"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."
Dan thought a moment. "Were you born here?"
"I don't know." He noted in sudden concern that her eyes were glistening with tears.
"Galatea, dear! Why are you unhappy? What's wrong?"