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  The rescue teams were returning to base when the hovercraft was spotted by a flitter, barely 24 miles from the command-ship. The engine was running and the machine, at first sight undamaged, was hovering above the waves. Carucci alone could be seen, semi-conscious, in the glass-domed cockpit.

  The hovercraft was escorted back to base. After treatment, Carucci quickly regained consciousness, but could throw no light on Fechner's disappearance. Just after they had decided to return to base a valve in his oxygen-gear had failed and a small amount of unfiltered gas had penetrated his atmosphere-suit. In an attempt to repair the valve, Fechner had been forced to undo his safety belt and stand up. That was the last thing Carucci could remember.

  According to the experts who reconstructed the sequence of events, Fechner must have opened the cabin roof because it impeded his movements—a perfectly legitimate thing to do since the cabins of these vehicles were not air-tight, the glass dome merely providing some protection against infiltration and turbulence. While Fechner was occupied with his colleague, his own oxygen supply had probably been damaged and, no longer realizing what he was doing, he had pulled himself up on to the superstructure, from which he had fallen into the ocean.

  Fechner thus became the ocean's first victim. Although the atmosphere- suit was buoyant, they searched for his body without success. It was, of course, possible that it was still floating somewhere on the surface, but the expedition was not equipped for a thorough search of this immense, undulating desert, covered with patches of dense fog.

  By dusk, all but one of the search craft had returned to base; only a big supply helicopter piloted by Andre Berton was still missing. Just as they were about to raise the alarm, the aircraft appeared. Berton was obviously suffering from nervous shock; after struggling out of his suit, he ran round in circles like a madman. He had to be overpowered, but went on shouting and sobbing. It was rather surprising behavior to put it mildly, on the part of a man who had been flying for seventeen years and was well used to the hazards of cosmic navigation. The doctors assumed that he too was suffering from the effects of unfiltered gases.

  Having more or less recovered his senses, Berton nevertheless refused to leave the base, or even to go near the window overlooking the ocean. Two days later, he asked for permission to dictate a flight-report, stressing the importance of what he was about to reveal. This report was studied by the expeditionary council, who concluded that it was the morbid creation of a mind under the influence of poisonous gases from the atmosphere. As for the supposed revelations, they were evidently regarded as part of Berton's clinical history rather than that of the expedition itself, and they were not described.

  So much for the supplement. It seemed to me that Berton's report must at any rate provide a key to the mystery. What strange happening could have had such a shattering effect on a veteran space-pilot? I began to search through the books once more, but The Little Apocrypha was not to be found. I was growing more and more exhausted and left the room, having decided to postpone the search until the following day.

  As I was passing the foot of the stairway, I noticed that the aluminum treads were streaked with light falling from above. Sartorius was still at work. I decided to go up and see him.

  It was hotter on the upper deck, but the paper strips still fluttered frenziedly at the air-vents. The corridor was wide and low-ceilinged. The main laboratory was enclosed by a thick panel of opaque glass in a chrome embrasure. A dark curtain screened the door on the inside, and the light was coming from windows let in above the lintel. I pressed down the handle, but, as I expected, the door refused to budge. The only sound from the laboratory was an intermittent whine like that of a defective gas jet. I knocked. No reply. I called:

  "Sartorius! Dr. Sartorius! I'm the new man, Kelvin. I must see you, it's very important. Please let me in!"

  There was a rustling of papers.

  "It's me, Kelvin. You must have heard of me. I arrived off the Prometheus a few hours ago."

  I was shouting, my lips glued to the angle where the door joined the metal frame.

  "Dr. Sartorius, I'm alone. Please open the door!"

  Not a word. Then the same rustling as before, followed by the clink of metal instruments on a tray. Then … I could scarcely believe my ears … there came a succession of little short footsteps, like the rapid drumming of a pair of tiny feet, or remarkably agile fingers tapping out the rhythm of steps on the lid of an empty tin box.

  I yelled:

  "Dr. Sartorius, are you going to open this door, yes or no?"

  No answer. Nothing but the pattering, and, simultaneously, the sound of a man walking on tiptoe. But, if the man was moving about, he could not at the same time be tapping out an imitation of a child's footsteps.

  No longer able to control my growing fury, I burst out:

  "Dr. Sartorius, I have not made a sixteen-month journey just to come here and play games! I'll count up to ten. If you don't let me in, I shall break down the door!"

