THE 43 ANTAREAN DYNASTIES 
 
by Mike Resnick

_To thank the Maker Of All Things for the birth of his first male offspring, the 
Emperor Maloth IV ordered his architects to build a temple that would forever 
dwarf all other buildings on the planet. It was to be made entirely of crystal, 
and the spire- covered roof, which looked like a million glistening spear-points 
aimed at the sun, would be supported by 217 columns, to honor his 217 forebears. 
When struck, each column would sound a musical note that could be heard for 
kilometers, calling the faithful to prayer._ 
_The structure would be known as the Temple of the Honored Sun, for his heir had 
been born exactly at midday, when the sun was highest in the sky. The temple 
took 27 Standard years to complete, and although races from all across the 
galaxy would come to Antares III to marvel at it, Maloth further decreed that no 
aliens or non-believers would ever be allowed to enter it and desecrate its 
sacred corridors with their presence..._ 
#
A man, a woman, and a child emerge from the Temple of the Honored Sun. The woman 
holds a camera to her eye, capturing the same image from a dozen unimaginative 
angles. The child, his lip sparsely covered with hair that is supposed to imply 
maturity, never sees beyond the game he is playing on his pocket computer. The 
man looks around to make sure no one is watching him, grinds out a smokeless 
cigar beneath his heel, and then increases his pace until he joins them. 
They approach me, and I will myself to become one with my surroundings, to 
insinuate myself into the marble walls and stone walkways before they can speak 
to me.
_I am invisible. You cannot see me. You will pass me by._
"Hey, fella -- we're looking for a guide," says the man. "You interested?" 
I stifle a sigh and bow deeply. "I am honored," I say, glad that they do not 
understand the subtleties of Antarean inflection. 
"Wow!" exclaims the woman, aiming her camera at me. "I never saw anything like 
that! It's almost as if you folded your torso in half! Can you do it again?" 
I am reminded of an ancient legend, possibly aprocryphal though I choose to 
believe it. An ambassador who was equally fascinated by the way the Antarean 
body is jointed, once asked Komarith I, the founder of the 38th Dynasty, to bow 
a second time. Komarith merely stared at him without moving until the 
embarrassed ambassador slunk away. He went on to rule for 29 years and was never 
known to bow again. 
It has been a long time since Komarith, almost seven millennia now, and Antares 
and the universe have changed. I bow for the woman while she snaps her 
holographs.
"What's your name?" asks the man. 
"You could not pronounce it," I reply. "When I conduct members of your race, I 
choose the name Hermes." 
"Herman, eh?" 
"Hermes," I correct him. 
"Right. Herman."
The boy finally looks up. "He said Hermes, Dad." 
The man shrugs. "Whatever." He looks at his timepiece. "Well, let's get 
started."
"Yeah," chimes in the child. "They're piping in the game from Roosevelt III this 
afternoon. I've got to get back for it." 
"You can watch sports anytime," says the woman. "This may be your only chance to 
see Antares." 
"I should be so lucky," he mutters, returning his attention to his computer.
I recite my introductory speech almost by rote. "Allow me to welcome you to 
Antares III, and to its capital city of Kalimetra, known throughout the galaxy 
as the City of a Million Spires." 
"I didn't see any million spires when we took the shuttle in from the 
spaceport," says the child, whom I could have sworn was not listening. "A 
thousand or two, maybe." 
"There was a time when there were a million," I explain. "Today only 16,304 
remain. Each is made of quartz or crystal. In late afternoon, when the sun sinks 
low in the sky, they act as a prism for its rays, creating a flood of exotic 
colors that stretches across the thoroughfares of the city. Races have come from 
halfway across the galaxy to experience the effect." 
"Sixteen thousand," murmurs the woman. "I wonder what happened to the rest?" 
#
_No one knew why Antareans found the spires so aesthetically pleasing. They 
towered above the cities, casting their shadows and their shifting colors across 
the landscape. Tall, delicate, exquisite, they reflected a unique grandness of 
vision and sensitivity of spirit. The rulers of Antares III spent almost 38,000 
years constructing their million spires._
_During the Second Invasion, it took the Canphorite armada less than two weeks 
to destroy all but 16,304 of them..._
# 
The woman is still admiring the spires that she can see in the distance. Finally 
she asks who built them, as if they are too beautiful to have been created by 
Antareans. 
