SATURN'S RINGS
                                     BY ROBERT F. YOUNG
                                  ILLUSTRATED BY LAWRENCE

      The weird old castle on Saturn's moon was a fortress — protecting a dynasty and a terrible
                                             secret!

                                                        I

    The summer of Matthew North's life was a dream so deep in his past that he sometimes doubted
whether he had really dreamed it. Autumn had set in eons ago, it seemed, and now winter was on hand.
He did not find its cold and bitter breath the least bit to his liking.
    Once again, pale Hyperion was coming forth to meet him. Once again, resplendent Saturn was
advancing in her ice-blue gown. How many times before had mother and daughter greeted him at
journey's end? How many times before had they seen his sleek jettractor emerge from the immensities
with a big black egg impaled upon its prow?
    Too many times.
    Well, there would be no more times. The Bimini base was gone, and the mysterious source of the
many payloads which he and the other jettractor-pilots had delivered to the House of Christopoulos
down through the centuries was buried beneath the raging waters of a newborn sea. The unanticipated
tectonic revolution had begun mere hours after he had blasted off from the little Proxima Centauri planet
which Nick the Greek had christened "Bimini" some five hundred years ago.
    For a long while Matthew had been in a state of shock. Recovering from it, he had radioed the news
on ahead. He could just as well have waited, though, and delivered the news by word of mouth, for while
radio waves exceeded his jet-tractor's near-photic velocity, they did not exceed it by very much. In all
probability the message had preceded his arrival by no more than a few weeks.
    Such proved to be the case. Message received last week, the words that suddenly spelled
themselves out on the luminous bulletin-panel informed him. Establish capsule in orbit, memorize but
do not record readings, then land and proceed to the Hostel, there to await further instructions. —
Zeus Christopoulos IX.
    "Orders acknowledged, sir," said Matthew North. "Will proceed as directed."

     Precisely as directed. One does I not question the commands of God, no matter how unorthodox
those commands may be. And to Matthew North, Zeus Christopoulos IX was God, just as the previous
male descendants of Nick the Greek had been God. The fact that Matthew had never laid eyes on any of
these gods argued for rather than against their divinity, and the fact that he had never been permitted to
set foot inside the House of Christopoulos bolstered rather than undermined his respect for them.
     Choosing a polar orbit of maximum altitude, he reduced the jet-tractor's momentum to the velocity he
wanted. Then, after mentally recording his instrument readings, he disengaged the capsule and fired his
retros. He watched the huge egg-shaped container dwindle into the blue-black distances and fade from
sight. Finally he began orbiting in.
     Saturn hove into sight with each crossing of the twilight belt, but each time he saw not Saturn but a
rich and dazzling jewel hanging upon the Brobdingnagian cheek of the Ethiope goddess Space — the
black bitch-goddess of vast immensities and burning suns at whose cold and unfeeling feet he had laid the
best years of his life. "For you, Zeus, I did this thing," he said, unconsciously lumping the successive heirs
into a single entity. "For you I put my years upon the block in order that your House might never be
without the precious payloads I have delivered to its door — payloads I have never seen and do not
even know the nature of. And now they are no more.
      "Now I have come home to die."
      But he had no true right to regret, and he knew it. He had put his years upon the block, yes — but no
one had forced him to, and he had not auctioned them off for nothing. With them he had bought a safe
little island of changelessnzss in the giddy onrushing torrent of time.



     Night passed, and came the day, the pale day with its cold and distant sun and its wan, cold stars.
     Gliding downward along an ever-shrinking orbital path, firing his retros with the passing of each
dawn, Old Matt North became Young Matt North again — Young Matt North standing in a bustling bar
that bewildered him, rubbing shoulders with strangely garbed, gesticulating people who frightened him;
Young Matt North recently returned from a Hyperion-Sirius XXI run, adrift in a civilization that, thanks
to the Lorentz-FitzGerald contraction, had left him almost two decades behind.
     Beside him stood the man from the House of Christopoulos who had spotted him from across the
room. He had come over and bought him a drink and told him glowingly about the Great Opportunity.
"You paint a pretty picture," Young Matt said. "I'll say that much for you."
     The man was young — almost as young as Young Matt North. His cheeks were smooth and plump,
and you could smell money on his breath. Zeus I was his shepherd —he did not want.
     "As true a picture as it is pretty, Matthew North," he said. "The House of Christopoulos takes care of
its spacemen. It doesn't cast them adrift between runs the way the commercial carriers do. Zeus I was a
spaceman once himself—he knows what it's like to be cast adrift. That's why he spared no expense
when he built the Haven.
     That's why he duplicated a sane and sensible setting out of the past instead of building a modern
setting. That's why he guarantees his jet-tractor pilots a job for life. Thus far, there are only two, and he
needs but one more, but the Haven is large enough to accommodate a hundred. And it will never change.
The Hostel will always be there waiting for you when you return, and during your six-months layovers
there will be girls for the asking, and taverns with open doors."

