"Much like you."
"But his name?"
The old man's mouth was suddenly grim. "We do not speak of him," he said
and rose, entering the dwelling in cold silence.
"He goes to weave," said Galatea after a moment. Her lovely, piquant
face was still troubled.
"What does he weave?"
"This," She fingered the silver cloth of her gown. "He weaves it out of
metal bars on a very clever machine. I do not know the method."
"Who made the machine?"
"It was here."
"But--Galatea! Who built the house? Who planted these fruit trees?"
"They were here. The house and trees were always here." She lifted her
eyes. "I told you everything had been foreseen, from the beginning until
eternity--everything. The house and trees and machine were ready for
Leucon and my parents and me. There is a place for my child, who will be
a girl, and a place for her child--and so on forever."