"The artisans and craftsmen of my race built everything you will see today," I 
answer. 
"All by yourselves?" 
"Is it so difficult for you to believe?" I ask gently. 
"No," she says defensively. "Of course not. It's just that there's so _much..._" 

"Kalimetra was not created in a day or a year, or even a millennium," I point 
out. "It is the cumulative achievement of 43 Antarean Dynasties." 
"So we're in the 43rd Dynasty now?" she asks.
# 
_It was Zelorean IX who officially declared Kalimetra to be the Eternal City. 
Neither war nor insurrection had ever threatened its stability, and even the 
towering temples of his forefathers gave every promise of lasting for all 
eternity. It was a Golden Age, and he could see no reason why it should not go 
on forever..._ 
#
"The last absolute ruler of the 43rd Dynasty has been dust for almost three 
thousand years," I explain. "Since then we have been governed by a series of 
conquerers, each alien race superceding the last."
"Thank goodness they didn't destroy your buildings," says the woman, turning to 
admire a water fountain, which for some reason appears to her to be a mystical 
alien artifact. She is about to take a holo when the child restrains her.
"It's just a goddamned water bubbler, Ma," he says.
"But it's fascinating," she says. "Imagine what kind of beings used it in ages 
past." 
"Thirsty ones," says the bored child. 
She ignores him and turns back to me. "As I was saying, it must be criminal to 
rob the galaxy of such treasures." 
"Yeah, well _somebody_ destroyed some buildings around here," interjects the 
child, who seems intent on proving someone wrong about something. "Remember the 
hole in the ground we saw over that way?" He points in the direction of the 
Footprint. "Looks like a bomb crater to me."
"You are mistaken," I explain, leading them over to it. "It has always been 
there." 
"It's just a big sinkhole," says the man, totally unimpressed. 
"It is worshipped by my people as the Footprint of God," I explain. "Once, many 
eons ago, Kalimetra was in the throes of a years-long drought. Finally Jorvash, 
our greatest priest, offered his own life if God would bring the rains. God 
replied that it would not rain until He wept again, and we had not yet suffered 
enough to bring forth His tears of compassion. But He promised that He would 
strike a bargain with Jorvash." 
I pause for effect, but the man is lighting another cigar and the child is 
concentrating on his pocket computer. "The next morning Jorvash was found dead 
inside his temple, while God had created this depression with His foot and 
filled it with water. It sustained us until He finally wept again." 
The woman seems flustered. "Um...I hate to ask," she finally says, "but could 
you repeat that story? My recorder wasn't on." 
The man looks uncomfortable. "She's always forgetting to turn the damned thing 
on," he explains, and flips me a coin. "For your trouble." 
# 
_Lobilia was the greatest poet in the history of Antares III. Although he died 
during the 23rd Dynasty, most of his work survived him. But his masterpiece, 
"The Long Night of the Exile" -- the epic of Bagata's Exile and his triumphant 
Return -- was lost forever._ 
_Though he was his race's most famous bard, Lobilia himself was illiterate, 
unable even to write his own name. He created his poetry extemporaneously, 
embellishing upon it with each retelling. He recited his epic just once, and was 
so satisfied with its form that he refused to repeat it for the scribes who were 
waiting for a final version and hadn't written it down._ 
# 
"Thank you," says the woman, deactivating the recorder after I finish. She 
pauses. "Can I buy a book with some more of your quaint folk legends?" 
I decide not to explain the difference between a folk legend and an article of 
belief. "They are for sale in the gift shop of your hotel," I reply.
"You don't have enough books?" mutters the man. 
She glares at him, but says nothing, and I lead them to the Tomb, which always 
impresses visitors. 
"This is the Tomb of Bedorian V, the greatest ruler of the 37th Dynasty," I say. 
"Bedorian was a commoner, a simple farmer who deposed the notorious Maelastri 
XII, himself a mighty warrior who was the last ruler of the 36th Dynasty. It was 
Bedorian who decreed universal education for all Antareans." 
