The Fire People by Ray Cummings (best e reader for epub txt) 📖

that shone with a soft luster in the moonlight and seemed reflected in the blue of her eyes.

Mercer in white flannels sat beside her, cross‑legged on the white sand, with a newly purchased Hawaiian guitar across his lap. From the band stand in the pavilion down the beach faint strains of music floated up to them. The moon silvered the water before them; a soft, gentle breeze of summer caressed their cheeks; the myriad stars glittered overhead like brilliant gems scattered on the turquoise velvet of the sky.

Anina, chin cupped in her hand, sat staring at the wonderful heavens that all her life before had been withheld from her sight. She sighed tremulously.

"I want to say this is a night," Mercer declared, breaking a long silence.

"It's—it's beautiful," she answered softly. "Those millions of worlds—like mine, perhaps—or like this one of yours." She turned to him. "Ollie, which of them is my world?"

"You can't see it now, Anina. It's too close to the sun."

Again she sighed. "I'm sorry for that. It would seem closer, perhaps, if we could see it."

"You're not sorry you came, Anina? You don't want to go back now?"

[Pg 203]

"Not now, Ollie." She smiled into his earnest, pleading eyes. "For those I love are here as well as there. I have Miela and Alan—and—"

"And?" Mercer leaned forward eagerly.

"And Miela's little son—that darling little baby. We must go back soon and see Miela. She will be wondering where we are."

Mercer sat back. "Oh," he said. "Yes, we must."

The band in the pavilion stopped its music. Mercer slid his little steel cross‑piece over the guitar strings and began to play the haunting, crying music of the islands, the music of moonlight and love. After a moment he stopped abruptly.

"Anina, that little song you sang in the boat that day—you remember—the day we went to the Water City? Sing it again, Anina."

She sang it through softly, just as she had in the boat, to its last ending little half‑sob.

Mercer laid his guitar on the sand beside him.

"You said that music talks to you, Anina—though sometimes you—you don't understand just what it tries to say. I feel it that way, too—only—only to‑night—now—I think I do understand."

His voice was very soft and earnest and just a trifle husky.

"You said that it was a love‑song, Anina, and it was sad because love is sad. Do you—think love is always sad?" He put out his hand awkwardly and touched hers.

"Do you, Anina?" he whispered.

Her little figure swayed toward him. She half turned, and in her shining eyes he saw the light that needs no words to make its meaning clear.

The timidity that so often before had restrained him was swept away; he took her abruptly into his arms, kissing her hair, her eyes, her lips.

"Love isn't—always very sad, is it, Anina?"

Her arms held him close.

"I—I don't know," she breathed against his shoulder. "But it's—it's very—wonderful."