Collected Fiction, page 267
A face swam into view, lovely and strange beyond imagination. Only a glimpse he had, blotted out by rainbow, coruscating lights that darted and flashed like elfin fireflies. Then darkness, once more, and the frightful longing—for what?
He let go of the gem; O’Brien caught it as it fell. The boy smiled wryly.
“I wondered if you’d get it, too. Did you see her?”
“I saw nothing,” Arnsen snarled, whirling toward the door. “I felt nothing!”
“Yet you’re afraid. Why? I don’t fear her, or the stone.”
“The more fool you,” Arnsen cast over his shoulder as he went out. He felt sick and weak, as though unnamable vistas had opened before him. There was no explanation for what he had felt—no sane explanation, at least.
AND yet there might be, he thought, as he paced about the yard, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. Telepathy, thought-transference—he had simply caught what was in O’Brien’s mind. But it was horrible to know that Doug was feeling that soul-sick craving for the goddess-girl who could not exist.
O’Brien came out of the laboratory, eyes aglow. It’s done,” he said, trying to repress his triumph. “We’ve got the alloy at last. That last treatment did the trick.” Arnsen felt vague apprehension. He tried to congratulate O’Brien, but his tone rang false to his own ears. The boy. smiled understandingly.
“It’s been good of you to string along, Steve. The thing will pay off now. Only—I’ll need a lot of money.”
“You’ll have a lot. Plenty of companies will be bidding for the process.”
O’Brien said, “I want enough to buy a spaceship.”
Arnsen whistled. “That’s a lot. Even for a small boat.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want it?”
“I’m going to find Deirdre,” the other said simply. “She’s out there, somewhere.” He tilted his head back. “And I’ll find her.”
“Space is pretty big.”
“I’ve a guide.” O’Brien took out the gray gem. “It wants to go to her, too. It wants to go back. It isn’t really alive here on Earth, you know. And I’m not just dreaming, Steve. How do you suppose I managed to make this alloy—the perfect plastic, tougher than beryllium steel, lighter than aluminum, a conductor or non-conductor of electricity depending on the mix . . . You know I couldn’t have done it alone.”
“You did it.”
O’Brien touched the jewel. “I found out how to do it. There’s life in here, Steve. Not earthly life, but intelligent. I could understand a little, not much. Enough to work out the alloy. I had to do that first, so I could get money enough to buy a spaceship.”
“You don’t know how to pilot in space.”
“We’ll hire a pilot.”
“We?”
He grinned. “I’m going to prove my point. You don’t believe in Deirdre. But you’ll see her, Steve. The jewel will guide us. It wants to go home—so well take it there.”
Arnsen scowled and turned away, his big shoulders tense with unreasoning anger. He found himself hating the imaginary being O’Brien had created. Deirdre! His fists clenched.
She did not exist’. The major planets and satellites had been explored; the inhabited ones held nothing remotely human. Martians were huge-headed, spindle-legged horrors; Venusians were scaled amphibians, living in a state of feudalism and constant warfare. The other planets . . . the avian, hollow-boned Callistans were closest to humanity, but by no stretch of the imagination could they be called beautiful. And Deirdre was beautiful. Imaginary or not, she was lovely as a goddess.
Damn her!
But that did no good. O’Brien was not to be turned from his purpose. With relentless, swift intensity he patented the alloy process, sold it to the highest bidder, and purchased a light space cruiser. He found a pilot, a leather-skinned, tough, tobacco-chewing man named Tex Hastings, who could be depended on to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut.
O’BRIEN chafed with impatience till the cruiser jetted off from the spaceport. The closer he came to achieving his goal, the more nervous he grew. The jewel he kept clenched in one hand most of the time. Arnsen noticed that a dim brilliance was beginning to glow within it as the ship plunged farther out toward the void.
Hastings cast quizzical glances at O’Brien, but did what he was told. He confided in Arnsen.
“We haven’t even bothered with charts. It’s screwy, but I’m not kicking. Only this isn’t piloting. Your friend just points at a star-sector and says, ‘Go there.’ Funny.” He scratched his leathery cheek, faded eyes intent on Arnsen’s face.