"What did you have before that?"
"Our females were not allowed the privilege of literacy until Bedorian's reign." 

"How did this guy finally die?" asks the man, who doesn't really care but is 
unwilling to let the woman ask all the questions.
"Bedorian was assassinated by one of his followers," I reply. 
"A male, no doubt," says the woman wryly. 
"Before he died," I continue, "he united three warring states without fighting a 
single battle, decreed that all Antareans should use a common language, and 
outlawed the worship of _kreneks_." 
"What are _kreneks_?"
"They are poisonous reptiles. They killed many worshippers in nameless, obscene 
ceremonies before Bedorian IV came to power." 
"Yeah?" says the child, alert again. "What were they like?" 
"What is obscene to one being is simply boring to another," I say. "Terrans find 
them dull." Which is not true, but I have no desire to watch the child snicker 
as I describe the rituals.
"What a shame," says the woman, though her voice sounds relieved. "Still, you 
certainly seem to know your history." 
I want to answer that I just make up the stories. But I am afraid if I say it, 
she will believe it. 
"Where did you learn all this stuff?" she continues.
"To become a licensed guide," I reply, "an Antarean must undergo fourteen years 
of study, and must also speak a minimum of four alien languages fluently. Terran 
is always one of the four." 
"That's some set of credentials," comments the man. "I made it through one year 
of dental school and quit." 
_And yet, it is you who are paying me._ 
"I'm surprised you don't work at one of the local universities," he continues.
"I did once." Which is true. But I have my family to feed -- and tourists' tips, 
however small and grudgingly given, are still greater than my salary as a 
teacher. 
A _rapu_ -- an Antarean child -- insinuates his way between myself and my 
clients. Scarcely more than an infant, he is dressed in rags, and his face is 
smudged with dirt. There are open sores on the reticulated plates of his skin, 
and his golden eyes water constantly. He begs plaintively for credits in his 
native tongue. When there is no response, he extends his hand in what has become 
a universal gesture that says: _You are rich. I am poor and hungry. Give me 
money._
"Yours?" asks the man, frowning, as his wife takes half a dozen holos in quick 
succession. 
"No, he is not mine." 
"What is he doing here?"
"He lives in the street," I answer, my compassion for the _rapu_ alternating 
with my humilation at having to explain his presence and situation. 
"He is asking for coins so that he and his mother will not go hungry tonight." I 
look at the _rapu_ and think sadly: _Timing is everything. Once, long ago, we 
strode across our world like gods. You would not have gone hungry in any of the 
43 Dynasties.
_ The human child looks at his Antarean counterpart. I wonder if he realizes how 
fortunate he is. His face gives no reflection of his thoughts; perhaps he has 
none. Finally he picks his nose and goes back to manipulating his computer. 
The man stares at the _rapu_ for a moment, then flips him a two-credit coin. The 
_rapu_ catches it, bows and blesses the man, and runs off. We watch him go. He 
raises the coin above his head, yelling happily -- and a moment later, we are 
surrounded by twenty more street urchins, all filthy, all hungry, all begging 
for coins. 
"Enough's enough!" says the man irritably. "Tell them to get the hell out of 
here and go home, Herman." 
"They live here," I explain gently. 
"Right here?" demands the man. He stomps the ground with his foot, and the 
nearest _rapus_ jump back in fright. "On this spot? Okay, then tell them to stay 
here where they live and not follow us."
I explain to the _rapus_ in our own tongue that these tourists will not give 
them coins. "Then we will go to the ugly pink hotel where all the Men stay and 
rob their rooms."
"That is none of my concern," I say. "But if you are caught, it will go hard 
with you." The oldest of the urchins smiles at my warning. "If we are caught, 
they will lock us up, and because it is a jail they will have to feed us, and we 
will be protected from the rain and the cold -- it is far better than being 
here." 
I have no answer for _rapus_ whose only ambition is to be warm and dry and 
well-fed, but merely shrug. They run off, laughing and singing, as if they are 
human children off to play some game. 
"Damned aliens!" mutters the man. 
"That is incorrect," I say. 
"Oh?"
