"You do not understand, I know." Pierre sat down again, wearily. "But I will make you understand, if you will only hear me out. You must try to grasp what I tell you." Pleadingly Pierre's scarred hand reached across the desk and touched Carl's fingers. Hastily Pierre withdrew his hand as he saw the look of revulsion upon Carl's face. Carl felt himself sicken at the feeling of unearthly coldness of the man's skin. The feeling of coldness was not in keeping with the appearance. To look at him was to think of fire, all-consuming fire! "The way my hand felt to you just then is the way my skin is all over my body," Pierre said. "Touch it, if you dare. You are a doctor. Examine me. These sores that look like boils and fire--feel them, and you will know the cold sensation of a billion miles of space." Carl's hand moved slowly to Pierre's face. With dread reluctance, his fingertips traced over the pitted, irregular features. It was like feeling an iced corpse, only worse, for this flesh was alive. When he withdrew his hand, he beheld a trace of damp, bluish substance upon his fingers. Pierre spoke again: "Last night when I told you of the stars, you wondered what they had to do with my going out. Now you see my hopeless state; you see the unspeakable ugliness of my face. You must believe that all of this is a part of the curse the stars have in store for those who defy Moonere. When the moon and the stars loom so brightly in the evening sky, my flesh boils; my blood steams and courses through my veins, sending poison, poison from Sudre--moon-poisoning throughout my body. It is not the heated fire of the sun or of a furnace, but a cold, blue fire that chills as it burns, yet burns more intensely than a thousand blasts from hell. "I am slowly being destroyed, because I have defied Moonere and sought to drive her from the earth. Do you know what it is to be destroyed, to be conscious every minute of your slow journey to death? Look! I'll show you a picture." Pierre took from his pocket a small photograph. Carl looked from the photo to the man who stood before him. There was no resemblance. The picture was of an intelligent man in his late thirties. He was tall and straight, with a splendid, manly physique, and handsome face that was crowned with heavy black hair, graying at the temples. "That is a picture of Professor Pierre Soret." Pierre stood up, pointing to the picture in Carl's hand. "You see the man was tall, a large man, an athlete in his college days. Now look at him!" He made a disdainful gesture to his present slight figure that was scarcely five feet in height. "I am the same man of that photograph taken over ten years ago. But there is no way I could prove it, because I am slowly being burned to a stony cinder."