The big man nodded. “I know. But it isn’t up to me, Hastings. I’m supercargo.”
“Yeah. Well, if you—want any help—you can count on me. I’ve seen space-madness before.”
Arnsen snorted. “Space-madness!” Hastings’ eyes were steady. “I may be wrong, sure. But anything can happen out here. We’re not on Earth, Mr. Arnsen. Earth laws don’t apply. Neither does logic. We’re on the edge of the unknown.”
“I never thought you were superstitious.”
“I’m not. Only I’ve been around, and seen a lot. That crystal Mr. O’Brien lugs around with him—I never saw anything like that before.” He waited, but Arnsen didn’t speak. “All right, then. I’ve known things to drift in from Outside. Funny things, damn funny. The Solar System’s like a Sargasso. It catches flotsam from other systems, even other universes, for all I know. One rule I’ve learned—when you can’t guess the answer, it’s a good idea to stay clear.”
Arnsen grunted moodily, staring out a port at the glaring brilliance of the stars.
“Ever heard any stories about jewels like that one?”
Hastings shook his closely-cropped head. “No. But I saw a wreck once, Sunside of Pluto—a ship that hadn’t been designed in this System. It was deserted; God knows how long it had been out there. Or where it came from. Inside, it wasn’t designed for human beings at all. It came from Outside, of course, and Outside is a big place. That jewel, now—” He bit the end off a quid of tobacco.
“What about it?”
“It’s an Outside sort of thing. And your friend isn’t acting normal. It may add up to trouble. It may not. My point is that I’m going to keep my eyes open, and you’d be wise to do the same thing.”
Arnsen went back to the galley and fried eggs, angry with himself for listening to Hastings’ hints. He was more than ever uncomfortable. Back on Earth, it had been easier to disbelieve in any unknown powers that the gray jewel might possess; here, it was different. Space was the hinterland, the waste that bordered the cryptic Outside. The forward step in science that threw open the gates of interplanetary travel had, in a way, taken man back in time to a day when he cowered in a cave, fearing the powers of the dark that lurked in the unknown jungle. Space travel had broken barriers. It opened a door that, perhaps, should have remained forever closed.
On the shores of space strange flotsam was cast. Arnsen’s gaze probed out through the port, to the red globe of Mars, the blinding brilliance of the Milky Way, the enigmatic shadow of the Corn Sack. Out There anything might lie. Life grown from a matrix neither Earthly nor even three-dimensional. Charles Fort had hinted at it; scientists had hazarded wild guesses. The cosmic womb of space, from which blasphemous abortions might be cast.
So they went on, day after day, skirting Mars and plunging on into the thick of the asteroid belt. It was uncharted country now, a Sargasso of remnants from an exploded planet that had existed here eons ago. Sounds rang loudly in the narrow confines of the space ship. Nervousness gripped all three of the men. But O’Brien found comfort in the gray crystal. His eyes held a glowing light of triumph.
“We are coming closer, Steve,” he said. “Deirdre isn’t far away now.”
“Damn Deirdre,” Arnsen said—but not aloud.
The ship went on, following the blind course O’Brien pointed. Hastings shook his head in grim silence, and trained his passengers in the use of the space-suits. Few of the asteroids had atmosphere, and it became increasingly evident that the destination was an asteroid . . .
CHAPTER THREE
The Singing Crystals
THEY found it at last, a jagged, slowly revolving ball that looked incredibly desolate, slag from some solar furnace. The telescope showed no life. The ball had hardened as it whirled, and the molten rock had frozen instantly, in frigid space, into spiky, giant crags and stalagmites. No atmosphere, no water, no sign of life in any form.
The crystal O’Brien held had changed. A pale light streamed from it. O’Brien’s face was tensely eager.
“This is it. Set the ship down, Hastings.”
The pilot made a grimace, but bent toward the controls. It was a ticklish task at best, for he had to match the ship’s speed to the speed of the asteroid’s revolution and circle in, describing a narrowing spiral. Rocket ships are not built for maneuverability. They blast their way to ground and up again through sheer roaring power.
