He now tried to get onto his feet, but succeeded only in kneeling. He was unable to see far. The mists had no more than partially dissolved, and all that he could distinguish was a narrow circle of red sand dotted with ten or twenty bushes.
He felt a soft, cool touch on the back of his neck. He started forward in nervous fright and, in doing so, tumbled over onto the sand. Looking up over his shoulder quickly, he was astounded to see a woman standing beside him.
She was clothed in a single flowing, pale green garment, rather classically draped. According to earth standards she was not beautiful, for, although her face was otherwise human, she was endowed—or afflicted—with the additional disfiguring organs that Maskull had discovered in himself. She also possessed the heart tentacle. But when he sat up, and their eyes met and remained in sympathetic contact, he seemed to see right into a soul that was the home of love, warmth, kindness, tenderness, and intimacy. Such was the noble familiarity of that gaze, that he thought he knew her. After that, he recognised all the loveliness of her person. She was tall and slight. All her movements were as graceful as music. Her skin was not of a dead, opaque colour, like that of an earth beauty, but was opalescent; its hue was continually changing, with every thought and emotion, but none of these tints was vivid—all were delicate, half-toned, and poetic. She had very long, loosely plaited, flaxen hair. The new organs, as soon as Maskull had familiarised himself with them, imparted something to her face that was unique and striking. He could not quite define it to himself, but subtlety and inwardness seemed added. The organs did not contradict the love of her eyes or the angelic purity of her features, but nevertheless sounded a deeper note—a note that saved her from mere girlishness.
Her gaze was so friendly and unembarrassed that Maskull felt scarcely any humiliation at sitting at her feet, naked and helpless. She realised his plight, and put into his hands a garment that she had been carrying over her arm. It was similar to the one she was wearing, but of a darker, more masculine colour.
“Do you think you can put it on by yourself?”
He was distinctly conscious of these words, yet her voice had not sounded.
He forced himself up to his feet, and she helped him to master the complications of the drapery.
“Poor man—how you are suffering!” she said, in the same inaudible language. This time he discovered that the sense of what she said was received by his brain through the organ on his forehead.
“Where am I? Is this Tormance?” he asked. As he spoke, he staggered.
She caught him, and helped him to sit down. “Yes. You are with friends.”
Then she regarded him with a smile, and began speaking aloud, in English. Her voice somehow reminded him of an April day, it was so fresh, nervous, and girlish. “I can now understand your language. It was strange at first. In the future I’ll speak to you with my mouth.”
“This is extraordinary! What is this organ?” he asked, touching his forehead.
“It is named the ‘breve.’ By means of it we read one another’s thoughts. Still, speech is better, for then the heart can be read too.”
He smiled. “They say that speech is given us to deceive others.”
“One can deceive with thought, too. But I’m thinking of the best, not the worst.”
“Have you seen my friends?”
She scrutinised him quietly, before answering. “Did you not come alone?”
“I came with two other men, in a machine. I must have lost consciousness on arrival, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“That’s very strange! No, I haven’t seen them. They can’t be here, or we would have known it. My husband and I—”
“What is your name, and your husband’s name?”
“Mine is Joiwind—my husband’s is Panawe. We live a very long way from here; still, it came to us both last night that you were lying here insensible. We almost quarrelled about which of us should come to you, but in the end I won.” Here she laughed. “I won, because I am the stronger-hearted of the two; he is the purer in perception.”
“Thanks, Joiwind!” said Maskull simply.
The colours chased each other rapidly beneath her skin. “Oh, why do you say that? What pleasure is greater than loving-kindness? I rejoiced at the opportunity.... But now we must exchange blood.”
“What is this?” he demanded, rather puzzled.
“It must be so. Your blood is far too thick and heavy for our world. Until you have an infusion of mine, you will never get up.”
Maskull flushed. “I feel like a complete ignoramus here.... Won’t it hurt you?”
“If your blood pains you, I suppose it will pain me. But we will share the pain.”
“This is a new kind of hospitality to me,” he muttered.
“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” asked Joiwind, half smiling, half agitated.
“I can’t answer for any of my actions in this world. I scarcely know where I am.... Why, yes—of course I would, Joiwind.”
While they were talking it had become full day. The mists had rolled away from the ground, and only the upper atmosphere remained fog-charged. The desert of scarlet sand stretched in all directions, except one, where there was a sort of little oasis—some low hills, clothed sparsely with little purple trees from base to summit. It was about a quarter of a mile distant.
Joiwind had brought with her a small flint knife. Without any trace of nervousness, she made a careful, deep incision on her upper arm. Maskull expostulated.
“Really, this part of it is nothing,” she said, laughing. “And if it were—a sacrifice that is no sacrifice—what merit is there in that?... Come now—your arm!”
The blood was streaming down her arm. It was not red blood, but a milky, opalescent fluid.
“Not that one!” said Maskull, shrinking. “I have already been cut there.” He submitted the other, and his blood poured forth.
Joiwind delicately and skilfully placed the mouths of the two wounds together, and then kept her arm pressed tightly against Maskull’s for a long time. He felt a stream of pleasure entering his body through the incision. His old lightness and vigour began to return to him. After about five minutes a duel of kindness started between them; he wanted to remove his arm, and she to continue. At last he had his way, but it was none too soon—she stood there pale and dispirited.
She looked at him with a more serious expression than before, as if strange depths had opened up before her eyes.
“What is your name?”
“Maskull.”
“Where have you come from, with this awful blood?”
