He'd never learned to take care of his rail-thin appearance and often wore ill-fitting clothes without concessions to style, grabbing whichever outfit was closest at hand. His dishwater brown hair was straight and worn in a serviceable cut. Because of constant reading, he had twice gone through retinal surgery to correct his vision, and he still squinted out of habit.

For years, it had seemed that Anton would follow in his parents' footsteps, but while he loved ancient mysteries, his heart's interests turned to legends rather than straight history. Anton had acquired two doctorates, one in obscure dead languages and one in comparative cultural mythology. He excelled in studying fragments of theSaga of Seven Suns the Ildirans had donated to Earth.

Anton had memorized reams of human folk stories, many in their original languages: Icelandic sagas, Homer's epics, theHeike Monogatari of Japan, the complete Arthurian saga in all its variations, the Sumerian Gilgamesh epic, and many folktales that had never been previously translated with any accuracy.

If only he could study with the Ildiran rememberers...

He had applied four different times to Mijistra, addressing letters to the Mage-Imperator, the Prime Designate, anyone he could think of. Declaring his passion for epic story cycles, he had begged for a grant to go to Ildira and study the epic, hoping that his insights on Earth mythologies might enrich the Ildirans' enjoyment of theSaga . Surely their own historians would want to learn the legends of humanity in return? Both races would benefit tremendously.

But his applications had been ignored twice, denied the third time, and the fourth-sent a year ago-swallowed up in the hydrogue-frayed turmoil. Just like his inquiries about his parents. Wasn't anyone out there listening, in the whole Spiral Arm?

So, instead, he planned to create a myth of his own by writing the biography of his mother and father. He spread the notes he'd been compiling for years, organizing them by topic from dry biographical data to research accomplishments, from the routine but still remarkable Earth archaeological work to their off-planet studies.

But a story needed some sort of closure-if not the end of their lives, at least a validation. Without any information on what had happened to his parents on Rheindic Co, Anton felt incapable of finishing the biographical work.

Hearing the tinkle of the door signal, he looked up at a brass-plated compy who stood at his office entry. The robotic servants were ubiquitous in the university halls, performing deliveries and maintenance duties; many had Friendly programming that made them cheerful conversationalists.

"Anton Colicos, please verify your identity."

"All present and accounted for. What do you want?"

The compy extended an ornate package, a plaque sealed with shimmering paper and embossed with unusual designs that Anton instantly recognized as Ildiran. "This was delivered by a courier. The university chancellor is most intrigued. We rarely receive dispatches directly from the Prism Palace."

Anton snatched the package from the compy. "I'll savor the moment for myself. Thank you."

"Shall I tell the chancellor to set up a meeting?"