Which was resistant but soft. I turned and looked and saw that it was not a step at all but a man dressed in gray, kneeling on all fours. He rose and scurried off, along with another human footstep. Midgets, about as tall as my waist and almost as wide. My companions had reacted as I had, our eyes met but we said nothing.
“Greetings,” a stentorian voice bellowed. “Welcome, welcome visitors to Paradise.”
“Thanks much,” I said to the tall and barrel-chested man who was draped in gold cloth. “Iron John, I presume?”
“Most flattering-but you presume wrongly. Musical guests, kindly follow me.”
The trumpets blared again, then the trumpeters opened ranks. Three gray-clad men hurried up and took our packs. I started to resist, then made the reluctant decision that it would be all right. The reception we had received at the archway had been too spontaneous to be planned. Our gold-clad greeter bowed to us, then led the way. Towards the brick steps of a brick building.
If the Paradisians were short on building materials they certainly weren’t bereft of architectural imagination. Tall pill pillars capped with ornate capitals, rose up to support the archive of a complex entablature. Just like I had been taught in Architecture 1. To either side tall windows opened onto wide balconies. And all of this done in red brick.
“Looks great so far,” Floyd said.
“Yes, great,” I agreed. But I looked back to make sure the porters with our packs were right behind us. And I still had the concussion grenades in my pocket. No one ever got into trouble by being prepared-as we used to say in the Boy Sprouts.
Down a brick corridor over brick paving we went. Through a brick doorway into a great and impressive room. It was colorfully lit by the sunlight that streamed through the ceiling-high, stained-glass windows. Colorful scenes were depicted there of armies marching, attacking, fighting, dying; the usual thing. This motif was carried through to the walls which were hung with tattered battle banners, shields and swords. Robed men who stood about the room turned and nodded to us as we entered. But our guide led us past them to the far wall where there was an elevated throne, made of you-know-what, on which was seated the tallest man I have ever seen.
Not only tall-but naked.
At least he would have been naked if he had not been completely covered with rusty, reddish hair. His beard cascaded down his chest-which was covered as well with hair. Arms and legs and, I couldn’t help peeking when he stood, hair all down his belly and crotch as well. This was all that was visible since he was wearing a sort of jockstrap or sporran woven out of, well possibly, his own hair. All of it the color of rusty iron. I stepped forward and. bowed a little bow.
“Iron John . . . ?”
“None other,” he rumbled in a voice like distant thunder. “Welcome Jim-and Floyd and Steengo. Welcome Stainless Steel Rats. Your fame has gone before you.”
Always good to meet a true fan. We all bowed now since this was not the kind of reception you normally get. Bowed yet again as all in the room cheered lustily.
Iron John sat down again and crossed his legs. He either painted his toenails or they were naturally rusty. I let it pass since there were a lot more things I would like to know first.
“All here in Paradise were possessed of a great depression when you were arrested,” he said. “Falsely of course?”
“Of course!”
“I thought so. But the galaxy’s loss is our gain. We are pleased since we now have, you might say, a monopoly on your talents.”
This had an ominous sound which I ignored for the moment, cocking an ear as he rumbled on.
“The galaxy is so filled with guilt, sorrow and wrongheadedness that we chose, out of disgust, not to watch most of what is disseminated by television. I am sure that it will cheer you to know that, since your arrest and incarceration, we have canceled normal programming and have been running recordings of your numbers, day and night. Now, soon, we will be happily blessed with the originals themselves!”