She settled bumpily on the iron-hard surface of the asteroid, and Arnsen looked through the thick visiglass at desolation that struck a chill to his heart. Life had never existed here. It was a world damned in the making, a tiny planetoid forever condemned to unbearable night and silence. It was one with the darkness. The sun glare, in the absence of atmosphere, made sharp contrasts between light and jet shadow. The fingers of rock reached up hungrily, as though searching for warmth. There was nothing menacing about the picture. It was horrible in its lifelessness; that was all.
It was not intended for life. Arnsen felt himself an intruder.
O’Brien met his glance. The boy was smiling, rather wryly.
“I know,” he said. “It doesn’t look very promising, does it? But this is the place.”
“Maybe—a million years ago,” Arnsen said skeptically. “There’s nothing here now.”
Silently O’Brien put the crystal in the giant’s hand.
From it a pulse of triumph burst out! Exultation! The psychic wave shook Arnsen with its intensity, wiped doubt from his face. Invisibly and intangibly, the jewel shouted its delight!
The glow within it waxed brighter. Hastings said abruptly, “Time to eat. Metabolism’s higher in space. We can’t afford to miss a meal.”
“I’m going out,” O’Brien said.
But Arnsen seconded the pilot. “We’re here now. You can afford to wait an hour or so. And I’m hungry.”
They opened thermocans in the galley and gulped the hot food standing. The ship had suddenly become a prison. Even Hastings was touched with the thirst to know what awaited them outside.
“We circled the asteroid,” he said at last, his voice argumentative. “There’s nothing here, Mr. O’Brien. We saw that.” But O’Brien was hurrying back to the control cabin.
The suits were cumbersome, even in the slight gravity. Hastings tested the oxygen tanks strapped on (he backs, and checked the equipment with stringent care. A leak would be fatal on this airless world.
SO THEY went out through the airlock, and Arnsen, for one, felt his middle tightening with the expectation of the unknown. His breathing sounded loud and harsh within the helmet. The tri-polarized faceplates of the helmets were proof against sunglare, but they could not minimize the horrible desolation of the scene.
A world untouched—more lifeless, more terrible, than frigid Jotunheim, where the Frost Giants dwelt. Arnsen’s heavily-leaded boots thumped solidly on the slag. There was no dust here, no sign of erosion, for there was no air.
In O’Brien’s hand the crystal flamed with milky pallor. The boy’s face was thin and haggard with desire. Arnsen, watching, felt hot fury against the incubus that had worked its dark spell on the other.
He could do nothing—only follow and wait. His hand crept to the weighted blackjack in his belt.
He saw the hope slowly fade from O’Brien’s eyes. Against his will he said, “We’re only on the surface, Doug. Underground—”
“That’s right. Maybe there’s an entrance, somewhere. But I don’t know. We may be a thousand years too late, Steve.” His gaze clung to the crystal.
It pulsed triumphantly. Pale flame lanced joyously from it. Alive it was; Arnsen had no doubt of that now. Alive, and exulting to be home once more.
Years too late? There was not the slightest trace of any artifact on this airless planetoid. The bleakness of outer space itself cast a veil over the nameless world. The three men plodded on.
In the end, they went back to the ship.
The quick night of the tiny world had fallen. The flaming corona of the sun had vanished; stars leaped into hard, jeweled brilliance against utter blackness. The sky blazed with cold fires.
Lifeless, alien, strange. It was the edge of the unknown.
They slept at last; metabolism was high, and they needed to restore their tissues.
Hours later Arnsen came to half wakefulness. In his bunk he rose on one elbow, wondering what had roused him. His mind felt dulled. He could scarcely tell whether or not he was dreaming.
Across the ship a man’s head and shoulders were silhouetted against a port, grotesquely large and distorted. Beyond, the stars blazed.
They moved. They swirled in a witch-dance of goblin lanterns, dancing, whirling, spiraling. Blue, yellow, amethyst and milky pearl, streaks of light golden as the eye of a lioness—and nameless colors, not earthly, made a patterned arabesque as they danced their elfin saraband there in the airless dark.
The dark swallowed Arnsen. Slumber took him . . .
