With leaden heart, he looked down at the still features--so cold and immobile. Not until then did he realize how vehemently he had counted on bringing her into his world--how he had needed and yearned for such companionship. It had not seemed to matter who the girl was; but now he realized that he wanted Norma--that life would never be complete without her. He touched the cheeks, the hands, the scarred neck. They were cold--cold as the stone on which she lay. And yet a sense of perplexity assailed him. Not one fragment of inorganic life had been preserved in the clay, as far as he had discovered. It seemed to maintain all forms of life or potential life; other substances had invariably been consumed. His clothing and everything he carried had succumbed to the disintegration, yet his body had emerged from its clay entombment unscathed--not only that, but strengthened, purified, adapted to its new environment, so that he experienced no great discomfort in a climate markedly colder than Earth's. He and DuChane had discussed this and decided that the body metabolism had been altered, making them definitely coldblooded. If the purifying clay could do this, could it not also have drawn the poison from Norma's system, maintaining a spark of life that still persisted despite her seeming death? From the mere fact that her body was preserved, what other conclusion was it possible to draw? With renewed hope, Marlin set frantically about trying to establish respiration by artificial means. Was it imagination, or did he feel a slight surge of warmth in the limp body? As a last resort, he bent over the still face and blew his breath into the delicate nostrils. A long drawn, quivering shudder swept the form. Stilling his excitement, he blew again and yet again, slowly working the arms back and forth. And presently, beyond doubt, she was breathing naturally, her flesh was taking on a glow of warmth, the long-lashed eyes opened for a second. * * * * * Throughout the morning, Marlin nursed his charge. From time to time, he moistened the pale lips with water and allowed a trickle to run into her mouth. When the sun reached its zenith, she made an effort as if to rise, and he helped her to a sitting posture. She looked around blankly, scarce seeming to know what she saw, and aware of Marlin only as an object that moved. She was not beautiful by Earth standards, but those standards were far away. To Marlin, her very presence was intoxicating. He could have knelt and worshipped her. How long he had been observed, in his preoccupation, he had no way of knowing. When he glanced up at an overhanging rock-ledge above the pool, DuChane was regarding him with sardonic amusement. "I figured you were up to something," the man called down. "So this was the inspiration for the shave." Marlin licked his lips, stifling a wave of apprehension. "She's mine," he said.