There was a change in the boy after that. The dream in his eyes did not
fade, but he worked now with an intensity of purpose that had never
existed before. Previously, the two had held routine jobs in a huge
commercial organization. Without warning O'Brien quit. Arnsen followed
suit, feeling the necessity for staying close to the younger man. Yet
in the days to come, he amounted to little more than excess baggage.
O'Brien had plans. He borrowed money, scraped together enough to equip
a small laboratory, and there he worked long hours. Arnsen helped when
he could, though that was not often. He seldom knew exactly what the
boy was trying to accomplish.
Once O'Brien said a queer thing. They were in the laboratory, awaiting
the result of an experiment, and Arnsen was pacing back and forth
nervously.
"I wish I knew what was up, Doug," he said almost with anger. "We've
been at this for months now. What do you expect, anyway? You've had no
more than an ordinary training in physics."
"The jewel helps," O'Brien said. He took the gem from its suede bag and
stared into the cloudy depths. "I catch--thoughts from it."
Arnsen stopped short, staring. His face changed.
"You kidding?" he demanded.
O'Brien flushed. "Okay, try it," he said, thrusting the stone at
Arnsen, who took it rather reluctantly. "Shut your eyes and let your
mind go blank. That does it, sometimes."
"I--all right." Arnsen squeezed his eyes closed and thought of nothing.
Instantly a sick, horrible feeling swept through him--a terrible
yearning such as he had never known before. So might the Assassins
feel, deprived of the magic drug that took them to Paradise. An
Assassin exiled, cast into outer darkness.
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 unnameable 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."