From the edges of three of the ovoids swirled a little cloud of tentacles, gossamer filaments of opal.

They whipped out a full yard from the Disk's surface, touching her, caressing her.
For a moment she hung there, her face hidden from us; then was dropped softly to her feet and stood, arms stretched wide, her copper hair streaming cloudily about her regal head.
And up past her floated Ruth, levitated as had been she--and her face, ecstatic as though she were gazing into Paradise, yet drenched with the tranquillity of the infinite.

Her wide eyes stared up toward that rose of splendors through which the pulsing colors now raced more swiftly.
She hung poised before it while around her head a faint aureole began to form.
Again the gossamer threads thrust forth, searched her.

They ran over her rough clothing--perplexedly.

They coiled about her neck, stole through her hair, brushed shut her eyes, circled her brow, her breasts, girdled her.
Weirdly was it like some intelligence observing, studying, some creature of another species--puzzled by its similarity and unsimilarity with the one other creature of its kind it knew, and striving to reconcile those differences.