They were measuring him now, taking in the magnificent breadth of shoulder, the long, flat thighs and narrow waist, above which rose the inverted pyramid that was Julian's torso. At last they carefully removed his helmet and paused as if appraising the great shock of golden hair. With a swift motion that took in Julian's entire body, the designer indicated that Julian strip. Again the exquisite hands repeated the gesture--impatiently this time--but Julian, his face set, still hesitated. The designer was a native Ganymedean, beyond doubt--Julian knew that much. But, was it a man or a woman? Julian was well aware that the exquisite beings of fabulous Ganymede, who even when confronted with the outrage that was _The Dynasty_, foisted upon them by the Terran Mutants had disdained arming themselves to the teeth as the rest of the Moons had done, had some very strange ideas about things. And the "Control-Facet" had no intention of disrobing before a woman--even as alien and anonymous a being as the Ganymedeans. His face was beginning to flush with sheer annoyance. As if reading Julian's thoughts, the masked designer shook its head and made an expressive gesture with its hands, as if Julian's nudity would be a thing of such utter unimportance, that it would scarcely be noticed, except as a foundation upon which to achieve a superlative disguise. And Julian had no alternative. It was either disrobe or enter the Public Rooms as he was. Mentally he consigned the stubborn race of Ganymede to the most sulphuric region he could think of, and palming his electro-beam, undressed. The coldly unemotional designer was unable to suppress a gasp! Its ancient, long-forgotten Gods must have been like this; theirs was a cult of beauty, and in Julian it was witnessing a masterpiece. Almost, reverently, the fluttering hands began their work. The Ganymedean's artistry was very great. "_Part of their accursed stubbornness!_" Julian thought. For the Ganymedeans had an exasperating tenacity of purpose which brooked no obstacles until they achieved their ends--it bordered on genius, or madness, or both. Had they devoted it to the art of War, Seville-Lorca's "_Jovian Annals_" would have been a vastly different story.