                                                        II

      It had been true — every word of it. And it was as true today as it had been then ...
      Old Matt North berthed his jet-tractor, climbed out through the locks carrying his duffel bag, and
walked around the big platform-lift on which he had lowered so many capsules into the subterranean
pneumotube that led to the crypts beneath the House of Christopoulos. The little port gave directly onto
the single street of the Haven, and he walked down the street toward the big stone structure at its farther
end. As always, the sight of the Hostel reassured him. There was a permanence about stone that could
not be duplicated, a solidity that other materials lacked. Inside, there would be warmth and welcome,
and more food than he could eat and more wine than he could drink. And there would be girls, too. If he
still wanted them.
      He wondered if he did.
      It was mid-morning, and a cold wind was blowing in from the surrounding ice-flats. It outlined his
spacetogs against his spare frame and ridged his skin with gooseflesh. Beyond the Hostel, the great pile
of the House of Christopoulos stood massively against the gray, star-starved sky. It had been patterned
after the Parthenon, but in the distance-decimated sunlight its noble Doric columns and magnificent
entablature tools on a pale cast that was out of keeping with the trabeate architecture. And while the
force-field that played darkly between the columns let in what little light there was, it gave back nothing in
return. The over-all effect was one of Gothic gloom.
      Usually the House awoke vague longings in the deeps of Matthew North's being. Today it did not
—perhaps because he was not really seeing it.
      He was seeing the girls he had known instead — the girls he had slept with down through the
decades, some of whom were old and withered women now, and some of whom had lain for centuries
dead. The pretty little call girls he had had with the sweet sad swiftness of a hummingbird's flight and then
had known no more ... and now the room that summer dresses in new bloom was empty, and only the
sporadic fluttering of the window curtains betrayed the presence of their ghosts.
    It was as well, perhaps—who knew? Matthew North sighed, and walked past the tavern doors
agape.
    He avoided the expectant looks of the villagers — the villagers whose function it was to cater to him
during his layover and see to it that he wanted for nothing, and beneath whose breasts pulsed not hearts
but tiny motors that never ran down, and behind whose welcoming eyes dwelled not memories but
memory banks. Only the girls had been real. The rest was technological fantasy.
    The interior of the Hostel had not changed one whit. Indeed, he could have sworn that the log
burning in the great stone hearth was the same log that had been burning there the day he left. The hostler
was no longer the same though. Matthew stared at the small and portly — and unquestionably human —
man who came forth from behind the bar to greet him. The man smiled at his bewilderment. "Zeus IX
decided that human personnel could do the job better," he explained. "Taverns are one thing, but an inn
needs a human touch. He offered me the building, and the keep of my wife, my daughter and myself if we
would school ourselves in mid-twenty-second century lore, and condition ourselves to the
early-twentieth-century way of life which the Hostel symbolizes. I agreed to do so, and here I am.
Welcome home, Matthew North."
    Clearly, the hostler had not as yet been informed that the Bimini base was no more.
    Matthew did not bother to enlighten him, and allowed himself to be led over to a big wooden table
that stood before the hearth. Presently the hostler's wife — a strapping woman with eyes the hue of port
wine brought in steaming platters of food and a tall and dusty bottle of Venerian Chianti. Matthew knew
an appetite he had not known in years and ate hugely. He drank largely of the wine. It was red and fiery,
and warmed his very bones. Stupor stole over him. "I would sleep," he said.

    The hosteler's wife depressed a buzzer at the end of the bar, and a moment later a tall girl with
shoulder-length brown hair entered the big raftered room. She was wearing cling-slacks, and short
fleece-lined boots; a white plastijacket covered her arms and shoulders, fell loosely round her hips.
Youth shouted from her blue, smoke-filled eyes. "Faustina will show you your room," the hostler's wife
said. "Ask her for whatever you want, and she will get it for you."
     The girl came forward, picked up his duffel bag, shouldered it effortlessly and led the way through the
side entrance to the period-piece outside-stairway. On the second step she paused and turned. "Would
you like some girls perhaps?"
     The amusement in her eyes diminished him. He lowered his gaze to the ground. "No," he said. "Not
now."
     She shrugged and resumed her ascent of the stairs. He followed, marveling at the smooth flow of her
limbs, at her graceful strength; at the youth that was manifest in her every movement. Lord, to be young
again! he thought. He felt suddenly, horribly, cheated — robbed of life and love. He yearned to lean
upon her shoulder, to steal some of her youth and strength. He wanted to see desire in her eyes. Instead,
when she lingered for a moment in the doorway of the room the hostler had prepared for him, he saw
pity.
     She lowered his duffel bag to the floor. "There's a buzzer by the bed," she said. "If you need anything
just press it." She turned and walked down the hall and out onto the landing.
     He heard her footsteps on the stairs. Silence came.
     The room was a large one. All of the rooms in the Hostel were large. Large and empty.
     Over the decades he had slept in a dozen of them. He would sleep in this one now, sleep the sleep of
the dead, and he would forget stars and space, and loneliness. He would forget the pity he had seen in a
young girl's eyes and he would forget that the only love he had ever known was the love that the House
of Christopoulos had paid hard cold cash for, and itemized on the same list on which it had itemized his
bread and wine. He would forget — for a little while, at least — that for all the slowed-down clocks that
had given him relative immortality, he was an old, old man.
    He added wood to the fire in the big stone hearth and turned back the sheets of the huge four-poster
bed. He undressed, showered, then climbed into the period-piece bed and let his weary body sink
deeply into the eiderdown mattress.
    He thought of Bettinger and Flynn, the other two jet-tractor pilots. Bettinger must have reached
Bimini by now, and seen the dark sea raging where once the android settlement and the fenced-off lake
had been. In a few more months—years, if you computed the time objectively — Flynn would arrive
here. Both would return with empty capsules.
    Matthew sighed, and turned on his side.
    There was nothing he could do. The Bimini base was no more, and that was all there was to it. He
thought fleetingly of the orbiting capsule and wondered why Zeus X had not wanted it brought down; but
the ways of God were by their very nature inscrutable, and not to be questioned, and presently Mathew
North ceased wondering, and slept.

