"I'm not dead. I'm alive, Steve, more alive than I ever have been. All the crystals—Martians, Venusians, beings from other systems and galaxies that landed on this asteroid. Deirdre took them for her own. As she took Hastings. As she has taken me. We serve her now—"
The jewel tore free from Arnsen's grip. It fled back to Circe, brushing her lips, caressing her hair. The other gems, scores of them, danced about the girl like elfin lovers.
Arnsen stood there, sick and nauseated. He understood now. The intricate crystal machines were too complicated to work unless life-force energized them. Circe, who took the minds of living beings and prisoned them in silicate robot-forms.
They felt no resentment. They were content to serve.
"Damn you!" Arnsen mouthed, and took a step forward. His fists balled. His fingers ached to curl about the girl's slender neck and snap it with sharp, vicious pressure.
Her lashes swept up. Her eyes looked into his.
They were black as space, with stars prisoned in their depths. They were not human eyes.
Now Arnsen knew why O'Brien had asked if he had looked into Deirdre's eyes. They were her secret and her power. Her human form was not enough to enchant and enslave the beings of a hundred worlds. It was the soul-shaking alienage that looked out of Circe's eyes.
Through those dark windows Arnsen saw the Outside. He saw the gulf between the stars, and no longer did he fear it. For Circe was a goddess.