"A matter of semantics," I point out gently. "_They_ are indigenous. _You_ are 
the aliens." 
"Well, they could do with some lessons in behavior from us aliens, then," he 
growls. 
We walk up the long ramp to the Tomb and are about to enter it, when the woman 
stops. "I'd like a holo of the three of you standing in the entrance," she 
announces. She smiles at me. "Just to prove to our friends we were here, and 
that we met a real Antarean." 
The man walks over and stands on one side of me. The child reluctantly moves to 
my other side. "Now put your arm around Herman," says the woman. 
The child steps back, and I see a mixture of contempt and disgust on his face. 
"I'll pose with it, but I won't _touch_ it!"
"You do what your mother says!" snaps the man.
"No way!" says the child, stalking sulkily back down the ramp. "You want to hug 
him, you go ahead!" 
"You listen to me, young man!" says the man, but the child does not stop or give 
any indication that he has heard, and soon he disappears behind a temple.
# 
_It was Tcharock, the founder of the 30th Dynasty, who decreed that the person 
of the Emperor was sacrosanct and could not be touched by any being other than 
his medics and his concubines, and then only with his consent._ 
_His greatest advisor was Chaluba, who extended Tcharock's rule to more than 80% 
of the planet and halted the hyper-inflation that had been the 29th Dynasty's 
legacy to him._ 
_One night, during a state function, Chaluba inadvertantly brushed against 
Tcharock while introducing him to the Ambassador from far Domar._ 
_The next morning Tcharock regretfully gave the signal to the executioner, and 
Chaluba was beheaded. Despite this unfortunate beginning, the 30th Dynasty 
survived for 1,062 Standard years._
#
The woman, embarrassed, begins apologizing to me. But I notice that she, too, 
avoids touching me. The man goes off after the child, and a few moments later 
the two of them return -- which is just as well, for the woman has begun 
repeating herself. 
The man pushes the child toward me, and he sullenly utters an apology. The man 
takes an ominous step toward him, and he reluctantly reaches out his hand. I 
take it briefly -- the contact is no more pleasant for me than for him -- and 
then we enter the Tomb. Two other groups are there, but they are hundreds of 
meters away, and we cannot hear what their guides are saying. 
"How high is the ceiling?" asks the woman, training her camera on the exquisite 
carvings overhead. 
"38 meters," I say. "The Tomb itself is 203 meters long and 67 meters wide. The 
body of Beldorian V is in a large vault beneath the floor." I pause, thinking as 
always of past glories. 
"On the Day of Mourning, the day the Tomb was completed, a million Antareans 
stood patiently in line outside the Tomb to pay their last respects." 
"I don't mean to ask a silly question," says the woman, "but why are all the 
buildings so _enormous_?"
"Ego," suggests the man, confident in his wisdom. 
"The Maker Of All Things is huge," I explain. "So my people felt that any 
monuments to Him should be as large as possible, so that He might be comfortable 
inside them." 
"You think your God can't find or fit into a small building?" asks the man with 
a condescending smile. 
"He is everyone's God," I answer. "And while He can of course find a small 
temple, why should we force Him to live in one?" 
"Did Beldorian have a wife?" asks the woman, her mind back to smaller 
considerations. 
"He had five of them," I answer. "The tomb next to this one is known as The 
Place of Beldorian's Queens." 
"He was a polygamist?" 
I shake my head. "No. Beldorian simply outlived his first four queens."
"He must have died a very old man," says the woman. 
"He did not," I answer. "There is a belief among my people that those who 
achieve public greatness are doomed to private misery. Such was Beldorian's 
fate." 
I turn to the child, who has been silent since returning, and ask him if he has 
any questions, but he merely glares at me without speaking. 
"How long ago was this place built?" asks the man.
"Beldorian V died 6,302 Standard years ago. It took another 17 years to build 
and prepare the Tomb." 
"6,302 years," he muses. 
"That's a long time."
"We are an ancient race," I reply proudly. "A human anthropologist has suggested 
that our 3rd Dynasty commenced before your ancestors crossed over the 
evolutionary barrier into sentience." 
"Maybe we spent a long time living in the trees," says the man, clearly 
unimpressed and just a bit defensive. "But look how quickly we passed you once 
we climbed down." 