    A knock on his door delivered him up from a haunting dream of his lost youth. "Yes?" said Old Matt
North, sitting up in bed. 'What is it?"
     "You have a visitor, Mr. North."
     "A visitor? Who?"
     There was awe in Faustina's voice. 'Hera Christopoulos. She's waiting for you downstairs. Hurry,
Mr. North!"
     Fading footsteps. Silence once again.
     For a while his consternation held him chained. Finally, breaking free, he climbed out of bed and
pulled his best suit out of his duffel gag. He got into it, trembling all the while, and wetted and combed his
gray and thinning hair. The dark stubble on his cheeks distressed him — he should have shaved before
going to bed. Now it was too late.
     Hera Christopoulos. The wife of Zeus IX ....
     She was tall, and coldly beautiful. Her dark eyes were set beneath delicate black flares of brows, and
held in them a quality that was reminiscent of deep space. Her black hair, upswept into a twist that
flowered out and spilled down like the waters of a Cimmerian fountain, stole microcosmic stars from the
hearth-fire before which she statuesquely stood. A scarlet sarong, secured by a silver chain around her
throat, swirled thrice around her Junoesque body and terminated in a silver band just above her right
knee.
     She had unfastened the throat-clasp that had held her ermine cloak in place, and the cloak had fallen
to the flagstone floor like snow, half-burying her sandaled feet, and she stood in the snow haughtily, the
firelight heightening the insolence of her naked arms and shoulders and her semi-naked legs.
     Entering the room, Matthew thought for a moment that he had seen her before. The absurd thought
was followed instantly by the memory which explained it. Oftentimes descendants duplicated the physical
traits of a long-dead ancestor. Here was a case in point. It was not Hera whom he had seen, but Dione
Christopoulos the wife of Zeus IV, and Hera's great-great grandmother.
     The memory, once unleashed, ran rampant in his mind. Once again the long-ago night closed in
around him — the night and the wine and the laughter, the girls and the synthetic gin. Once again he was
forty-five and afraid. Once again the strange restlessness came over him, and suddenly the intervening
years were no more and he was plunging out of the stifling Haven bar and into the wind-washed street.
     The coldness of the night shocked him, but he did not go back inside for his greatcoat. He welcomed
the coldness. He reveled in it, and he let the icy wind wash over him as though he were a boulder lodged
in midstream, delighting in the clean, clear current. Saturn was on high, a great and gleaming jewel
hanging in the heavens, bathing the ice-flats in bluish light and imparting to the House of Christopoulos a
majesty which the daylight would destroy.
     Something about the storied structure tied in with his restlessness. He set off across the flats, into the
river of the wind.

                                                       III

    The building was less than a mile distant from the Haven, but the wind and the ice made the going
arduous. Only the heightened sugar-content of his blood enabled him to reach the row of artificial cypress
trees that paralleled the rear line of columns.
     Gasping, he collapsed in the lee of a gnarled trunk and massaged his numb legs. When his breath
returned, he peered round the trunk — and saw the rift.
     It was the result of a circuit defect in the force-field, and apparently neither Alexander the Great nor
the other three roguards had noticed it as yet. It wasn't a large rift, but it was large enough to see through.
The trouble was, it was way up on the force-field wall—just beneath the entablature. However a tall
cypress stood not far away. From its topmost branches an enterprising man might obtain glimpse of the
building's interior—
if he wanted to badly enough.
     Matthew North did.
     He was at the base of the tree in a matter of seconds. Minutes later he was riding the wind on lofty
bough, chest tight from the climb, hands numb and bleeding. The rift had a pinkish cast now. The room
beyond it was pink.
     The room was a bath.
     He had believed in his naive that because the House had been patterned after the Parthenon, it must
of necessity have but one floor. He saw now that such was not the case. For all the loftiness its ceiling,
the bath into which I was gazing was unmistakably a part of a second story.
     Apparently the rift in the force field wall was on the visual circuit only, for the three women in room
seemed unaware of the cold wind.
     Two of them would have been unaware of it in any event, for the were not truly women. They were
android handmaidens. One of them had been created in the image of Helen of Troy, the other in the
image of Hecuba. So perfectly wrought were they, however, that he would not have guessed the truth
had it not been for the names embroidered beneath the neck lines of their Grecian Tunics.
     The woman in the bath proper was real, though. She put to shame the flaming torch of Helen of Troy,
and all but extinguished the flickering one of Hecuba. A monogram on one of the huge white towels the
handmaidens were holding revealed her identity: Dione Christopoulos.
     Matthew could not breathe.
     Dark of hair and eyes, scarlet of sultry, almost sullen lips, soft-white of water-rivuleting skin, she
stood up in the marble basin. He saw the full breasts, scarlet-nippled to match her lips, the gracefully
flowing buttocks, the breathless slopes of gleaming thighs. As though cognizant of his presence and eager
to flaunt the pastures in which he could not feed, she faced the rift for one full minute before surrendering
herself to her handmaidens. He saw the birthmark then: the purple dagger-shaft between her breasts, its
blade seemingly buried in her white flesh—
     At the same time, his eyes caught a movement at the base of the tree.
     Lowering them, he saw the roguard standing there. Saturn's ice-blue light glittered on the
Macedonian armor, on the long, lethal lance whose inbuilt laser tube was capable of leveling a mountain.
Matthew shrank against the bough, trying to efface himself from view.
     He needn't have. Antigonus or Seleucus or Ptolemy—whichever of Alexander the Great's generals
the roguard was — had eyes only for the rift and was utterly unaware of the Peeping Tom in the tree
above his head. Presently he left the trunk and hurried round the corner of the House, heading for the
entrance where Alexander the Great was stationed, and leaving the coast clear.
     Matthew reached the ground in seconds, and began running across the flats. He was spent when he
reached the Hostel trembling, when he climbed into bed. All night long Dione Christopoulos had walked
through his twisted dreams, and he had carried a mental picture of her standing in her bath down through
the years to this very moment.

