by FRANK BELKNAP LONG
When you've been to Mars, when you've struggled
with men and ships and supplies like some tremendous
Herculean figure in the morning of the world,
you'll never really feel at home on Earth....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
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 stout-hearted
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--