And even in that the commander was disappointed.
Bob Star scanned that tiny world alertly, as the Halcyon Bird dropped upon it with rockets flaming blue; and Hal Samdu waited at his great proton needle.
But no challenge came from the ultrawave tower.
No hidden proton guns stabbed out.
No stir of motion greeted the descending stranger.
The tiny white spindle of the geodesic cruiser lay motionless upon the rocket field, beside the enigmatic quiet of the long white building.
The Halcyon Bird came at last to rest upon the level gravel of the little field, beside that other ship.
“Well!” Bob Star laughed uneasily, pointing at a fuel gauge that read Empty.
Jay Kalam was peering through the observation ports, with wonder on his face.
“Queer,” he whispered, “that our arrival doesn’t create some commotion.
Strange ships don’t land here every day.”
Bob Star looked out.
Beyond the slim, bright hull of the motionless ship, he could see the white walls and pillars of the building.
It was a vast, rambling structure, and every gleaming surface reflected expensive artistic simplicity.
A tiny artificial lake burned like a flake of pale silver, beyond it, under the purple darkness of the star-pierced sky.
And all about it slumbered the silent, exotic beauty of the landscaped grounds.
Such small planetoids are never round.
The surface of this one was a maze of pinnacles and cliffs, ravines and chasms.
Pale grass and rank, livid woodland covered the more level slopes.
Many-hued lichens splashed the projecting rocks with green, scarlet and gold.
A slow smile of bemused admiration was creeping over Jay Kalam’s thin face.
“Why, it’s a fairyland,” he whispered softly.
“A dream!”
His shining eyes moved from one strange vista to another, drinking in the peaceful, haunting beauty of lichen-painted rock masses, the gay laughter of shimmering gardens, the cool smile of the silvery lake, and the simple welcome of the long white house.
Beside him, Bob Star felt a strange, painful joy stealing into his heart.
Every shrub and tree called to him with a limpid voice of enchantment.
The whole tiny planet reached out to him alluring, sooth-ing arms of magic.
They rocked his spirit in a cradle of peace.
The rest of the System seemed abruptly very remote, the disasters of mankind queerly unreal.
And he knew that it would be very hard to go away.
“Can’t you feel it, Bob?” Jay Kalam was whispering again.
“Can’t you feel the hand of a genius, in the balance and the rhythm and the pattern of every rock and plant and patch of grass.
Can’t you hear an artist singing, in the line and mass and color of it?”
Bob Star nodded silently.
“This world is haunted, Bob, if anything ever was.” He went on softly. “Haunted by the spirit of the man who made it.
It calls to you from every vista—with joy or peace or laughter or pain.
Or sometimes with terror, where the rocks are wild and dark, and those pale, livid trees are twisted like monstrous dwarfs.”
Something made him shiver.
“But it’s dead.
Its maker is dead.”
His low voice carried a strange, half-absent conviction.
“He’s dead, and his spirit is trying to call to us, from the beauty he created.”
Abruptly he shook his head.
“I somehow got that feeling,” he said briskly.
“But we’ve no time to be talking nonsense, Bob.
We must be finding out what’s wrong, here—why everything is so still.
And seeing if we can get that ship.”
They left Hal Samdu watching in the gun turret.
Cautiously alert, gripping proton pistols, the three others descended from the air-lock of the Halcyon Bird.
The synthetic atmosphere of the tiny world was fresh and cold, sparkling with the fragrance of the gardens.