    The resemblance between her and the beautiful young woman standing before him in the Hostel was
striking. He had heard it said that interfamilial marriages had been the rule in the House of Christopoulos
ever since Nick the Greek had married an indentured chambermaid — a peasant girl named Antonia
Anzalone — and set the dynasty in motion. Matthew had always discredited the rumor, but now he
wondered if perhaps there might not be something to it.
     He shuffled across the room and paused humbly before his visitor, staring down at the ermine snow
that lay around her feet. Should he bow? he wondered. Or should he kneel? In his indecision, he did
neither but stood there like the bewildered and frightened old man he was.
     Hera Christopoulos looked him up and down. Her voice was as cold as the wind that blew across
the ice-flats. "Where is the last capsule?" she demanded. "Why wasn't it delivered to the House?"
     He could not think at first, could only stand there dumbly. When at last words came, they emerged in
a meaningless mumble. "What did you say?" Hera Christopoulos asked.
     He clenched his hands in a vain attempt to still the trembling of his fingers. Faustina appeared timidly
at his elbow, bearing a tray with two cups of coffee on it, and in his agitation he seized one of them and
gulped down its throat-searing contents. Belatedly, he remembered that he should have let his visitor
serve herself first. Acute embarrassment all but overwhelmed him. Miserably, he returned the cup to the
tray.
     Hera declined the other cup with a disdainful look, and Faustina hurried away. The log fire crackled,
and the crackling reverberated throughout the room. "Are you dumb?" Hera said contemptuously. "Or
have you only temporarily lost your tongue?"
     Anger sparked him into articulation, and he raised his eyes. "The capsule is in orbit, in accordance
with your husband's directions."
     She took a step backward, and the fluffy pile of ermine snow became a windrow. The deep-space
darkness of her eyes intensified. "He ordered you to put the capsule in orbit. Why?
     "He did not say why."
     "When did he contact you?"
     "This morning, just before I made moonfall."
     "I order you to bring it down."
     "I can't bring it down unless Zeus IX authorizes it," Matthew said.
     "Zeus IX was called away on business. Quite naturally I am empowered to speak for him in his
absence. I hereby countermand his order with an order of my own: Bring the capsule down and see to it
that it is delivered to the House immediately." With a catlike movement she bent down and picked up her
cloak. Straightening, she showered it around her shoulders. "Immediately," she repeated, and, turning,
started for the door.
     "No," said Matthew North. "I can't."
     She spun around, a flurry of whiteness and woman. "I order you to bring it down!"

    The commoner in Matthew quivered, and the servant in him quaked, but his loyalty to Zeus IX
refused to let him retreat.
    "When your husband notifies me and gives me the necessary order, I will bring it down," he said, "but
not before. I am sorry, but I have no right to act otherwise."
    "Very well then. Give me the orbital readings and I'll have someone else bring it down."
    Matthew shook his head. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I can't do that either. You see," he went on,
"Zeus Christopoulos IX represents more to me than just the ninth Zeus in line. He represents all the
others who preceded him. I — I have worked for the House of Christopoulos almost all my life. And I
have come to regard my duties as a sort of sacred trust — a trust that I could never bring myself to
violate. I would die for the House of Christopoulos. I would die for you. But I cannot obey your order."
    She regarded him for some time, the Cimmerian fountain of her hair spilling darkly down to the white
snowbanks of her shoulders. Thought, not anger, now resided in her deep-space eyes. At length, "I
believe you would at, that," she said; and then, "Such loyalty should not go unrewarded."
    Surprised, Matthew said, "It has not gone unrewarded."
    "But it has not been rewarded in full." She glanced at the magnified dial of her ring-watch. "It is now
six-twenty. At eight-thirty you will arrive at the House of Christopoulos for dinner. That is an order. Will
you obey it?"
    Weakness came into Matthew's knees and sent his legs to trembling. His gratitude was so great that
he could barely speak. "Yes — yes, I will obey it. And thank you."
    "I will expect you then."
    She turned and walked out of the Hostel, her cloak snowsqualling around her. She climbed into the
glide-car in which she had come, the glide-car hummed to life, and a moment later she was gone.

                                                       IV

    The Alexander the Great, roguard stationed before the multi-columned entrance of the
     House was a product of the "realistic school" of android manufacturing. He was slightly larger than his
long-dead flesh-and-blood prototype, but in all other respects he was a faithful reproduction. He
possessed not only his prototype's character but his prototype's specialized knowledge as well.
     The look he bestowed upon Old Matt North artfully combined aristocratic arrogance and militaristic
contempt. When Matthew said, "I'm Matthew North — Mrs. Zeus Christopoulos IX is expecting me,"
the roguard acted as though he hadn't heard. Nevertheless, he relayed the information into the tiny radio
attached to his helmet.
     A moment later Hera Christopoulos' imperious voice sounded crisply on the night air: "Well, let him
in, you synthetic snob! I told you this afternoon that you were to pass him."'
     Without a word Alexander the the Great stepped to one side and pointed toward the multicolumned
facade of the House of Christopoulos with his laser-lance.
     Still shivering from his wind-beset walk across the flats, Matthew approached the Pentelic marble
steps, all the while staring nervously up at the frieze upon which were carved bas-reliefs pf the divine
consorts of the original Zeus — Metis, Maia, Leto, Dione, Demeter, Mnemosyne, Themis, and
Eurynome. Above the cornice and centered beneath the peak of the gable was a big bas-relief of Hera
that rather startlingly resembled the flesh-and-blood Hera with whom he was about to break bread.
Flanking it on either side, in attitudes of abject adoration, were bas-reliefs of various mortals who had
contributed to the glory that was Greece. Some of them he recognized from the pictured busts and
sculptures he had viewed on his jettractor's library-tape: Thucydides, Heraclitus, Aristotle, Plato,
Epicurus, Sophocles. One of the figures was groveling at her feet. It was a bas-relief of Homer.
     Night had fallen an hour ago, in accordance with Hyperion's neorotational period established some
five centuries ago at the instigation of Nick the Greek. Now Saturn was climbing into the sky. Lowering
his eyes from the gable, Matthew began ascending the wide marble steps.
     The Doric columns seemed to rise higher and higher above him. The feeling of insignificance that had
afflicted him ever since he had set forth from the Hostel increased. He felt very small indeed when at last
he stepped through the doorway that appeared transiently in the black curtain of the force-field, and into
the enormous room beyond, and he wished that he had not come.
     The room occupied the entire front half of the rectangular building.
     Strictly speaking, it was more of a great hall than a room. On three sides of it, the magnificent Doric
columns rose up to the architrave; on the fourth side — the side opposite the entrance — a grand
Pentelic staircase climbed majestically to a railed mezzanine, beyond which dozens of ornate doorways
could be seen; The appointments were made of Pentelic marble, too — benches, tables, chairs. And in
the center of the room a Pentelic marble fountain sent up an exquisite nosegay of twinkling water. High
above the fountain, seemingly suspended in midair, an incongruous chandelier, wrought in the shape of a
barred-spiral nebula, shed soft but penetrating radiance. The inter-columnar force-field that so effectively
concealed the building's interior from the eyes of the outsider existed here only as a diaphanous mist.
Through the mist, the garish bonfire of the mile-away city of Saturnia showed like gentle candlelight.
    A robutler dating from the same "school" as the Alexander the Great roguard and wearing a Grecian
tunic on the front of which the name Pindar was embroidered, came forward on sandaled feet. He took
Matthew's greatcoat and ear-flapped cap, and conducted him across the room to a round marble table
that stood at the base of the staircase. Passing the fountain, Matthew gave a start when he saw the silvery
flashes that spelled the presence of Venerian piranhas.
    There were hundreds of them. No, not hundreds. Thousands. Hera's pets? he wondered.

