"Uh...none that I know of."

"Exactly none. Ishtar made it her business to know, and Justin confirms it from his study of the Archives. Brother, I don't know how uncommon this may have been in the twentieth Gregorian century...but you have a clean gene chart-and so of course do we."

"Now wait a minute! I'm not really up to date in genetics, but-"

"-but Ishtar is. Do you want to argue it with her? We accept her assurances; Lor and I aren't geneticists-as yet. But we have, recorded in Dora, Ishtar's formal report on your gene chart. If you want it. Not that we think it makes any difference; you are rejecting us for reasons having nothing to do with genetics."

"Now slow down! I am not rejecting you."

"That's the way it feels to us. We are artificial constructs, and the soi-disant 'incest' mores of another time and utterly different circumstances don't apply to us and you know it; that's just an excuse to avoid something you don't want to do. Coupling with us might be masturbation, but it can't be incest because we aren't your sisters. We aren't your kin in any normal sense; we're you. Every gene of us comes from you. If we love you-and we do-and if you love us-and you do, some, in your own chinchy and cautious fashion-it's Narcissus loving himself. But this time, if you could only see it, that Narcissist love could be consummated." She stopped, and gulped. "That's all. Come on, Lor; let's go to bed."

"Hold it, girls! Laz, Ishtar says this is safe?" -

"You heard me say so. But you don't want to do it-so the hell with it!"

"I never at any time said that I did not want to. Why do you think I quit cuddling you two lively little monkeys when you started being grown up?"

"Oh, Buddy!"

"Because I must be Narcissus himself...because I think my two identicals are the prettiest, sexiest-and bitchiest- broads I've ever seen."

"Do you? Do you really?"

"You- heard me. Quit quivering your goddamn chins! So when you started getting broad, I started keeping my hands off you. But-if Ishtar says it's all right-"

"She does!"

"I suppose-this once-I could manage a couple of minutes for each of you."

Lorelei gasped. "Did you hear that, Laz?"

"I heard it. 'Two minutes.'"

"Rude, crude, and vulgar."

"Insulting."

"Infuriating."

"But we accept-"

"-right now!"

DA CAPO-I

The Green Hills

The Star Yacht Dora hovered two meters over the pasture, the lower hatch irised open. Lazarus gave Lazi and Lori a last quick squeeze and dropped to the ground-rolled with the impact, rolled to his feet, hurriedly got clear of the ship's field. He waved, and the ship lifted, straight up, a round black cloud against the stars. Then it was gone.

He looked quickly around him-Dipper...North Star okay, fence that way, road beyond, and-Caesar's Ghost!- a bull!"

He cleared, the fence with inches to spare, a few feet ahead of the bull.

Lazarus was moving so fast that his speed made necessary another rolling landing. He wound up in the middle of a rutted dirt road while reflecting that many more of that sort would not improve his appearance. He patted his pockets, especially an extra pocket concealed by the bib of his overalls, and decided that nothing was missing. He missed the comfort of a blaster on his hip-but knew that any sort of gun would be a mistake, for this time and place. A facsimile jackknife was all he carried.

His hat- The ditch? No. Ten feet inside the fence which might as well be ten miles; the bull was keeping an eye on him. A hat was not necessary, and if anyone found it and noticed that it was not quite right-well, there was nothing to connect it with him. Forget it.

North Star again- That town should be about five miles down this road, straight as the turtle flies. He set out.

Lazarus stood in front of the printshop of the Dade County Democrat, looking at sheets posted inside the glass, but not reading. He was thinking. He had just had a shock, and the pretense of continuing to read posted newspapers let him do so in quiet. He had read a date and now needed to reconstruct some ancient history. August first, nineteen-sixteen-nineteen sixteen?

He saw reflected in the glass a figure coming down the sidewalk-heavyset, middle-aged, wearing a gun belt almost concealed by belly overflowing it, a holstered hogleg on his right thigh, star on his left breast, otherwise dressed much as Lazarus was dressed. Lazarus continued to stare at a posted front page of the Kansas City Journal.

"Morning."

Lazarus turned. "Good morning...Chief."

"Just the constable, Son. Stranger hereabouts?"

"Yes."

"Passing through? Or staying with someone?"

"Passing through. Unless I find work."

"That's a good answer. What trade do you follow?"

"I was raised on a farm. But I'm an all-around mechanic. Or anything, for an honest dollar."

"Well, I tell you. Not many farmers taking on hands right now As for anything else, things are slow in the summertime. Mmm, you wouldn't be one of them IWW's, would you?"

"IW' what?"

"A Wobbly, son-don't you read the papers? This is a friendly community, always glad to have visitors. But not that sort." The local law raised one hand to wipe away sweat and gave a lodge recognition sign. Lazarus knew how to answer it-and decided not to. Where was his home lodge?-that's a good question, Officer, so let's not let it come up.

The constable went on, "Well, since you're not one, you're welcome to ask around and see if somebody needs help." He looked at the front page Lazarus had been pretending to read. "Terrible what those U-boats are doing, isn't it?"

Lazarus agreed that it was.

"Still," the officer added, "if people stayed home and minded their own business, it wouldn't happen. Live and let live, I always say. What church do you attend?"

"Well, my folks are Presbyterians."

"So? Meaning you haven't attended lately. Well, sometimes I miss myself, when the fish are biting. But- See that church up the street? The belfry through the elms. If you do find work, why, come Sunday, ten o'clock, let me extend you the right hand of fellowship there. Methodist Episcopal, but there ain't all that much difference. This is a tolerant community."

"Thank you, sir; I'll be there."

"Good. Very tolerant. Mostly Methodists and Baptists-but a few Jack Mormons on farms around here. Good neighbors, they always pay their bills. A few Cath-a-licks and nobody holds it against them. Why, we've even got a Jew."

"Sounds like a good town."

"It is. Local option and clean living. Just one thing- If you don't find work- About half a mile beyond the church you'll find a city-limits sign. If you're unemployed and have no local address, it's best to be on the other side of it come sundown."

"I see."

"Or I would have to run you in. No hard feelings; that's just the way it is. No tramps or niggers after sundown. I don't make the rules, Son; I just enforce them-and that's how Judge Marstellar defines a tramp. Some of our good ladies have been pushing him-things stolen off clotheslines and the like. So its ten dollars or ten days...which isn't too bad, as the lockup is right in my house. The food's not fancy as I'm allowed only forty cents a day to board a prisoner-though for fifty cents more you can eat what we do. No intention of making things hard, you understand-it's just that the Judge and the Mayor aim to keep this a quiet, law-abiding place."