  In fact, I was doubtful whether it would be easy to force this particular door, and the discharge of a gas pistol is not very powerful. Nevertheless, I was determined somehow or other to carry out my threat, even if it meant resorting to explosives, which I could probably find in the munition store. I could not draw back now; I could not go on playing an insane game with all the cards stacked against me.

  There was the sound of a struggle—or was it simply objects being thrust aside? The curtain was pulled back, and an elongated shadow was projected on to the glass.

  A hoarse, high-pitched voice spoke:

  "If I open the door, you must give me your word not to come in."

  "In that case, why open it?"

  "I'll come out."

  "Very well, I promise."

  The silhouette vanished and the curtain was carefully replaced.

  Obscure noises came from inside the laboratory. I heard a scraping—a table being dragged across the floor? At last, the lock clicked back, and the glass panel opened just enough to allow Sartorius to slip through into the corridor.

  He stood with his back against the door, very tall and thin, all bones under his white sweater. He had a black scarf knotted around his neck, and over his arm he was carrying a laboratory smock, covered with chemical burns. His head, which was unusually narrow, was cocked to one side. I could not see his eyes: he wore curved dark glasses, which covered up half his face. His lower jaw was elongated; he had bluish lips and enormous, blue-tinged ears. He was unshaven. Red anti-radiation gloves hung by their laces from his wrists.

  For a moment we looked at one another with undisguised aversion. His shaggy hair (he had obviously cut it himself) was the color of lead, his beard grizzled. Like Snow, his forehead was burnt, but the lower half only; above it was pallid. He must have worn some kind of cap when exposed to the sun.

  "Well, I'm listening," he said.

  I had the impression that he did not care what I had to say to him. Standing there, tense, still pressed against the door panel, his attention was mainly directed to what was going on behind him.

  Disconcerted, I hardly knew how to begin.

  "My name is Kelvin," I said, "You must have heard about me. I am, or rather I was, a colleague of Gibarian's."

  His thin face, entirely composed of vertical planes, exactly as I had always imagined Don Quixote's, was quite expressionless. This blank mask did not help me to find the right words.

  "I heard that Gibarian was dead…" I broke off.

  "Yes. Go on, I'm listening." His voice betrayed his impatience.

  "Did he commit suicide? Who found the body, you or Snow?"

  "Why ask me? Didn't Dr. Snow tell you what happened?"

  "I wanted to hear your own account."

  "You've studied psychology, haven't you, Dr. Kelvin?"

  "Yes. What of it?"

  "You think of yourself as a servant of science?"

  "Yes, of course. What has that to do with…"

  "You are not an officer of
the law. At this hour of the day, you should be at work, but instead of doing the job you were sent here for, you not only threaten to force the door of my laboratory, you question me as though I were a criminal suspect."

  His forehead was dripping with sweat. I controlled myself with an effort. I was determined to get through to him. I gritted my teeth and said:

  "You are suspect, Dr. Sartorius. What is more, you're well aware of it!"

  "Kelvin, unless you either retract or apologize, I shall lodge a complaint against you."

  "Why should I apologize? You're the one who barricaded himself in this laboratory instead of coming out to meet me, instead of telling me the truth about what is going on here. Have you gone completely mad? What are you—a scientist, or a miserable coward?"

  I don't know what other insults I hurled at him. He did not even flinch. Globules of sweat trickled down over the enlarged pores of his cheeks. Suddenly I realized that he had not heard a word I was saying. Both hands behind his back, he was holding the door in position with all his strength; it was rattling as though someone inside were firing bursts from a machine-gun at the panel.

  In a strange, high-pitched voice, he moaned:

  "Go away. For God's sake, leave me. Go downstairs, I'll join you later. I'll do whatever you want, only please go away now."

  His voice betrayed such exhaustion that instinctively I put out my arms to help him control the door. At this, he uttered a cry of horror, as though I had pointed a knife at him. As I retreated, he was shouting in his falsetto voice: "Go away! Go away! I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming! No! No!" He opened the door and shot inside. I thought I saw a shining yellow disc flash across his chest.

  Now a muffled clamor rose from the laboratory; a huge shadow appeared, as the curtain was brushed momentarily aside; then it fell back into place and I could see nothing more. What was happening inside that room? I heard running footsteps, as though a mad chase were in progress, followed by a terrifying crash of broken glass and the sound of a child's laugh.

