[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astonishing Stories, June 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
_Prologue_
The stratoship from Cairo was late, and I was wondering whether the
newsreel theatre or a couple of drinks would make time pass faster.
It was early dusk. Through the immense, curved wall-window of the
Manhattan Port Room I could see the landing field, with a silvery ship
being rolled over the tarmac, and the skyscrapers of New York beyond.
Then I saw Arnsen.
It was Steve Arnsen, of course. No doubt about that. No other man had
his great breadth of shoulders, his Herculean build. Ten years ago we
had been classmates at Midwestern. I remembered rakehell, laughing,
handsome Steve Arnsen very well, with his penchant for getting into
trouble and out of it again, usually dragging Douglas O'Brien, his
room-mate, along with him like the helpless tail of a kite. Poor Doug!
He was the antithesis of Arnsen, a thoughtful, studious boy with the
shadow of a dream lurking always in his dark eyes. An idealist was
Douglas O'Brien, as his Celtic ancestors had been. Strong friendship
had existed between the two men--the mental communion of laughter and a
dream.
Arnsen was looking up into the darkening sky, a queer tensity in his
posture. He turned abruptly, came to a table near me, and sat down.
From his pocket he took a small box. It snapped open. His gaze probed
into the unknown thing that was hidden by his cupped hands.
I picked up my drink and went to Arnsen's table. All I could see was
the back of his sleek, massive head. Then he looked up--
If ever I saw hell in a man's face, I saw it in Arnsen's then. There
was a dreadful longing, and an equally horrible hopelessness, the
expression one might see on the face of a damned soul looking up from
the pit at the shining gates forever beyond his reach.
And Arnsen's face had been--ravaged.
The searing mark of some experience lay there, branded into his
furrowed cheeks, his tightened lips, into his eyes where a sickness
dwelt. No--this was not Steve Arnsen, the boy I had known at
Midwestern. Youth had left him, and hope as well.
"Vail!" he said, smiling crookedly. "Good Lord, of all people! Sit down
and have a drink. What are you doing here?"
I sought for words as I dropped into a chair. Arnsen watched me for a
moment, and then shrugged. "You might as well say it. I've changed.
Yeah--I know that."
"What happened?" There was no need to fence.
His gaze went beyond me, to the dark sky above the landing field. "What
happened? Why don't you ask where Doug is? We always stuck together,
didn't we? Surprising to see me alone--"
* * * * *
He lit a cigarette and crushed it out with an impatient gesture. "You
know, Vail, I've been hoping I'd run into you. This thing that's been
boiling inside of me--I haven't been able to tell a soul. No one would
have believed me. You may. The three of us kicked around together a
lot, in the old days."
"In trouble?" I asked. "Can I help?"
"You can listen," he said. "I came back to Earth thinking I might be
able to forget. It hasn't worked. I'm waiting for the airliner to take
me to Kansas Spaceport. I'm going to Callisto--Mars--somewhere. Earth
isn't the right place any more. But I'm glad we ran into each other,
Vail. I want to talk. I want you to answer a question that's been
driving me almost insane."
I signalled the waiter and got more drinks. Arnsen was silent till we
were alone once more. Then he opened his cupped hands and showed me
a small shagreen box. It clicked open. Nestling in blue velvet was a
crystal, not large, but lovelier than any gem I had ever seen before.
Light drifted from it like the flow of slow water. The dim shining
pulsed and waned. In the heart of the jewel was--
I tore my eyes away, staring at Arnsen. "What is it? Where did you get
the thing? Not on Earth!"
He was watching the jewel, sick hopelessness on his face. "No--not on
Earth. It came from a little asteroid out there--somewhere." He waved
vaguely toward the sky. "It isn't charted. I took no reckonings. So I
can never go back. Not that I want to, now. Poor Doug!"
"He's dead, isn't he?" I asked.
Arnsen looked at me strangely as he closed the box and slipped it back
into his pocket. "Dead? I wonder. Wait till you know the story, Vail.
About Doug's lucky charm, and the dreams, and the Crystal Circe...."
The slow horror of remembrance crept across his face. Out there, in
space, something had happened. I thought: It must have been frightful
to leave such traces on Arnsen.
He read my thought. "Frightful? Perhaps. It was quite lovely, too. You
remember the old days, when I thought of nothing but raising hell...."