THE CRYSTAL CIRCE
By Henry Kuttner
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astonishing Stories, June 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Prologue
The stratoship from Cairo was late, and I was wondering whether thenewsreel theatre or a couple of drinks would make time pass faster.It was early dusk. Through the immense, curved wall-window of theManhattan Port Room I could see the landing field, with a silvery shipbeing rolled over the tarmac, and the skyscrapers of New York beyond.
Then I saw Arnsen.
It was Steve Arnsen, of course. No doubt about that. No other man hadhis great breadth of shoulders, his Herculean build. Ten years ago wehad been classmates at Midwestern. I remembered rakehell, laughing,handsome Steve Arnsen very well, with his penchant for getting intotrouble and out of it again, usually dragging Douglas O'Brien, hisroom-mate, along with him like the helpless tail of a kite. Poor Doug!He was the antithesis of Arnsen, a thoughtful, studious boy with theshadow of a dream lurking always in his dark eyes. An idealist wasDouglas O'Brien, as his Celtic ancestors had been. Strong friendshiphad existed between the two men—the mental communion of laughter and adream.
Arnsen was looking up into the darkening sky, a queer tensity in hisposture. He turned abruptly, came to a table near me, and sat down.From his pocket he took a small box. It snapped open. His gaze probedinto the unknown thing that was hidden by his cupped hands.
I picked up my drink and went to Arnsen's table. All I could see wasthe back of his sleek, massive head. Then he looked up—
If ever I saw hell in a man's face, I saw it in Arnsen's then. Therewas a dreadful longing, and an equally horrible hopelessness, theexpression one might see on the face of a damned soul looking up fromthe pit at the shining gates forever beyond his reach.
And Arnsen's face had been—ravaged.
The searing mark of some experience lay there, branded into hisfurrowed cheeks, his tightened lips, into his eyes where a sicknessdwelt. No—this was not Steve Arnsen, the boy I had known atMidwestern. Youth had left him, and hope as well.
"Vail!" he said, smiling crookedly. "Good Lord, of all people! Sit downand have a drink. What are you doing here?"
I sought for words as I dropped into a chair. Arnsen watched me for amoment, and then shrugged. "You might as well say it. I've changed.Yeah—I know that."
"What happened?" There was no need to fence.
His gaze went beyond me, to the dark sky above the landing field. "Whathappened? Why don't you ask where Doug is? We always stuck together,didn't we? Surprising to see me alone—"
He lit a cigarette and crushed it out with an impatient gesture. "Youknow, Vail, I've been hoping I'd run into you. This thing that's beenboiling inside of me—I haven't been able to tell a soul. No one wouldhave believed me. You may. The three of us kicked around together alot, in the old days."
"In trouble?" I asked. "Can I help?"
"You can listen," he said. "I came back to Earth thinking I might beable to forget. It hasn't worked. I'm waiting for the airliner to takeme to Kansas Spaceport. I'm going to Callisto—Mars—somewhere. Earthisn't the right place any more. But I'm gl