    After seating him at the table, Pindar retired to the columnar sidelines. Matthew saw the other
androids then.
     There was one standing at the base of each column. All of them wore tunics and sandals similar to
Pindar's, and all of them save one were standing in statue-like immobility. The exception was an old
"man" with a sensitive, bearded face who was regarding Matthew intently.
     As Matthew watched, the android left his column and came over to the table. He leaned forward, the
tiny tubes that constituted his eyes alternately dimming and brightening. Matthew remembered
encountering a similar reaction in one of the robartenders at the Haven. The robartender was a product
of the same "school" that had produced the House of Christopoulos "personnel", and in common with all
such "character" androids he could function effectively only as long as the scheme of things which he had
been built to fit into remained at least reasonably in keeping with his "personal" sense of right and wrong.
     His sense of right and wrong was clear-cut enough. But therein lay its weakness. He believed that the
three jettractor pilots should drink themselves into insensibility in his bar at least once during their
layovers, and when Matthew had refused to touch a drop during one of his (he had been combating a
peptic ulcer at the time), the robartender had suffered a mechanical breakdown, the first symptom of
which had been an alternate dimming and brightening of his eyes.
     Matthew read the name on the old "man's" tunic. "Aeschylus?"
     The old "man" nodded eagerly. "Yes. Aeschylus — overseer of baths and bedrooms." And then,
"This morning, darkly plotting deep within, the monarch sleeping softly by her side, she —"
     "You dare leave your post after hours!"
     It was Hera. Hera in a sarong-like gown that glittered with diamonds. Hera, tall and imperious, eyes
abyss-dark with rage.
     Aeschylus stepped back, eye-tubes working furiously. "Bumbling old fool," she went on. "Get back
to your column! You'll be scrapped tomorrow — I never could stand listening to your plays anyway.
They're stupid!"
     The old "man" turned and shuffled back across the floor and took up a stone-like stance by the
column he had so recently left. Hera turned to Matthew who had risen to his feet. "I apologize for his
presumption," she said. "Please sit down."
     Matthew did so, and she sat down next to him on the bench. There were lines of tiredness at her
eye-corners — or perhaps lines of worry; it was difficult to tell — and her face seemed slightly thinner
than it had been before.
     She clapped her hands. A moment later a mech-maid hearing a tray with a tall dark bottle and two
flower-stem glasses on it emerged from a doorway to the right of the staircase. The embroidery on her
tunic-front revealed her name to be Corinna. "Will that be all, madam?" she asked, after setting the
glasses and the bottle before them.
     "For the moment. Begone, kitchen wench!"
     Corinna departed. Hera filled the glasses and handed one to Matthew.
     She raised the other. "A toast to your loyalty, Matthew North," she said. "May it hover forever over
the House of Christopoulos like the great and shining star it truly is."

    They touched glasses; drank . . . The wine ignited cool fires within him. Lambent flames rose up and
licked his thoughts.
     Was this the wine the House of Christopoulos was famous for? he wondered. The wine that Nick the
Greek was reputed to have made his fortune on? Matthew did not think so. Such a wine was far too
dear ever to have been distributed on the mass market. And besides, it was said that the real source of
the Christopoulos fortune was the synthetic gin which Antonia Anzalone had developed in her bathtub
before Nick the Greek had married her, and which the good citizens of Earth and the Seven Satraphies
had been incontinently consuming ever since.
     Hera refilled the two glasses, and clapped her hands again — twice, this time. Immediately Corinna
and another mech-maid, whose name was Psappho, began bringing in viands.
     The amount and the quality of the food left Matthew speechless. The entree was Martian ptarmigan,
a delicacy which he had never tasted before. With each course a different kind of wine was served, none
of which he had ever tasted before either, and each of which was more potent than the last. All that
saved him from drunkenness was the quantity of food he consumed. And in the end this did not save him
either, for the meal proved to be no more than a foundation for the wine to come. There was red wine
and blue wine and amber wine, and there was even a red wine with a greenish cast which Hera said
came from the vineyards of Sirius XVIII's southernmost continent and had been aged in deep space.
Was there another wine, Matthew North wondered, a wine that she had not served him? — a wine that
was a product of Bimini and which had also been aged in deep space?
     He could not recall seeing any vineyards on Bimini, though, either during his orbits or during the
walks he had been forced to take while the android personnel loaded his capsule. About all he had ever
seen on Bimini were trees and more trees. That was all Bimini was, really — or rather, all Bimini had
been. A big jungle in the sky.
     Give or take a few lakes and rivers, of course — and the saltwater sea that had recently kicked over
its traces.
     The ship of small talk put into this port and that, Hera at the helm and Matthew sounding a polite note
of concurrence whenever he thought one was called for. Presently it ran aground on the subject of Greek
religious mythology. Hera dwelled lengthily on the Euhemeristic theory of the origin of the gods. "Then
you don't think they were true gods, after all?" Matthew asked at length.
     She sipped her wine, set the glass back down. "On the contrary, I'm positive that they were true
gods. The mere fact that they were once mortal doesn't mean that they couldn't have become immortal.
Mortality is a necessary prelude to immortality, just as immortality is a necessary prelude to the
super-apotheosis which must logically follow. But aside from all that, the real proof of the immortality of
the Greek gods has been staring scholars in the face for centuries. And they have been too short-sighted
to see it."
     "I — I guess I'm too short-sighted too," Matthew said.
     She laughed. It was a genuine enough laugh, but for some reason it deepened rather than lightened
the lines at her eye-corners. "They lived near mortals and had dealings with mortals when they could just
as easily have lived by themselves and had nothing to do with lesser beings," she explained. "Immortality,
you see, is relative. Living with other immortals exclusively and avoiding mortals, they would have been
unable to appreciate their superiority. Living near inferior beings and having dealings with them, they
could appreciate it. It's such a simple truth that the scholars have overlooked it, the way they've
overlooked so many simple truths. Scholars are stupid anyway — almost as stupid as philosophers." She
faced the staircase. "Come on out, old man," she called, "and start cleaning off the table."

