“Man took his legends with him when he went to space,” Aurelius said. “Like man himself, they changed; but the stock is the same. You have heard of the terrible Taphids that consume entire spaceships; of the Xestian spidermen whose web-paintings penetrate all illusion; of the living hell of Chthon, where ultimate wealth and horror make eternal love. But this is the—the fable of the minionette.

“The minionette is a siren, an immortal sprite of untold beauty and strength, able to read a man’s inmost passion. It is certain misery to love her—if love is what you can call the fascination compelled by her comeliness. It—it is said that if a man can only hold back his emotion long enough to force a kiss from her, the minionette will love him—and that is the most terrible fate of all.”

This was the longest speech Aton had ever heard his father make, and the least pretentious. “But she was here. This—can’t be true.”

Aurelius sat still, his eyes tightly closed. “It is a mistake, Aton, to disparage the legends too readily. The minionette was here. Malice—she came for you, Aton—”

“Thanks,” Aton said sharply, growing angry. “This ghost, this spook, this myth came to collect her little boy, the one who believes in her—”

“Try to understand son—”

“I do understand! A girl was here, yes—a girl playing a game, all dressed and posed, ready to charm a simple country boy—”

“No, Aton. I must tell you what she is—”

“Damn your explanations!” Aton exploded, heedless of the pain in his father’s face. “I won’t have you defending my foolishness or the lewd posturings of an off-world siren. A beautiful woman does not take up with a rustic innocent—unless she intends only to lead him on, laughing at his animal naïveté, his inexperience—”

But while he rattled his sabers at his helpless father, Aton knew, underneath, the dark truth: he loved his nymph of the forest, no matter what she was, what she had done. Next to her, all other women were as rag dolls with painted smiles and breasts stuck on in front, foolish giggles and disgusting moisture. He had had enough of this; at least the nymph had shown him the futility of his existence. He had to go from here. He would go to space, seek her out, and satisfy himself as to exactly what she was—when the act was over. Fourteen years of longing could not be dispatched so carelessly—not when the Family was Five, not when the man was Aton. He would force himself to face it, to face the truth, this time.

Aurelius, so unaccountably talkative moments ago, now sat still, rigid, shriveled. Was the final seizure upon him? No; the man lived. Was the conventional betrothal of his son that important? It was; it had to be—but it would have to wait. “If I return...” he said.