"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!