    An android with a block-like head shuffled out from behind the staircase. His huge face was ugly
almost beyond belief. A straggly white beard dribbled down from cheeks and chin and upper lip into a
mop-like tangle. Only the eyes saved the sorry visage from complete catastrophe. They were a clear,
benevolent brown.
   The letters embroidered on his tunic spelled Socrates.
   He began collecting the dishes and the platters, and stacking them, his slab-like bare feet going
flap-flap-flap on the Pentelic marble floor. The dishes and platters stacked, he started carrying them
through the doorway to the right of the staircase. His movements were slow and clumsy. There was
something grotesque about the whole performance. Something pitiful.
    A scrap of ptarmigan had fallen to the table. Hera brushed it to the floor, and when the old "man"
returned for his last load, she pointed to the scrap with the toe of her sandal. "Pick it up, old man," she
said.
    Socrates did so, then carried the rest of the dishes and platters from the room. "Make sure you get
them clean, old man," Hera called after him. For a moment Matthew felt sick to his stomach. Why
Socrates? he wondered. Why Pindar? Why Corinna? However, he held his silence, and presently the
matter drifted from his thoughts.
    All matters drifted from his thoughts. All save one ....
    Hera was a strong and scented wind blowing through him. The wine strengthened the wind, and he
found it increasingly difficult to stand against it. He swayed when she said, abruptly and without prelude,
"Will you bring the capsule down?" But he did not fall. Not quite.
    "No," he said, "I can't."
    She moved closer to him, the diamonds of her sarong-gown dancing in blinding blues and whites.
"You would not be bringing it down for nothing. I pay cash!"
    "On delivery?" he heard his strange voice ask.
    "You are an honorable man. Your word is good enough."
    He swallowed. Her face was very close. It fascinated and repelled him simultaneously, but the
repulsion was a form of fascination in itself — a perverted form, perhaps, but nonetheless compelling.
The thoughts that it awoke added to his drunkenness. He remembered that she was the only human being
he had seen since entering the House, and he knew suddenly that they were alone, and that she had
meant for them to be alone.
    "Do I have your word?" she asked.
    The dancing diamond-light of her sarong-gown half blinded him. He tried to speak, could not. His
glazed eyes made speech unnecessary. She stood up. "You have not seen the mezzanine," she said.
"Come, I will show it to you."

                                                      V

    He followed her up the marble stairs on unsteady stilts of legs. Seen from above, the enormous
room brought to mind the concourse of an ancient railroad terminal. The mezzanine itself was a graceful
promenade, and the walls between the doors that opened off from it were decorated with the simplest of
Grecian designs. Hera opened one of the doors and stepped into the room beyond. Trembling, he
followed.
     "My bath," she said.
     It was the same bath he had peered into — how many years ago — and seen Dione Christopoulos.
He had been forty-five and afraid then. He was still afraid, but he was no longer forty-five. Nevertheless,
the restlessness that had afflicted him then came back.
     Now he was in a position to apply the cure — if making love to a beautiful woman who was far
above his status really was the cure. In any event, it was for sale. And circumstances had provided him
with the price.
     The trouble was, part of the price was his loyalty to Zeus IX.
     What was it that the capsule contained that Hera found so irresistible? he wondered. So irresistible
that she could not wait till her husband returned to indulge herself?
     Drunk as he was, Matthew was still incapable of asking her pointblank. Wine or no wine, he was still
her servant. He dared not risk incurring her ill-will. But was her motivation really important? Wasn't it
enough that she did want the capsule brought down, and that only he knew its celestial hiding place?
     After the bath, she showed him several other rooms, the last of which was her bedchamber. It was a
large room, and the three-dimensional murals on its walls made it seem even larger. The subject of the
murals brought a blush to his withered checks. He had read of the rites for which the Temple of Diana at
Ephesus had been famous. But reading about them was one thing — seeing them graphically depicted
was quite another.
    Hera was looking at him questioningly. Light emanating from the obscene murals gave her flesh a
reddish cast, deepened the darkness of her eyes: He looked over her shoulder, saw the huge sleeping
dais with its scarlet pillows and black counterpane. He heard the hoarseness of his breathing and he felt
the pounding of his heart, and he knew all at once that in order to possess her he would betray far more
than what Zeus IX represented; that, like all loyalties built on self-deception, his loyalty to the House of
Christopoulos was worthless.
    He stood there helplessly as it came tumbling down around him. "I'll bring the capsule down
whenever you wish," he said.
    "Yes," she answered absently, as though she had heard the words long before he said them. And
then, "If you will wait outside, I will have my handmaidens prepare me." She clapped her hands.
    Trembling, he stepped out onto the mezzanine. Helen of Troy and Hecuba appeared, side by side,
entered the room and closed the door behind them.
    His trembling increased. To relax his thoughts he walked over to the marble railing and looked down
into the great room below. At the fountain and the tables and the benches. At the columns, at the android
standing at the base of each, as though chained. At Ictinus and Callicrates, the architects who had built
the original Parthenon; at Phidias, the sculptor who had supervised the building; at Zeno, Polyclitus,
Praxiteles, Homer, Parmenides, Leucippos, Aristophanes, Sophocles, Euripides, Aeschylus—
    Aeschylus was looking up at him, eyes flashing on and off.
    Now the android left his column, crossed the floor and ascended the stairs. He walked over to where
Matthew was standing and touched his arm. "Come," he said, "I will show you so that you will believe."
    Matthew was annoyed, "Show me what?"
    "I will show you," Aeschylus repeated. "Come."
    The blink-rate of the eye-tubes was alarmingly high. What illogicality had this old "man" stumbled
upon that could have upset him so? Suddenly curious, Matthew said, "All right— but you'll have to
hurry."

