upward and presently he raised his arms in a gesture of terrible longing. Heath looked hungrily into the mists and presently he raised his arms. "Ethne," he whispered. "Ethne." Almost imperceptibly, a change came over him. The weakness, the look of the sodden wreck, left him. He stood firm and straight, and the muscles rose coiled and beautiful on the long lean frame of his bones, alive with the tension of strength. His face had altered even more. There was a look of power on it. The dark eyes burned with deep fires, glowing with a light that was more than human, until it seemed that his whole head was crowned with a strange nimbus. For one short moment, the face of David Heath was the face of a god. "Ethne," he said. And she came. Out of the blue darkness, out of the mist, drifting tenuous and lovely toward the Earthman. Her body was made from the glowing air, the soft drops of the mist, shaped and coloured by the force that was in Heath. She was young, not more than nineteen, with the rosy tint of Earth's sun still in her cheeks, her eyes wide and bright as a child's, her body slim with the sweet angularity of youth. The first time I saw her, when she stepped down the loading ramp for her first look at Venus and the wind took her hair and played with it and she walked light and eager as a colt on a spring morning. Light and merry always, even walking to her death. The shadowy figure smiled and held out her arms. Her face was the face of a woman who has found love and all the world along with it. Closer and closer she drifted to Heath and the Earthman stretched out his hands to touch her. And in one swift instant, she was gone. Heath fell forward against the rail. He stayed there a long time. There was no god in him now, no strength. He was like a flame suddenly burned out and dead, the ashes collapsing upon themselves. His eyes were closed and tears ran out from under the lashes. In the steaming darkness of the room no one moved. Heath spoke once. "I couldn't go far enough," he said, "into the Moonfire."