“I figured you wanted to be all waked up to go talk to ’em,” his ghost said from the wall mirror.

“Plague! Don’t they understand the word ‘git’?” said the gigantic version of Montrose.

“You mean like Brit slang for bastard?”

“No, I mean like ‘git off my land.’ Let’s show ’em some Texas hospitality.”

“Real Texas hospitality? Like we show them the business end of Black-Eyed Suzy?” Suzy was the pole-to-pole rail gun. Ghost Montrose displayed a ghastly grin. “Sure! Got a payload ready, Big Me. When I saw we had company, I built me a long train of cabins circling the major axis of the asteroid out of my logic diamond, and revved it up to Earth-normal gravity. The rail gun fields are all matched up, so all I need to do is spike the juice, and shoot the whole damn guest wing into orbit and through that billiard ball of the ship.”

“Nope. I mean real Texas hospitality, like we treat them royal, slaughter the fatted calf, bring out the hooch, and if they act inhospitable, such as by jawing my ears awry or riling up my nerves, then show them the business end of Black-Eyed Suzy.” He sighed again. “Time to stop talking to myself. If none of the lesser me’s object, let’s integrate up.”

None of the lesser versions objected, which, considering how ornery he thought of himself as being, always surprised him. It was unexpected, and bore closer examination.

He told himself to remind himself to look into this mystery later, until he remembered that he was folded into a single consciousness configuration mind, and so could not tell himself reminders.

“Now I actually am talking to myself,” he muttered. “That is downright loco.” But there was no one to answer.

The titanic, archangelic version of Montrose swam in zero gee to a locker and got out a portrait of Rania, which he handled carefully.

Since this was a formal occasion, he put on a loincloth, a gunbelt, and a poncho. The guns were vehicle-mounted cannons set with pistol-grips big enough for his elephantine hands, but he used a variation on his old glass-barreled caterpillar-gun design for old time’s sake. They fired a sixteen-inch shell designed to shatter into shrapnel small enough not to pierce his walls and hence not hurt his brain.

5. Hanging Her Portrait

He swam to a spin-lock. Once he was in the spin-lock, it began barreling along just inside of the ring of the carousel containing the guest quarters, accelerating. When the spin-lock matched speed with the guest quarters, he opened a hatch in the floor, climbed down. Because a ninety-foot-tall body shaped like a man was as stupid an idea as a man-sized body shaped like a spider, he took the precaution of filling the spin-lock and the reception chamber underfoot with high-density superoxygenated fluid thick as mud. Through this he sank. He managed to get himself seated on the floor without breaking any bones. The fluid drained away, and the environment switched over to an airbreathing regime.

One of the man-sized versions of him was standing on a ballroom-sized table of logic diamond at which Big Montrose sat. The surface was slightly higher than his elbow. On this plane was the wet bar, fancy chairs, dining table set with vittles, a mechanical bull, and whatever else Montrose could think of that his guests might need.

The man-sized puppet detangled from the mental unity long enough to make an independent comment, looking up and saying, “I can see up your nose. I often ask myself why the plague I bother having a humanoid body after all this time. For zero-gee, squids are better.”

“Like the wife wants to hug a squid when she gets back! Hang up the picture.” And he passed the picture in his hand to the waiting squad of workmen, who grunted under the weight. With ladders and block and tackle, and helping finger from Big Montrose the size of a log, they mounted the portrait on a spot high on the wall just opposite the flag of Texas, which was hung between his gun collection and collection of coins from long-dead civilizations stamped with his image.

The runt-sized Montrose-men unwrapped the portrait.

There she was, with hair as yellow as a garden of gazania or yarrow growing in the golden valleys of the sun, eyes as blue as the Caribbean but deep as the Pacific, and that sweet half smile held between two impish dimples. Atop her coiffeur was the coronet of Monaco, a land long since sunk beneath the sea, and she wore her captain’s uniform, the void-black and starry-silver of the Hermetic Order. This was a form-fitting silky fabric freaked with branching veins like those seen through the translucent skin of a leaf, unintentionally emphasizing her curves. Technically, it was an older costume than the Hermetic Order, for it was originally the space-dress of the Joint Hispanosphere-Indosphere Expedition to the Diamond Star, which her father, Prince Ranier, had captained.

The image showed the arms of the Milky Way reaching up from the bottom of the frame and the globular cluster of M3 in Canes Venatici like a fireworks frozen in midburst above. A slender line, the projected flight path of the Hermetic, connected the two.

“Now read the date,” he said.

From the point of view of the smaller eyes in the smaller body the portrait loomed like the fane to a goddess. The calendar demarking the flight path was in repair, but, at this scale, the gradations were in millennia.

“Today, it is the Forty-sixth Millennium by the Vindication Calendar.” The Vindication calendar ran backward, as a countdown to the earliest possible date of her return. Montrose liked this method of reckoning the years.

“Now, you think if I play squid for that length of time, I won’t get used to it? What if I am unwilling to change back into a man when the wife comes home, eh?”

But the puppet answered, “You think she won’t be changed and strange by her time among the stars? You’re just punishing yourself!”

“Punishing my—! What the pox does that mean?” But when he looked through the thought structure to see the intent behind the comment, something deeper in his mind allowed him to be distracted. For the tall double doors which opened upon the titanic table opposite where he sat now chimed and swung wide.

6. The Four Third Men

Beyond the tall doors, the corridor curved upward, for the corridor deck was the outer wall of the carousel. Oval hatches opened to the left and right into other suites in the guest wing. His guests came into view, descending around the inverted horizon in the inner carousel wall, their bodies gleaming and glittering with living gold.

Rods and serpentines from the floor were all about Montrose like a scaffold around the statue of some seated colossus, forming a exoskeleton, cradling his head and limbs, supporting his spine. He looked both as pathetic as an ancient mummy from a pyramid, frail as a man on a deathbed too weak to raise his head, but because of his cyclopean stature, and the ferocious intensity of his superhuman eyes, he also looked as majestic as a pharaoh adorned in splendor at whose command the toil of countless myriads raised those cryptic pyramids.

The four creatures who walked, slithered, cantered, and rolled into the crystalline chamber had the brutal ugliness of efficient design, but none of the sleekness that natural evolution produced in beasts of prey.

They looked like semiliquid lumps of semitransparent gold. These shining lumps had assumed temporary shapes, and were held within iron-ribbed exoskeletons of different designs: a biped that looked more ostrich than man; a six-limbed shape like a headless centaur; a rattling snake skeleton surrounding a wormlike mass that moved like a sidewinder in lateral waves, such that only two points of the underbelly touched the deck at a time; an upright wheel set about the rim with eye-lenses and ear-horns, with a triskelion of arms issuing from either side of its hub.