldly, maybe then he could stay! He pushed her away.

"Galatea!" he shouted. "Do you remember my name?"

She nodded silently, her sad eyes on his.

"Then just say it! Go on, dear!"

She looked at him in silence, feeling miserable, but said nothing.

"Say it, Galatea!" he begged urgently. "My name, please—just my name!" Her mouth moved; she turned pale with effort, and Dan could have sworn that his name quivered on her trembling lips, though no sound came.

At last she spoke. "I can't, my dear! Oh, I can't! There's a law against it!" She stood up suddenly, pale as an ivory carving. "Leucon is calling!" she said, and ran away. Dan followed along the pebbled path, but her speed was beyond his ability; at the entrance, he found only the Grey Weaver standing cold and stern. He raised his hand as Dan appeared.

"Your time is limited," he said. "Leave, keeping in mind the damage you’ve caused."

"Where's Galatea?" Dan gasped.

"I've sent her away." The old man stood in the doorway; for a moment, Dan thought about pushing him out of the way, but something stopped him. He looked around the meadow frantically—there! A glint of silver across the river, at the forest's edge. He turned and sprinted toward it, while the Grey Weaver stood still and cold, watching him leave.

"Galatea!" he shouted. "Galatea!"

He was now on the other side of the river, standing on the edge of the forest, racing through the columned views that swirled around him like fog. The world had turned cloudy; tiny flakes floated like snow before his eyes; Paracosma was fading away around him. Amid the confusion, he thought he caught a glimpse of the girl, but as he got closer, he found himself still crying out hopelessly, "Galatea!"

After what felt like forever, he stopped; something about the place felt familiar, and just as the red sun rose above him, he realized where he was—the exact spot where he had entered Paracosma! A wave of futility washed over him as he stared at an unbelievable sight—a dark window suspended in midair before him, glowing with rows of electric lights. Ludwig's window!

It disappeared. But the trees twisted and the sky grew dark, and he felt dizzy from the chaos. He suddenly realized he wasn't standing anymore but sitting in the middle of the wild glade, gripping something smooth and hard—the arms of that uncomfortable hotel chair. Then he finally saw her right in front of him—Galatea, with a look of deep sadness, her eyes filled with tears. He made a huge effort to get up, stood tall, and then collapsed in a flash of bright lights.

He managed to get to his knees; the walls—Ludwig's room—surrounded him; he must have fallen from the chair. The enchanted glasses were in front of him, one lens shattered and leaking a liquid that was no longer clear like water, but as white as milk.

“God!” he muttered. He felt shaken, nauseous, exhausted, with a deep sense of loss, and his head pounded painfully. The room was dull and disgusting; he wanted to escape. He automatically glanced at his watch: four o'clock—he must have been sitting here for nearly five hours. For the first time, he noticed that Ludwig was missing; he was relieved and walked numbly out the door to the elevator. There was no response to his call; someone was using it. He walked down three flights to the street and back to his own room.

In love with an idea! Even worse—falling for a girl who didn’t exist, in a crazy Utopia that was basically nowhere! He collapsed onto his bed with a groan that was part sob.

He finally understood the meaning of the name Galatea. Galatea—Pygmalion's statue, brought to life by Venus in ancient Greek mythology. But his Galatea, warm and beautiful and full of life, would always have to stay without the gift of life, since he was neither Pygmalion nor a god.

He woke up late in the morning, staring blankly around for the fountain and pool of Paracosma. Slowly, it started to sink in; how much—how much—of what he experienced last night was real? How much was just a result of the alcohol? Or had old Ludwig been right, and was there really no difference between reality and a dream?

He changed out of his wrinkled clothes and walked sadly to the street. He finally found Ludwig's hotel; after asking around, he learned that the small professor had checked out and left no forwarding address.

What about it? Even Ludwig couldn't find what he was looking for, a real-life Galatea. Dan was relieved that he had vanished; he couldn't stand the little professor. Professor? Hypnotists liked to refer to themselves as "professors." He dragged through a long, exhausting day and then a sleepless night back to Chicago.

It was the middle of winter when he spotted a small figure ahead of him in the Loop. Ludwig! But what was the point of calling out to him? His shout was instinctive. "Professor Ludwig!"

The petite figure turned, recognized him, and smiled. They moved into the protection of a building.

"I'm really sorry about your machine, Professor. I’m happy to cover the cost of the repairs."

"Ach, that was nothing—a broken glass. But you—have you been sick? You look a lot worse."

"It's nothing," Dan said. "Your show was amazing, Professor—amazing! I would have told you so, but you were gone when it finished."

Ludwig shrugged. "I stepped out to the lobby for a cigar. Five hours with a lifeless mannequin, you know!"

"It was amazing!" repeated Dan.

"Really?" the other smiled. "It’s only because you cooperated, then. It requires self-hypnosis."

"It was real, for sure," Dan said gloomily. "I just don’t get it—that weird, beautiful place."

"The trees were just enlarged club-mosses," Ludwig said. "It was all just trick photography, but it was stereoscopic, as I mentioned—three-dimensional. The fruits were made of rubber; the house is a summer building on our campus—Northern University. And the voice belonged to me; you didn’t say anything except your name at the beginning, which I left out. I took your role, you see; I walked around with the camera set up on my head to keep the view always from the observer's perspective. Get it?" He smiled wryly. "Luckily, I'm kind of short, or you would have looked like a giant."

"Wait a minute!" Dan exclaimed, his mind racing. "You say you played my part. So, is Galatea—she real too?"

"Tea's definitely real," said the Professor. "My niece, who's a senior at Northern and into drama, helped me out with this. Why? Do you want to meet her?"

Dan answered vaguely but with happiness. An ache had disappeared; a pain was relieved. Paracosma was finally within reach!