SLOWLY, exhaustedly, he came back to consciousness. His head ached; his tongue was thick. For a moment he lay quietly, trying to remember.
Dream? Arnsen cursed, threw his blankets aside, and sprang from the bunk.
O’Brien was gone. Tex Hastings was gone. Two spacesuits had vanished from their racks.
Arnsen’s face twisted into a savage mask. He knew, now, what had been so wrong about his vision of the night. The man he had glimpsed at the port had been outside the ship. Doug?
Or Hastings. It did not matter. Both men were gone. He was alone, on the mystery world.
Arnsen set his jaw, gulped caffeine tablets to clear his head, and wrenched a space-suit from its hooks. He donned it, realizing that sunlight once more was pouring down from the distant sun.
Soon he was ready. He went out of the ship, climbed atop it, and stared around. Nothing. The bleak, light-and-shadow pattern of the asteroid stretched to the sharply curving horizon all around. There was nothing else.
Nor were there tracks in the iron-hard slag. He would have to search at random, by pure guesswork. In the low gravity his leap to the ground scarcely jarred him. He gripped the billy at his left and moved forward, toward a high pinnacle in the distance.
He found nothing.
Worst of all, perhaps, was the horrible loneliness that oppressed him. He was too close to Outside now. He was the only living thing in a place never meant for human life. The ghastly bleakness of the asteroid sank like knife-blades into his mind, searing it coldly. There was no relief when he looked up. The distant sun, with its corona, was infinitely far away. The rest of the sky held stars, remote, not twinkling as on Earth, but shining with a cold intensity, a pale fury relentless and eternal. In the light the heat seared him through his armor; in the shadows he shivered with cold.
He went on, sick with hate, seeking the unknown thing that had taken Doug.
The boy was a poet, a dreamer, a fool, easy victim for the terror that haunted the asteroid.
Exhausted, he turned back. His air supply was running low, and there was no sign of either Doug or Hastings. He headed for the ship . . .
It was further than he had thought. He sighted it at last, beneath a towering stalagmite that thrust up into the harsh sunlight, and his steps quickened. Why hadn’t he thought to bring extra cylinders of oxygen?
The lock stuck under his gloved, awkward fingers; he wrenched at it savagely. At last the great valve swung open. He went through the airlock, opened his visiplate, and took great breaths of the fresher air. Oxygen cylinders were racked near by; he swung several into position on his back and clamped them into place. He gulped more caffeine tablets.
Some instinct made him turn and look back through the port. Over the uneven ground a space-suited figure was staggering, a quarter of a mile distant . . .
Arnsen’s heart jumped. In one swift motion he clamped shut his visiplate and leaped for the airlock. It seemed an eternity before he was outside, leaping, racing, straining toward the man who had fallen helpless, a motionless shadow amid the glare. Doug? Hastings?
IT WAS O’Brien, his young face gray with exhaustion and flushed with oxygen-thirst. For a moment Arnsen thought the boy was dead. He thrust one arm under O’Brien’s back, lifting him; with the other hand he fumbled at an auxiliary air-hose, thrusting it into the valve in O’Brien’s chin-plate as he ripped away the useless hose. Oxygen flowed into the boy’s suit.
His nostrils distended as he drank in the precious air. Arnsen watched, teeth bared in a mirthless grin. Good! Color came back to O’Brien’s cheeks—a healthy flush under the deep tan. His eyes opened, looked into Arnsen’s.
“Couldn’t find her,” he whispered, his voice hollow through the audiophone.
“Deirdre—I couldn’t find her, Steve.”
Arnsen said, “What happened, Doug?”
O’Brien took a deep breath and shook his head. “I woke up—something warned me. This.” He unclasped his gloved hand and showed the milky crystal. “It knew—she—was close. I felt it. I woke up, went to a port, and saw the—the lights. Hastings was out there. She’d called him, I guess. He was running after the lights . . . I had sense enough to put on my suit. Then I followed. But Hastings was too fast for me. I followed till I lost him. Miles—hours. Then I saw my oxygen was low. I tried to get back to the ship—”.
He tried to smile. “Why did she call Hastings, Steve? Why not me?”
