His lean, slender fingers were twisted together, with a mute agony.
The girl’s dull eyes crossed Bob Star’s, without warmth or recognition.
She began talking as if to herself, in a dead, husky whisper.
Jay Kalam interpreted her words, but it seemed to Bob Star that he did so like an automatic machine, without himself comprehending anything.
“I am the last of my people.
For twelve generations we have dwelt inside the comet.
We have survived through times when death would have been welcome, for one thing—to destroy the Cometeers before they could destroy mankind.
My father lived and died for that, and all my people did.
Now at last I thought we had a chance.
But we have lost—”
His voice grew slow, and faded away, as if he had been a machine running down.
Giles Habibula was still slumped over the empty box.
He was weeping noisily, blowing his nose.
His fat fingers were restlessly exploring the smooth red metal, in aimless search.
Straightening convulsively, Bob Star whispered,
“Can’t we do— anything?”
Jay Kalam shook his head.
His teeth had cut his lip, and his lean chin was bright with blood.
The grave restraint of his face made a strange contrast with that scarlet stain.
He shook his head and licked his lip, and seemed dully surprised at the taste of blood.
“We can only wait, now—for them—”
Dazed, hopeless, Bob Star stared vacantly into the empty box.
They had failed, and they were doomed.
The old pain beat stronger and faster against his brain.
The ancient fear seized him; it would never die.
Sickness came back.
He crumpled down beside moaning Giles Habibula, in trembling, agonized despair.
He scarcely heard the remote whisper of the inner door, opening, but the dry and voiceless gasp of Kay Nymidee drew up his eyes.
He saw the Cometeers.
Two of them, dropping into that small green room.
Out of the nearer pillar of bright mist came a low chuckle of careless triumph.
It was the reckless laugh of a mocking god.
Listening dully in his apathy, Bob Star heard the familiar, ringing baritone of Stephen Oreo:
“Greetings, Bob.
Allow me to present my colleague, who is the nominal ruler of the comet.”
The violet star dipped slightly, as if it had made a mocking bow.
With a certain dun, lethargic interest, Bob Star stared at the shining lord of the comet.
It, he supposed, was responsible for the monstrous joke of the empty box.
Were the Cometeers, he wondered, indeed completely invulnerable?
Had this tremendous, guarded vault been but a fantastic hoax, designed to support the authority of this shining emperor?
“Your remarkable enterprise,” the easy voice of Stephen Oreo continued, “has alarmed my colleague, who is going to take steps for its immediate termination.
I regret your untimely passing, Bob, but your outrageous indiscretions have made it impracticable for me to preserve your life any longer.”
If the voice had gibbered or whispered or shrieked, Bob Star thought, the horror of it would have been/easier to bear.
For there was a dreadful discrepancy between the terrible burning wonder that spun before his eyes, and that careless tone of laughing levity.
“Before you die, Bob, wouldn’t you like to hear of your parents?
They are quite near, you know—so nearjthat your unfortunate companion, Hal Samdu, was brought upon his capture to their prison-ship.
That is how I came to be aware of your extraordinary activities.
“Your mother, you will doubtless be relieved to know, is yet uninjured.
But she has been displaying a foolish and useless reluctance to enter any discussion with me of the principles of AKKA—a reluctance which is soon to have a festive end.
I had planned for you and your companions to be present at the banquet.