"If you say so," I answer noncommittally.
"In fact, everybody passed you," he persists. "Look at the record: How many 
times has Antares been conquered?" 
"I am not sure," I lie, for I find it humiliating to speak of it.
#
_When the Antareans learned that Man's Republic wish to annex their world, they 
gathered their army in Zanthu and then marched out onto the battlefield, 300,000 
strong. They were the cream of the planet's young warriors, gold of eye, the 
reticulated plates of their skin glistening in the morning sun, prepared to 
defend their homeworld._ 
_The Republic sent a single ship that flew high overhead and dropped a single 
bomb, and in less than a second there was no longer an Antarean army, or a city 
of Zanthu, or a Great Library of Cthstoka._ 
_Over the millennia Antares was conquered four times by Man, twice by the 
Canphor Twins, and once each by Lodin XI, Emra, Ramor, and the Sett Empire. It 
was said that the parched ground had finally quenched its thirst by drinking a 
lake of Antarean blood._ 
#
As we leave the Tomb, we come to a small, skinny _rapu_. He sits on a rock, 
staring at us with his large, golden eyes, his expression rapt in contemplation. 
The human child pointedly ignores him and continues walking toward the next 
temple, but the adults stop. 
"What a cute little thing!" enthuses the woman. "And he looks so hungry." She 
digs into her shoulder bag and withdraws a sweet that she has kept from 
breakfast. "Here," she says, holding it up. "Would you like it?" 
The _rapu_ never moves. This is unique not only in the woman's experience, but 
also in mine, for he is obviously undernourished.
"Maybe he can't metabolize it," suggests the man. He pulls a coin out, steps 
over to the _rapu_, and extends his hand. "Here you go, kid." 
The _rapu_, his face frozen in contemplation, makes no attempt to grab the coin. 
And suddenly I am thinking excitedly: _You disdain their food when you are 
hungry, and their money when you are poor. Could you possibly be the One we have 
awaited for so many millennia, the One who will give us back our former glory 
and initiate the 44th Dynasty?_ 
I study him intently, and my excitement fades just as quickly as it came upon 
me. The _rapu_ does not disdain their food and their money. His golden eyes are 
clouded over. Life in the streets has so weakened him that he has become blind, 
and of course he does not understand what they are saying. His seeming arrogance 
comes not from pride or some inner light, but because he is not aware of their 
offerings. 
"Please," I say, gently taking the sweet from the woman without coming into 
actual contact with her fingers. 
I walk over and place it in the _rapu's_ hand. He sniffs it, then gulps it down 
hungrily and extends his hand, blindly begging for more.
"It breaks your heart," says the woman. 
"Oh, it's no worse than what we saw on Bareimus V," responds the man. "They were 
every bit as poor -- and remember that awful skin disease that they all had?"
The woman considers, and her face reflects the unpleasantness of the memory. "I 
suppose you're right at that." She shrugs, and I can tell that even though the 
child is still in front of us, hand outstretched, she has already put him from 
her mind. 
I lead them through the Garden of the Vanished Princes, with its tormented 
history of sacrifice and intrigue, and suddenly the man stops. "What happened 
here?" he asks, pointing to a number of empty pedestals. 
"History happened," I explain. "Or avarice, for sometimes they are the same 
thing." He seems confused, so I continue: "If any of our conquerers could find a 
way to transport a treasure back to his home planet, he did. Anything small 
enough to be plundered _was_ plundered." 
"And these statues that have been defaced?" he says, pointing to them. "Did you 
do it yourselves so they would be worthless to occupying armies?" 
"No," I answer. "Well, whoever did _that_" -- he points to a headless statue -- 
"ought to be strung up and whipped." 
"What's the fuss?" asks the child in a bored voice. "They're just statues of 
aliens." 
"Actually, the human who did that was rewarded with the governorship of Antares 
III," I inform them. 
"What are you talking about?" says the man.
"The second human conquest of the Antares system was led by Commander Lois 
Kiboko," I begin. "She defaced or destroyed more than 3,000 statues. Many were 
physical representations of our deity, and since she and her crew were devout 
believers in one of your religions, she felt that these were false idols and 
must be destroyed." 
