"I do," he told her. "I want to find out something."
The outer door opened and he stepped out. He held his arm for her, because the steps and walk-way were no longer heated. Now they were covered with a filmy layer of something which was not frost, but a faint bloom of powder—microscopic snow-crystals frozen out of the air by the unbearable chill of night.
There was no moon, of course, yet the ice-clad mountains glowed faintly. The drone-hulls arranged in such an orderly fashion were dark against the frosted ground. There was silence, stillness, the feeling of ancient quietude. No wind stirred anywhere. Nothing moved, nothing lived. The soundlessness was enough to crack the ear-drums.
Bordman threw back his head and gazed at the sky for a very long time. Nothing. He looked down at Riki.
"Look at the sky," he commanded.
She raised her eyes. She had been watching him. But as she gazed upward she almost cried out. The sky was filled with stars in innumerable variety. But the brighter ones were as stars had never been seen before. Just as the sun in daylight had been accompanied by its sun-dogs—pale phantoms of itself ranged about it—so the brighter distant suns now shone from the center of rings of their own images. They no longer had the look of random placing. Those which were most distinct were patterns in themselves, and one's eyes strove instinctively to grasp the greater pattern in which such seeming artifacts must belong.
"Oh—beautiful!" cried Riki softly.
"Look!" he insisted. "Keep looking!"
She continued to gaze, moving her eyes about hopefully. It was such a sight as no one could have imagined. Every tint and every color, every possible degree of brightness appeared. And there were groups of stars of the same brilliance which almost made triangles, but not quite. There were rose-tinted stars which almost formed an arc, but did not. And there were arrays which were almost lines and nearly formed squares and polygons, but never actually achieved them.
"It's beautiful," said Riki. "But what must I look for?"