old legends men were very much like the industrious
mechanoids--ever building, ever moving....

How he wished he might live in those days! He knew the pleasure of
creating, for he had been acclaimed a genius in music before he was
twenty, and his mastery of painting and architecture had won the
admiration of all the human zone. Still, he was not satisfied, and often
lay awake in the early hours of morning after a stirring party, dreaming
of those long-gone days of empire, when he could have ridden with the
ancients through the sky on their winged craft, see their cities rise
toward the clouds, experience the exciting pace of that life. What
remarkable ambitions they must have had!

* * * * *

As Sethos reached the end of the terrace, he was hailed by a garmenter
named Brin, standing with a group of men around a light projector. The
colors sprayed up about their faces, matching the gaudy orange of Brin's
trousers and the blue of his little plumed hat.

"Greetings, Sethos! How are the crops up North? Still live with Ela?"

"They're fine, Brin. Live with Ela? No more than anyone else these
days."

Brin chuckled. "A neat remark, Seth--I must remember it to your true
love the next time I have reason to see her."

The men laughed appreciatively, the colors wheeling in rhythm across
their grinning faces.

Suddenly three young women converged on the group, having spied Sethos
from inside.

"Oh, Sethos!" one cried. "How wonderful you're here!"

"Are you still composing that _magnificent_ diphonic music?" asked
another breathlessly.

Grimly, he realized he was trapped again. Every party brought on
something like this. How could he explain to these well-meaning girls
that he was trying to forget the past, that it bored him, that his music
was trite and his painting insipid? Still they would clamor for it.

"Excuse me," muttered Sethos, walking away. His ears rang with their
adulation, but it always sickened him. Efforts he considered nothing at
all were worshiped by the others. It was demoralizing.

Following the path around the corner, he descended from the noise of the
house, opening his mouth and inhaling the cool night air as though to
cleanse his lungs. He was growing extremely weary of the people at
parties.

From here he could see the town laid out below, the four directions of
it, and he tried to guess how many times he had walked each street one
end to the other, then turne