Everybody remembers that picture. Everyone on Earth saw it, except for the totally blind — it was on every broadcast screen and news journal in the world — and even the blind listened to the atomical descriptions every commentator supplied. Two tails. A fleshy, beard-like thing that hung down from its chin. Four legs. A ruff of spikes down what seemed to be the backbone. Eyes set wide apart on bulges from the cheekbones.
That first Olympian was not at all pretty, but it was definitely alien.
When the next string turned out very similar to the first, it was Sam who saw at once that it was simply a slightly rotated view of the same being. The Olympians took forty-one pictures to give us the complete likeness of that first one in the round.
Then they began sending pictures of the others.
It had never occurred to anyone, not even Sam, that we would be dealing not with one super race, but with at least twenty-two of them. There were that many separate forms of alien beings, and each one uglier and more strange than the one before.
That was one of the reasons the priests didn’t like calling them Olympians. We’re pretty ecumenical about our gods, but none of them looked anything like any of those, and some of the older priests never stopped muttering about blasphemy.
Halfway through the third course of our lunch and the second flask of wine, Sam broke off his description of the latest communiqué from the Olympians — they’d been acknowledging receipt of our transmissions about Earthly history — to lift his head and grin at me.
“Got it,” he said.
I turned and blinked at him. Actually, I hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to his monologue because I had been keeping my eye on the pretty Kievan waitress. She had attracted my attention because — well, I mean, after attracting my attention because of her extremely well-developed figure and the sparsity of clothing to conceal it — because she was wearing a gold citizen’s amulet around her neck. She wasn’t a slave. That made her more intriguing. I can’t ever get really interested in slave women, because it isn’t sporting, but I had got quite interested in this woman.
“Are you listening to me?” Sam demanded testily.
“Of course I am. What have you got?”
“I’ve got the answer to your problem.” He beamed. “Not just a sci-rom novel plot. A whole new kind of sci-rom! Why don’t you write a book about what it will be like if the Olympians don’t come?”
I love the way half of Sam’s brain works at questions while the other half is doing something completely different, but I can’t always follow what comes out of it. “I don’t see what you mean. If I write about the Olympians not coming, isn’t that just as bad as if I write about them doing it?”
“No, no,” he snapped. “Listen to what I say! Leave the Olympians out entirely. Just write about a future that might happen, but won’t.”
The waitress was hovering over us, picking up used plates. I was conscious of her listening as I responded with dignity, “Sam, that’s not my style. My sci-roms may not sell as well as yours do, but I’ve got just as much integrity. I never write anything that I don’t believe is at least possible.”
“Julie, get your mind off your gonads” — so he hadn’t missed the attention I was giving the girl — “and use that pitifully tiny brain of yours. I’m talking about something that could be possible, in some alternative future, if you see what I mean.”
I didn’t see at all. “What’s an alternative future?”
“It’s a future that might happen, but won’t,” he explained. “Like if the Olympians don’t come to see us.”
I shook my head, puzzled. “But we already know they’re coming,” I pointed out.
“But suppose they weren’t! Suppose they hadn’t contacted us years ago.”
“But they did,” I said, trying to straighten out his thinking on the subject. He only sighed.
“I see I’m not getting through to you,” he said, pulling his robe around him and getting to his feet. “Get on with your waitress. I’ve got some messages to send. I’ll see you on the ship.”
Well, for one reason or another I didn’t get anywhere with the waitress. She said she was married, happily and monogamously. Well, I couldn’t see why any lawful, free husband would have his wife out working at a job like that, but I was surprised she didn’t show more interest in one of my lineage -
I’d better explain about that.
You see, my family has a claim to fame. Genealogists say we are descended from the line of Julius Caesar himself.
I mention that claim myself, sometimes, though usually only when I’ve been drinking — I suppose it is one of the reasons that Lidia, always a snob, took up with me in the first place. It isn’t a serious matter. After all, Julius Caesar died more than two thousand years ago. There have been sixty or seventy generations since then, not to mention the fact that, although Ancestor Julius certainly left a lot of children behind him, none of them happened to be born to a woman he happened to be married to. I don’t even look very Roman. There must have been a Nordiman or two in the line, because I’m tall and fair-haired, which no respectable Roman ever was.
Still, even if I’m not exactly the lawful heir to the divine Julius, I at least come of a pretty ancient and distinguished line. You would have thought a mere waitress would have taken that into account before turning me down.
She hadn’t, though. When I woke up the next morning — alone — Sam was gone from the inn, although the skipship for Alexandria wasn’t due to sail until late evening.
I didn’t see him all day. I didn’t look for him very hard, because I woke up feeling a little ashamed of myself. Why should a grown man, a celebrated author of more than forty bestselling (well, reasonably well-selling) sci-roms, depend on somebody else for his ideas?
So I turned my baggage over to the servant, checked out of the inn, and took the underground to the Library of Rome.
Rome isn’t only the imperial capital of the world, it’s the scientific capital, too. The big old telescopes out on the hills aren’t much use any more, because the lights from the city spoil their night viewing, and anyway the big optical telescopes are all out in space now. Still, they were where Galileus detected the first extrasolar planet and Tychus made his famous spectrographs of the last great supernova in our own galaxy, only a couple of dozen years after the first spaceflight. The scientific tradition survives. Rome is still the headquarters of the Collegium of Sciences.
That’s why the Library of Rome is so great for someone like me. They have direct access to the Collegium data base, and you don’t even have to pay transmission tolls. I signed myself in, laid out my tablets and stylus on the desk they assigned me, and began calling up files.
Somewhere there had to be an idea for a science-adventure romance no one had written yet.
Somewhere there no doubt was, but I couldn’t find it. Usually you can get a lot of help from a smart research librarian, but it seemed they’d put on a lot of new people in the Library of Rome — Iberians, mostly; reduced to slave status because they’d taken part in last year’s Lusitanian uprising. There were so many Iberians on the market for a while that they depressed the price. I would have bought some as a speculation, knowing that the price would go up — after all, there aren’t that many uprisings and the demand for slaves never stops. But I was temporarily short of capital, and besides you have to feed them. If the ones at the Library of Rome were a fair sample, they were no bargains anyway.
I gave up. The weather had improved enough to make a stroll around town attractive, and so I wandered towards the Ostia mono-rail.