Arnsen whistled. "That's a lot. Even for a small boat." His eyes
narrowed. "Why do you want it?"
"I'm going to find Deirdre," the other said simply. "She's out there,
somewhere." He tilted his head back. "And I'll find her."
"Space is pretty big."
"I've a guide." O'Brien took out the gray gem. "It wants to go to her,
too. It wants to go back. It isn't really alive here on Earth, you
know. And I'm not just dreaming, Steve. How do you suppose I managed
to make this alloy--the perfect plastic, tougher than beryllium steel,
lighter than aluminum, a conductor or non-conductor of electricity
depending on the mix.... You know I couldn't have done it alone."
"You did it."
O'Brien touched the jewel. "I found out how to do it. There's life in
here, Steve. Not earthly life, but intelligent. I could understand a
little, not much. Enough to work out the alloy. I had to do that first,
so I could get money enough to buy a spaceship."
"You don't know how to pilot in space."
"We'll hire a pilot."
"We?"
He grinned. "I'm going to prove my point. You don't believe in Deirdre.
But you'll see her, Steve. The jewel will guide us. It wants to go
home--so we'll take it there."
Arnsen scowled and turned away, his big shoulders tense with
unreasoning anger. He found himself hating the imaginary being O'Brien
had created. Deirdre! His fists clenched.
She did not exist. The major planets and satellites had been explored;
the inhabited ones held nothing remotely human. Martians were
huge-headed, spindle-legged horrors; Venusians were scaled amphibians,
living in a state of feudalism and constant warfare. The other
planets ... the avian, hollow-boned Callistans were closest to
humanity, but by no stretch of the imagination could they be called
beautiful. And Deirdre was beautiful. Imaginary or not, she was lovely
as a goddess.
_Damn her!_
But that did no good. O'Brien was not to be turned from his purpose.
With relentless, swift intensity he patented the alloy process, sold
it to the highest bidder, and purchased a light space cruiser. He
found a pilot, a leather-skinned, tough, tobacco-chewing man named Tex
Hastings, who could be depended on to do what he was told and keep his
mouth shut.
* * * * *
O'Brien chafed with impatience till the cruiser jetted off from the
spaceport. The closer he came to achieving his goal, the more nervous
he grew. The jewel he kept clenched in one hand most of the time.
Arnsen noticed that a dim brilliance was beginning to glow within it as
the ship plunged farther out toward the void.
Hastings cast quizzical glances at O'Brien, but did what he was told.
He confided in Arnsen.
"We haven't even bothered with charts. It's screwy, but I'm not
kicking. Only this isn't piloting. Your friend just points at a
star-sector and says, 'Go there.' Funny." He scratched his leathery
cheek, faded eyes intent on Arnsen's face.
The big man nodded. "I know. But it isn't up to me, Hastings. I'm
super-cargo."
"Yeah. Well, if you--want any help--you can count on me. I've seen
space-madness before."