I laughed indulgently; a queer whim for such an exquisite creature, but it was distasteful to me to connect this dainty Centaurian with the gross depths of a laboratory, yet it seemed the natural trend of her powerful intellect. She was far and above the ordinary sphere of delicate, ethereal, trifling femininity; a phantom, yes; but tangible, adorable.
Centauri chuckled softly as I laughed again and led me to the covered table. There were a dozen or more silver lidded bowls arranged in a circle with a wide, flat dish in the center. Curiously I raised the lids, all contained liquids of various hues; one was green with a spicy odor of herbs, another thick, white as milk; and a third clear as water, while the flat center dish contained a dull, brownish fluid, emitting a strong wild odor.
“Blood!” I whispered.
“Quite right,” Centauri replied comfortably; “blood of oxen, which must be used in the natural heat.”
He turned to a tall glass jar which was filled with a beautiful ruby fluid, and placing a small vial to the crystal tube, pressed the siphon. The fluid rose sluggishly to the surface, then slowly flowed into the vial, thick, like syrup of fruit. He filled two goblets, handing one to me, the other the old gentleman drained at a gulp, never batting an eye. The draught turned against me, but I swallowed it. The liquor had a sweet, poignant flavor, and a most injurious effect. I felt a terrible pain in the region of my heart and the blood rushed to my head, blinding me. Centauri led me to the adjoining room, large, airy and flooded with moonlight. The weakness quickly passed, taking with it the fatigue of the day. I felt freshened, invigorated, as though just risen from a long, restful slumber. I hurried to the wide-opened windows, inhaling the fresh, fragrant breeze whistling around the high-turreted room and gazed upon a marvelous night view. The fantastic city of Centur flared a brilliant panorama, the penetrating light of electricity streamed from countless gigantic bulbs softening the lurid glow of domed buildings; and darting aimlessly, high in the heavens, uncanny bright red globes floated. It was a fabulous scene, yet a light touch upon my arm, a dark, fascinating face smiling into mine, and I completely forgot the blinding, weird expanse. As I drew her to me the room instantly blazed with light. A table lay spread with snowy cloth decked with sparkling silver and crystal. Dainty, tempting viands were served to me by the superb Alpha, but though I had fasted the whole day, I ate with little relish, while a parched throat forced me to drink more than was prudent. Under the fiery stimulant my mind expanded with brilliant thoughts, which I voiced with a sudden new eloquence that amazed me. I told of my side of the globe, picturing the great cities so vividly my listeners leaned eagerly toward me as though seeing my descriptions. I dwelled upon the religion of my country, explaining there were hundreds of sects, yet all worshipped the One Supreme Being, God, Father of all nature.
Alpha gazed at me with distended, wondering eyes, while Centauri sprang to his feet and with outstretched arms spoke wildly, agitatedly. I could not follow clearly his ravings, but his meaning was unmistakable, and while he spoke his daughter’s eyes narrowed, the forehead flattened, and the perfect brows met in a straight line.
Centauri’s excitement was painful; he was a fanatic. He believed in the Almighty, and denounced the Sun-worshippers as heathens.
Unmindful of his daughter’s presence he told me it was she who ruled the people; their idol, leader, they followed with blind devotion, and it was a divine providence that led me safely across the terrible North, that I might fulfill the mission ordained at my birth—converting and saving the Centaurians, through the powerful love inspired by the Priestess of the Sun.
“Teach my daughter the love of God!” he cried. “It will bring sublime, everlasting happiness to the Centaurians.”
The Priestess of the Sun patted his hand indulgently, laughing softly, yet defiantly. His voice quavered inaudibly, with arms raised in protest he sank to his seat. She rose, glanced deferentially at her father, then her voice rang sweet, clear as a bell in defence of her creed. She was bigoted, but unlike Centauri (who undoubtedly was the most sincere), she was cold, collected, more eloquent and convincing, and wisely refrained from denunciation.