"Well," the man replies with a shrug, "it's a small price to pay for her saving 
you from the Lodinites." 
"Perhaps," I say. "The problem is that we had to pay a greater price for each 
successive savior." 
He stares at me, and there is an awkward silence. Finally I suggest that we 
visit the Palace of the Supreme Tyrant. 
"You seem such a docile race," she says awkwardly. "I mean, so civilized and 
unaggressive. How did your gene pool ever create a real, honest-to-goodness 
tyrant?" 
The truth is that our gene pool was considerably more aggressive before a 
seemingly endless series of alien conquests decimated it. But I know that this 
answer would make them uncomfortable, and could affect the size of my tip, so I 
lie to them instead. (I am ashamed to admit that lying to aliens becomes easier 
with each passing day. Indeed, I am sometimes amazed at the facility with which 
I can create falsehoods.)
"Every now and then each race produces a genetic sport," I say, and I can see 
she believes it, "and we Antareans are so docile, to use your expression, that 
this particular one had no difficulty achieving power." 
"What was his name?" 
"I do not know."
"I thought you took fourteen years' worth of history courses," she says 
accusingly, and I can tell she thinks I am lying to her, whereas every time I 
have actually lied she has believed me.
"Our language has many dialects, and they have all evolved and changed over 
36,000 years," I point out. "Some we have deciphered, but to this day many of 
them remain unsolved mysteries. In fact, right at this moment a team of human 
archaeologists is hard at work trying to uncover the Tyrant's name."
"If it's a dead language, how are they going to manage that?"
"In the days when your race was still planetbound, there was an artifact called 
the Rosetta Stone that helped you translate an ancient language. We have 
something similar -- ours is known as the Bosperi Scroll -- that comes from the 
Great Tyrant's era." 
"Where is it?" asks the woman, looking around. 
"I regret to inform you that both the archaeologists and the Bosperi Scroll are 
currently in a museum on Deluros VIII." 
"Smart," says the man. "They can protect it better on Deluros."
"From who?" asks the woman.
"From anyone who wants to steal it, of course," he says, as if explaining it to 
a child. "But I mean, who would want to steal the key to a dead language?"
"Do you know what it would be worth to a collector?" answers the man. "Or a 
thief who wanted to ransom it?" 
They discuss it further, but the simple truth is that it is on Deluros because 
it was small enough to carry, and for no other reason. When they are through 
arguing I tell her that it is because they have devices on Deluros that will 
bring back the faded script, and she nods her head thoughtfully.
We walk another 400 kilometers and come to the immense Palace of the Kings. It 
is made entirely of gold, and becomes so hot from the rays of the sun that one 
can touch the outer surface only at night. This was the building in which all 
the rulers of the 7th through the 12th Dynasties resided. It was from here that 
my race received the Nine Proclamations of Ascendency, and the Charter of 
Universal Rights, and our most revered document, the Mabelian Declaration. It 
was a wondrous time to have lived, when we had never tasted defeat and all 
problems were capable of solution, when stately caravans plied their trade 
across secure boundaries and monarchs were just and wise, when each day brought 
new triumphs and the future held infinite promise.
Ipoint to the broken and defaced stone chair. "Once there were 246 jewels and 
precious stones embedded in the throne." 
The child walks over to the throne, then looks at me accusingly. "Where are 
they?" he demands. 
"They were all stolen over the millennia," I reply.
"By conquerers, of course," offers the woman with absolute certainty.
"Yes," I say, but again I am lying. They were stolen by my own people, who 
traded them to various occupying armies for food or the release of captive loved 
ones.
We spend a few more minutes examining the vanished glory of the Palace of the 
Kings, then walk out the door and approach the next crumbling structure. It is 
the Hall of the Thinkers, revered to this day by all Antareans, but I know they 
will not understand why a race would create such an ediface to scholarship, and 
I haven't the energy to explain, so I tell them that it is the Palace of the 
Concubines, and of course they believe me. 