    Aeschylus led him down the mezzanine to an imposing door at the farther end. The door was
locked, but Aeschylus produced a ring of keys from a pocket in his tunic and inserted one of them into
the anachronistic lock. A moment later, the door swung obediently open. Following the old "man" into the
room beyond, Matthew found himself in a large bath.



    It put Hera's to shame. The concave wall was one continuous mural of an Elysian countryside, and it
blended imperceptibly into a ceiling-mural of a cloud-scattered sky. So vivid was the illusion of depth that
for a moment he thought he had stepped across space and time to ancient Greece. Real grass grew
beneath his feet. The bath became a quiet pool on the bank of which he stood. Two life-size statues
stood on the opposite bank —one Pan, the other, Syrinx. Syrinx was running away, and Pan was in
ithyphallic pursuit.
    Matthew looked down at the pool at his feet. It was perhaps nine feet in diameter and had a
maximum depth of about five feet. Its concave bottom consisted of white marble. As he gazed into the
bluish water, he thought he saw a flash of silver. Reflection? He wondered. Peering closer, he saw other
flashes. He identified the shining flickering shapes as Venerian piranhas then, and suddenly sober, he
drew back. The water was alive with them!
    Why would any man even a rich man who could afford to be eccentric — want to keep Venerian
piranhas in his bath?
     Aeschylus was pointing toward the bottom of the pool. Stepping forward, Matthew looked down
into the strange blue water once again —
     And saw the bones—
     The grisly bones, picked clean of living flesh. The white bones that almost matched the marble basin.
Femurs, pelvis; empty rib box. Dark-socketed skull. Bone-fingers, one of them still encircled by a ring —
a ring that bore a familiar seal.
     The seal of the House of Christopoulos.
     Or, if you looked at it with Aeschylus' eyes, the seal of the House of Atreus ....
     Sickened, Matthew turned away. "When?" he forced himself to ask.
     Aeschylus faced him. As the android spoke, his blink-rate rapidly increased:

    This morning, darkly plotting deep within,
    The monarch sleeping softly by her side,
    She rose, and did with goblet vile
    Scoop death from waters rampant and carry it aloft,
    And pour it into this, her monarch's pool.

   The old "man" paused. Raising his eyes to the counterfeit countryside and lifting his arms in
supplication, he went on:

    Come, Eumenides three, and haunt her. Dog her bloody trail!
    To Apollo and Athena make her flee. Come, do not wait—
    Orestes is no more; Electra lurks not at this sorry bier.
    Beyond the cloud-cast sky where once dimly shone the sun.
    Only darkness can be seen. Woe unto her — woe!
    Awake, ye fiends incarnate, and right this crime
    The indifferent gods looked down but did not see!

   Horrified, Matthew seized the keys which the old "man" still held in his hand, and ran from the room.
He sorted through them as he hurried down the mezzanine, and by the time he reached the door to
Hera's bedchamber he had the one he wanted.
   He fitted it into the lock, and turned it. Then he tried the door. It did not give.
   He went loking for a visiphone.

                                                      VI

    The Saturnia police had to knock out the Alexander the Great and his three generals with a
deactivation ray to gain entry.
    Matthew did not know this till he left the House hours later and saw the four "bodies" sprawled on
the marble steps. Instinctively, he looked away. They brought too vividly to mind the "body" he had
found by the piranha-infested pool when he had returned to the bath with the Saturnia Inspector of
Police. Alexander, Ptolemy, Seleucus and Antigonus could he re-activated. Aeschylus could not he.
Aeschylus had gone insane; his circuits had shorted out, blowing his eye-tubes, and all that remained of
him now was a blackened shell.
    Perhaps, though, it was just as well. Now that the House of Christopoulos had fallen, there was no
more need for period-piece androids.
    Nor for period-piece spacemen.
    Old Matt North shivered in the raw wind that was rushing across the flats. He turned up the collar of
his greatcoat, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Dawn was beginning to edge into the sky, and
Saturn had long since crept to rest. He wondered what it would be like, living in a world that had left him
over four centuries behind. He could not possibly adapt himself to it. He was too old. Too tired—
     A tired old man.
     A filthy old man.
     That was what Hera Christopoulos had called him when the Saturnia police had led her shrieking
from her bedchamber. Disheveled, half-naked in the obscene negligee in which she had adorned herself
to awaken his desire and which revealed a dagger-birthmark startlingly similar to Dione's, she had
screamed the words at the top of her voice. "Filthy old man," she screamed, face white, and suddenly,
shockingly, thin. "I made the Christopoulos fortune — not Zeus! It was I who deserved your loyalty —
not him. And you sold me out! Filthy old man! Filthy old Peeping Tom!"
     Confronted with the bones at the bottom of the drained pool, she had not even bothered to conceal
her guilt. "It would only have been for twenty or thirty more years anyway," she said. "Maybe it's better
this way." Abruptly her voice rose. "It was all his fault! There would have been enough in reserve to have
lasted us for another century if he hadn't squandered it, if he hadn't given it away. Given it to his
mistresses. 'Would you be beautiful forever?' he asked them, and they fawned at his feet. Then he
sickened of them and let them wither away, one by one, and found others to give away his years to. My
years. And then he tried to cheat me out of the handful we had left. Well, I beat him there. I'm glad I fed
him to the fish. I hope they dined well." She gave a hideous laugh. "I'll bet his flesh was stringy, though. I'll
bet his skin was tough!"
     More laughter erupted from her, each burst more hideous than the last, and finally the police dragged
her from the room. Then the Inspector began to question Matthew.

