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 spacesuited 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?”
Arnsen felt cold. “We’re getting off this asteroid. Right away.”
“Leaving Hastings?”
“We—I’ll look for him myself. There’s life here, malignant life. Plenty dangerous.”
“Not evil. No. Beyond evil, beyond good. I’m not going, Steve.”
“You’re going if I have to hog-tie you.”
O’Brien’s gloved hand tightened on the milky crystal. “Deirdre!” he said.
And, in the emptiness above them, a glow brightened.
There was no other warning. Arnsen tilted back his head to see—the incredible.
Deirdre
, he thought. Then, unbidden, another name leaped into his mind.
Circe!
Circe of Colchis, goddess of Aea—Circe, Daughter of the Day, who changed men to swine! Circe—more than human!
For this was no human figure that hovered above them. It seemed to be a girl, unclad, reclining in nothingness, her floating hair tinted like the rays of a dying sun. Her body swept in lines of pure beauty, long-limbed and gracious. Her eyes were veiled; long lashes hid them.
There was tenderness in her face, and aloofness, and alienage. There was beauty there—not entirely human beauty.
Rainbow crystals garmented her.
Some large, some small, multifaceted gems danced and shimmered against the blackness of the sky and the whiteness of Circe’s body. Moon-yellow, amber-gold, blue as the sea off Capri, green as the pine-clad hills of Earth—angry scarlet and lambent dragon-green!
With some distantly sane corner of his mind, Arnsen realized that it was impossible for any living being to exist without protection on the frigid, airless surface of the asteroid. Then he knew that both air and warmth surrounded the girl.
The crystals protected her. He knew that, somehow.
O’Brien twisted in his arms. He saw the girl, tried to spring free. Arnsen gripped him.
The boy swung a jolting blow that jarred the giant’s helmet. His mailed glove smashed against the metal plate. Dazed and giddy, Arnsen fell back, clawing at O’Brien. His fingers slipped along the other’s arm; he felt something drop into his hand, and clutched it.
Then O’Brien was free. He wrenched an oxygen-tank from Arnsen’s shoulders, whirled, and took a step toward the girl. She was further away now. …
Arnsen staggered up. His head was throbbing furiously. Too late he realized that, in the scuffle, his air-valve had fouled. He fumbled at it with clumsy fingers—and fell.
His helmet thudded solidly against hard slag. Blackness took him. …
IV
Circe the Immortal
It was dark when he woke. Oxygen was once more pouring into his suit; he had managed to open the valve before falling. Far above, the distant, corona-crowned sun flamed against the starry backdrop. The ship lay beneath its crag.
But of O’Brien there was no trace whatever.
After that, something akin to madness came to Arnsen. Again the utter loneliness of space crushed down on him, with suffocating terror. Doug was gone, like Hastings. Where?
He searched, then, and in the days thereafter. He grew haggard and gaunt, drugging himself with stimulants so he could drive himself beyond his limit. Hour after hour he searched the tiny world, squinting against sun-glare, peering into black shadow, shouting O’Brien’s name, cursing bitter, searing oaths that sounded futile to his ears. Time dragged on into an eternity. He had been here forever. He could not remember a time when he had not been plodding across the asteroid, watching for a glimpse of a spacesuited figure, of dancing jewels of fire, of a slim white body. …
Who was she? What was she? Not human—no. And the crystals, what were they?
He returned to the ship one day, shoulders slumping, and passed the spot where he had seen the girl. Something on the ground caught his eye. A pearly, shining gem.
He remembered his scuffle with O’Brien, and the thing that had dropped into his glove.
The jewel, of course. It had lain here, unnoticed, for many revolutions of