At one point the child, making no attempt to mask his disappointment, asks why 
there are no statues or carvings showing the concubines, and I think very 
quickly and explain that Lois Kiboko's religious beliefs were offended by the 
sexual frankness of the artifacts and she had them all destroyed. I feel guilty 
about this lie, for it is against the Code of Just Behavior to suggest that a 
visitor's race may have offended in any way. Ironically, while the child voices 
his disappointment, I notice that none of the three seems to have a problem 
accepting that another human would destroy millennia-old artwork that upset his 
sensibilities. I decide that since they feel no guilt, this one time I shall 
feel none either. (But I still do. Tradition is a difficult thing to transcend.)
I see the man anxiously walking around, looking into corners and behind 
pedestals, and I ask him if something is wrong. 
"Where's the can?" he says.
"I beg your pardon?" 
"The can. The bathroom. The lavatory." He frowns. 
"Didn't any of these goddamned concubines ever have to take a crap?" I finally 
discern what he wants and direct him to a human facility that has been 
constructed just beyond the Western Door. 
He returns a few minutes later, and I lead them all outside, past the towering 
Onyx Obelisk that marked the beginning of the almost-forgotten 4th Dynasty.
We stop briefly at the Temple of the River of Light, which was constructed 
_over_ the river, so that the sacred waters flow through the temple itself. 
We leave and turn a corner, and suddenly a single structure completely dominates 
the landscape. 
"What's _that_?" asks the woman. 
"That is the Spiral Ramp to Heaven," I answer. 
"What a fabulous name!" she enthuses. "I just know a fabulous story goes with 
it!" She turns to me expectantly. 
"There was a time, before our scientists knew better, that people thought you 
could reach heaven if you simply built a tall enough ramp." 
The child guffaws. 
"It is true," I continue. "Construction was begun during the 2nd Dyntasy, and 
continued for more than 700 years until midway through the 3rd. It looks as if 
you can see the top from here, but you actually are looking only at the bottom 
half of it. The rest is obscured by clouds." 
"How high does it go?" asked the woman.
"More than nine kilometers," I say. "Three kilometers higher than our tallest 
mountain."
"Amazing!" she exclaims.
"Perhaps you would like a closer look at it?" I suggest. "You might even wish to 
climb the first kilometer. It is a very gentle ascent until you reach the fifth 
kilometer." 
"Yes," she replies happily. "I think I'd like that very much." 
"I'm not climbing anything," says the man. 
"Oh, come on," she urges him. "It'll be fun!" 
"The air's too thin and the gravity's too heavy and it's too damned much like 
work. One of these days _I'm_ going to choose our itinerary, and I promise you 
it won't involve so goddamned much walking." 
"Can we go back and watch the game?" asks the child eagerly. The man takes one 
more look at the Spiral Ramp to Heaven. 
"Yeah," he says. "I've seen enough. Let's go back." 
"We really should finish the tour," says the woman. "We'll probably never be in 
this sector of the galaxy again." 
"So what? It's just another backwater world," replies the man. "Don't tell your 
friends about the Stairway to the Stars or whatever the hell it's called and 
they'll never know you missed it."
Then the woman comes up with what she imagines will be the clinching argument. 
"But you've already agreed to pay for the tour." 
"So we'll cut it short and pay him half as much," says the man. "Big deal." The 
man pulls a wad of credits out of his pocket and peels off three ten-credits 
notes. Then he pauses, looks at me, pockets them, and presses a fifty-credit 
note into my hand instead. "Ah, hell, you kept your end of the bargain, Herman," 
he says. 
Then he and the woman and child begin walking back to the hotel.
# 
_The first aliens ever to visit Antares were rude and ill- mannered barbarians, 
but Perganian II, the greatest Emperor of the 31st Dynasty, decreed that they 
must be treated with the utmost courtesy. When the day of their departure 
finally arrived, the aliens exchanged farewells with Perganian, and one of them 
thrust a large, flawless blue diamond into the Emperor's hand in payment for his 
hospitality._
_After the aliens left the courtyard, Perganian let the diamond drop to the 
ground, declaring that no Antarean could be purchased for any price._ _The 
diamond lay where it had fallen for three generations, becoming a holy symbol of 
Antarean dignity and independence. It finally vanished during a dust storm and 
was never seen again._

-end- 