    Matthew withheld nothing. He had nothing to withhold. But the questions which the Inspector threw
at him told him more than his answers told the Inspector.
     They told him that the condition of the bones at the bottom of the pool indicated that Zeus IX had
climbed into his bath shortly after sending his message to Matthew. They told him that the House of
Christopoulos had no heirs and that it would become the property of the Hyperion Satrapy. They told
him that the House itself had long been a source of mystery to the Saturnia police, and that they had been
eagerly waiting for years for a pretext to break into it. They told him that the Inspector was completely in
the dark as to Hera's reason for murdering her husband and equally in the dark as to Zeus IX's reason
for ordering Matthew to put the capsule in orbit. They also told him that the Saturnia authorities knew
nothing about the Hyperion-Bimini shuttle, and hence knew nothing whatsoever about the nature of the
Bimini cargo.
     Neither did Old Matt North. And now that the Saturnia authorities were going to bring the capsule
down themselves and launch an official investigation, he probably never would know. Unless—
     He paused on the wind-swept ice-flats. Deliberately, he finished the thought: Unless he brought it
down himself.
     Well, why not? Who had a better right to bring it down than the man who had pushed it all the way
to Bimini and all the way back again? Who, indeed!
     He began to run. Actually, it was more of a stepped-up shuffle than a run, but it was the best that he
could do.
     He was gasping when he reached the port, but he did not stop, and minutes later he was in his
jet-tractor, climbing, climbing, up the dark and breathless stairway of the night and into the great
star-ceilinged hall of space. He caught the capsule deftly, brought it down on a Harlequin-orbit of nights
and lays and dawns and set it on the lift-platform. He got out and climbed up on the platform and began
examining the meteor-pitted hull. Dawn had departed. Morning was airing the first dirty linen of the day
above the warped hack yard of the horizon when at last he found the hatch.
     Owing to the capsule's present position, the metal plate was low on the hull, and this made opening it
all the more difficult; but finally the final dog gave way before the hammer he had brought from the
jet-tractor, and the plate fell free. He dug through the intervening layers of chemically-treated insulation to
the inner hull, expecting to find an inner hatch. He did not find one —he found a valve instead.
     Wine? Had he been playing Bacchus all these weary years?
     Well, he was at least entitled to a taste.
     The valve was a large one, and could be opened only with a wrench. He got a large one out of his
jet-tractor and locked its jaws on the protruding valve-stem. He did not mean to turn the stem all the
way, but the wrench gave him more leverage than he thought he had and far more than he actually
needed, and before he knew what had happened, a stream of ice-cold liquid had gushed forth and sent
him tumbling off the platform.
     He landed on his back and lay there dazed, the liquid pouring down on him and drenching him to the
skin. Finally the coldness shocked him into consciousness and brought him gasping to his feet. Finding the
wrench, he climbed back up on the platform and tried to close the valve. But in order to get a firm grip
on the stem he had to move into the gushing stream, and again the force of it proved too much for him
and once more he went tumbling to the ground. This time, the wrench struck him glancingly on the temple
and knocked off his ear-flapped cap. Blackness came then, and when at last it went away the stream had
dwindled to a mere trickle, and the contents of the capsule were no more.

    He sat up. All around him he heard the sound of liquid running off and seeping into the innumerable
crevices in the ice. Clothes dripping, he floundered to his feet. He licked his wet lips, but he did not taste
wine.
     Jack and Jill went up the hill to get a pail of water.
     Day spread more invisible clotheslines in the sky and hung out more dirty linen to dry. The wind grew
sharper. Hatless, he started walking down the street in the wind.
     Something was happening in his bones.
     He could not get the nursery rhyme out of his mind. Jack and Jill went up the hill to get a pail of
water . . .
     Faustina saw him from the Hostel, and came forth to meet him. "Are you all right, Mr. North?"
     "Yes, I'm all right," said Old Matt North. Jack and Jill went up the hill to get a pail of water.
     "You're wet. You're cold. Let me I help you to your room."
     "Walk up the stairs before me—that will be help enough."
     Faustina obeyed. He followed, drinking in the sweet and thrilling youth of her. Lord, to be young
again! he thought ... and even as the thought went through his mind he felt strength flowing into his
half-frozen legs and building up in his back and arms. He felt his shoulders straightening, Old Matt North
did, and he felt himself growing taller, as one by one the weary fruitless years slipped silently away.
     The wine from the stars was no human drink. It was that heady juice called — youth.
     No, Ponce de Leon never found his Bimini, but Nick the Greek found his. High up on the big black
hill of time and space he found it, and the waters of it were good .... Young Matt North paused at the top
of the stairs, and Faustina turned and faced him. The consternation in her eyes soon gave way to better
things. Standing on the landing in the wind, he smiled at her.
     She smiled back.

    END