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."
O'Brien said, "I want enough to buy a spaceship."
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."