“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 hand.
“Friend from the shadows,” he said, “will you hear me a moment?”
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 realized it.”
“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 substance?”
“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 distant bell.
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.
“Where?”
“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 Dan.
“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 hopelessly.
“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 terrible thought!”
“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 me!”
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 nor God.
* * * *
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 forwarding address.
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!
THE WORLDS OF IF
Originally published in Wonder Stories, Aug. 1935.
I stopped on the way to the Staten Island Airport to call up, and that was a mistake, doubtless, since I had a chance of making it otherwise. But the office was affable. “We’ll hold the ship five minutes for you,” the clerk said. “That’s the best we can do.”
So I rushed back to my taxi and we spun off to the third level and sped across the Staten bridge like a comet treading a steel rainbow. I had to be in Moscow by evening, by eight o’clock, in fact, for the opening of bids on the Ural Tunnel. The Government required the personal presence of an agent of each bidder, but the firm should have known better than to send me, Dixon Wells, even though the N.J. Wells Corporation is, so to speak, my father. I have a—well, an undeserved reputation for being late to everything; something always comes up to prevent me from getting anywhere on time. It’s never my fault; this time it was a chance encounter with my old physics professor, old Haskel van Manderpootz. I couldn’t very well just say hello and good-bye to him; I’d been a favorite of his back in the college days of 2014.
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