Lake of Fire
Steve found the mirror in the great northwestern desert. It was lying half-buried in the sand, and the wind howled in fury over it, and when he bent to pick it up the sun smote him like a shining blade, dividing his tall body into blinding light and wavering shadow.
I knew it was a Martian mirror before he straightened. The craftsmanship was breathtaking and could not have been duplicated on Earth. It was shaped like an ordinary hand mirror; but its glass surface was like a lake of fire, with depth beyond depth to it, and the jewels sparkling at its rim were a deep aquamarine which seemed to transmute the sun-glow into shimmering bands of starlight.
I could have told Steve that such mirrors, by their very nature, were destructive. When a man carries a hopeless vision of loveliness about with him, when he lives with that vision night and day, he ceases to be the undisputed master of his own destiny—
“She’s alive, Jim,” Steve said. “A woman dead fifty thousand years. A woman from a civilization that flourished before the dawn of human history.”
“Take it easy, Steve,” I warned. “The Martians simply knew how to preserve every aspect of a mirrored image. Say howdedo to her if you like. Press your lips to the glass and see what happens. But don’t mistake an imitation of life for the real thing.”
“An imitation of life!” Steve flared. “Man, she just smiled at me. She’s aware of us, I tell you.”
“Sure she is. Her brain was mirrored too, every aspect of its electro-dynamic structure preserved forever by a science that’s lost forever. Get a grip on yourself, Steve.”
I was hot and tired and dusty. My throat was parched and I didn’t feel much like arguing with him. But I had my reasons for being stubborn.
“Men have found Martian mirrors and gone mad,” I said. “Don’t take any chances, Steve. We don’t know yet what it’s rigged with. Why not play it safe? A thousand cycles of direct current should melt it down.”
“Melt her down!” Steve’s eyes narrowed in sudden fury. “Why, it would be murder!”
Steve got up and brushed sand from his knees. He held the mirror up so that the red Martian sunlight caught and aureoled the splendor of a face that offered a man no chance of help if he ever let go.
A pale, beautiful face, the eyes fringed with long, dark lashes, the lips parted in a mocking smile. A living image capable of mercurial changes of mood, unnaturally still one moment, smiling and animated the next.
One thing at a time
, I thought. Don’t drive him too hard.
“Some men have carried them about for years,” I said. “But just remember what falling in love with an image can mean. You’ll never hold her in your arms, Steve. And compulsions can kill.”
“She’s alive as flesh-and-blood is alive,” he said, glaring at me.
“Easy, Steve!”
I could see that I was going to have trouble with my stouthearted buddy, Captain Stephen Claymore.
He could have stared at a mountain of gold unmoved. He could have knelt with a wry chuckle, and let a handful of diamonds trickle through his wiry, bronze-knuckled hands, in utter contempt for what diamonds could buy on Earth.
He could have thrown back his head and laughed, at wealth, at glory, at anything you want to name that men prize highly on Earth. But a beautiful woman was a temptation apart. A beautiful woman—
Steve grabbed my arm. “Look out, Tom!” he cried. “Watch it!”
The bullet whizzed past like a heat-maddened insect. Steve leapt back, and
