She studied me in cool boldness and indicated her approval by placing her hands at her thighs and arching her back. The movement pulled her robes closer and showed me her nakedness in greater detail. She smiled. Her eyes sparkled wantonly.

In English, Metaxas said to me, “I’ve told you of her. She’s my great-great-multi-great-grandmother. Try her in your bed tonight. The hip action is incredible!”

Eudocia smiled more warmly. She didn’t know what Metaxas was saying, but she must have known he was talking about her. I tried not to stare too intently at the exposed beauties of the fair Eudocia. Is a man supposed to ogle his host’s great-great-multi-great-grandmother?

A bare and beautiful slave offered me lamb and olives en brochette. I swallowed without tasting. My nostrils were filled with the perfume of Eudocia.

Metaxas gave me wine and led me away from her. “Dr. Speer,” he said, “is here on a collecting trip. He’s a student of classical Greek drama, in search of lost plays.”

Dr. Speer clicked his heels. He was the sort of Teutonic pedant who, you automatically know, would use his full academic title on all occasions. Achtung! Herr Scholar Magistrate Speer! Scholar Magistrate Speer said, “It has been most successful for me so far. Of course, my search is just beginning, yet already from Byzantine libraries I have obtained the Nausicaa and Triptolemus of Sophocles, and of Euripides the Andromeda, the Peliades, the Phaethon, and the Oedipus, and also of Aeschylus a nearly complete manuscript of The Women of Aetna. So you see I have done well.” He clicked heels again.

I knew better than to remind him that the Time Patrol frowns on the recovery of lost masterpieces. Here in Metaxas’ villa we were all ipso facto breakers of Patrol regulations, and accessories before and after the fact to any number of timecrimes.

I said, “Do you plan to bring these manuscripts down to now-time?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But you can’t publish them! What will you do with them?”

“Study them,” said Scholar Magistrate Speer. “Increase the depth of my understanding of the Greek drama. And in time I will plant each manuscript in some place where archaeologists are likely to discover it, and so these plays will be restored to the world. It is a minor crime, is it not? Can I be called evil for wishing to enlarge our scanty stock of Sophocles?”

It seemed quite all right to me.

To me it has always seemed like numbnoggin uptightness to have made it illegal to go up the line to discover lost manuscripts or paintings. I can see where it wouldn’t be desirable to let somebody go back to 1600 and make off with Michelangelo’s Pieta or Leonardo’s Leda. That would be timechange and timecrime, since the Pieta and the Leda must make their way year by year toward our now-time, and not leapfrog over four and a half centuries. But why not allow us to obtain works of art that we don’t already have? Who’s injured by it?

Kolettis said, “Doc Speer, you’re absolutely right! Hell, they let historians inspect the past to make corrections in the historical record, don’t they? And when they bring out their revisionist books, it goddam well alters the state of knowledge!”

“Yes,” said Pappas. “As for example when it was noticed that Lady Macbeth was in fact a tender woman who struggled in vain to limit the insane ambitions of her blood-thirsty husband. Or we could consider the case of the Moses story. Or what we know now about Richard III. Or the truth about Joan of Arc. We’ve patched up standard history in a million places since Benchley Effect travel began, and—”

“—and so why not patch up some of the holes in literary history?” Kolettis asked. “Here’s to Doc Speer! Steal every goddam play there is, Doc!”

“The risks are great,” said Speer. “If I am caught I will be severely punished, perhaps stripped of my academic standing.” He said it as though he’d prefer to be parted from his genitals. “The law is so foolish — they are such frightened men, these Time Patrol, worried about changes even that are virtuous.”

To the Time Patrol no change is virtuous. They accept historical revisions because they can’t help themselves; the enabling legislation specifically permits that kind of research. But the same law prohibits the transportation of any tangible object from up the line, except as required for the functions of the Time Service itself, and the Patrol sticks to the letter of it.

I said, “If you’re looking for Greek plays, why don’t you check out the Alexandria Library? You’re bound to find a dozen there for every one that’s survived into the Byzantine period.”

Scholar Magistrate Speer gave me the smile one gives to clever but naive children.

“The Library of Alexandria,” he explained ponderously, “is of course a prime target for scholars such as myself. Therefore it is guarded perpetually by a man of the Time Patrol in the guise of a scribe. He makes several arrests a month, I hear. I take no risk such as that. Here in Byzantium my goal is more hard but my exposure is not so much. I will look more. I still hope to find some ninety plays of Sophocles, and at least so many of Aeschylus, and—”

Dinner that night was a gaudy feast. We gorged on soups, stews, grilled duck, fish, pork, lamb, asparagus, mushrooms, apples, figs, artichokes, hard-boiled eggs served in blue enamel egg cups, cheese, salads, and wine. Out of courtesy to Eudocia, who was at table with us, we conversed in Greek and therefore spoke not at all of time-travel or the iniquities of the Time Patrol.

After dinner, while dwarf jesters performed, I called Metaxas aside. “I have something to show you,” I said, and handed him the roll of vellum on which I had inscribed my genealogy. He glanced at it and frowned.

“What is it?”

“My ancestry. Back to the seventh century.”

“When did you do all this?” he asked, laughing.

“On my last layoff.” I told him of my visits to Grandfather Passilidis, to Gregory Markezinis, to the time of Nicephorus Ducas.

Metaxas studied the list more carefully.

“Ducas?What is this, Ducas?”

“That’s me. I’m a Ducas. The scribe gave me the details right back to the seventh century.”

“Impossible. Nobody knows who the Ducases were, that early! It’s false!”

“Maybe that part is. But from 950 on, it’s legitimate. Those are my people. I followed them right out of Byzantium into Albania and on to twentieth-century Greece.”

“This is the truth?”

“I swear it!”

“You clever little cockeater,” Metaxas said fondly. “All in one layoff, you learned this. And a Ducas, no less! A Ducas!” He consulted the list again. “Nicephorus Ducas, son of Nicetas Ducas, son of — hmm — Leo Ducas! Pulcheria Botaniates!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I know them,” Metaxas cried. “They’ve been my guests here, and I’ve stayed with them. He’s one of the richest men in Byzantium, do you know that? And his wife Pulcheria — such a beautiful girl—” He gripped my arm fiercely. “You’d swear? These are your ancestors?”

“I’m positive.”

“Wonderful,” Metaxas said. “Let me tell you about Pulcheria, now. She’s — oh, seventeen years old. Leo married her when she was just a child; they do a lot of that here. She’s got a waist like this, but breasts out to here, and a flat belly and eyes that turn you afire, and—”

I shook free of his grasp and jammed my face close to his.

“Metaxas, have you—”

I couldn’t say it.

“—slept with Pulcheria? No, no, I haven’t. God’s truth, Jud! I’ve got enough women here. But look, boy, here’s your opportunity! I can help you to meet her. She’s ripe for seduction. Young, childless, beautiful, bored, her husband so busy with business matters that he hardly notices her — and she’s your own great-great-multi-grandmother besides!”