  My legs were trembling, and I stared at the door, appalled. The din had subsided, giving way to an uneasy silence. I sat down on a window ledge, too stunned to move; my head was splitting.

  From where I was, I could see only a part of the corridor encircling the laboratory. I was at the summit of the Station, beneath the actual shell of the superstructure; the walls were concave and sloping, with oblong windows a few yards apart. The blue day was ending, and, as the shutters grated upwards, a blinding light shone through the thick glass. Every metal fitting, every latch and joint, blazed, and the great glass panel of the laboratory door glittered with pale coruscations. My hands looked grey in the spectral light. I noticed that I was holding the gas pistol; I had not realized that I had taken it out of its holster, and replaced it. What use could I have made of it—or even of a gamma pistol, had I had one? I could hardly have taken the laboratory by force.

  I got up. The disc of the sun, reminiscent of a hydrogen explosion, was sinking into the ocean, and as I descended the stairway I was pierced by a jet of horizontal rays which was almost tangible. Halfway downstairs I paused to think, then went back up the steps and followed the corridor round the laboratory. Soon, I came across a second glass door, exactly like the first; I made no attempt to open it, knowing that it would be locked.

  I was looking for an opening or vent of some sort. The idea of spying on Sartorius had come to me quite naturally, without the least sense of shame. I was determined to have done with conjecture and discover the truth, even if, as I imagined it would, the truth proved incomprehensible. It struck me that the laboratory must be lit from above by windows let into the dome. It should be possible, therefore, to spy on Sartorius from the outside. But first I should have to equip myself with an atmosphere-suit and oxygen gear.

  When I reached the deck below, I found the door of the radio-cabin ajar. Snow, sunk in his armchair, was asleep. At the sound of my footsteps, he opened his eyes with a start.

  "Hello, Kelvin!" he croaked. "Well, did you discover anything?"

  "Yes … he's not alone."

  Snow grinned sourly.

  "Oh, really? Well, that's something. Has he got visitors?"

  "I can't understand why you won't tell me what's going on," I retorted impulsively. "Since I have to remain here, I'm bound to find out the truth sooner or later. Why the mystery?"

  "When you've received some visitors yourself, you'll understand."

  I had the impression that my presence annoyed him and he had no desire to prolong the conversation.

  I turned to go.

  "Where are you off to?"

  I did not answer.

  The hangar-deck was just as I had left it. My burnt-out capsule still stood there, gaping open, on its platform. On my way to select an atmosphere-suit, I suddenly realized that the skylights through which I hoped to observe Sartorius would probably be made of slabs of opaque glass, and I lost interest in my venture on to the outer hull.

  Instead, I descended the spiral stairway which led to the lower-deck store rooms. The cramped passage at the bottom contained the usual litter of crates and cylinders. The walls were sheeted in bare metal which had a bluish glint. A little further on, the frosted pipes of the refrigeration plant appeared beneath a vault and I followed them to the far end of the corridor where they vanished into a cooling-jacket with a wide, plastic collar. The door to the cold store was two inches thick and lagged with an insulating compound. When I opened it, the icy cold gripped me. I stood, shivering, on the threshold of a cave carved out of an iceberg; the huge coils, like sculptured reliefs, were hung with stalactites. Here, too, buried beneath a covering of snow, there were crates and cylinders, and shelves laden with boxes and transparent bags containing a yellow, oily substance. The vault sloped downwards to where a curtain of ice hid the back of the cave. I broke through it. An elongated figure, covered with a sheet of canvas, lay stretched out on an aluminum rack.

  I lifted a corner of the canvas and recognised the stiff features of Gibarian. His glossy black hair clung tightly to his skull. The sinews of his throat stood out like bones. His glazed eyes stared up at the vault, a tear of opaque ice hanging from the corner of each lid. The cold was so intense that I had to clench my teeth to prevent them from chattering. I touched Gibarian's cheek; it was like touching a block of petrified wood, bristling with black prickly hairs. The curve of the lips seemed to express an infinite, disdainful patience.

  As I let the canvas fall, I noticed, peeping out from beneath the folds at the foot, five round, shiny objects, like black pearls, ranged in order of size. I stiffened with horror.

  What I had seen were the round pads of five bare toes. Under the shroud, flattened against Gibarian's body, lay the Negress. Slowly, I pulled back the canvas. Her head, covered in frizzy hair twisted up into little tufts, was resting in the hollow of one massive arm. Her back glistened, the skin stretched taut over the spinal column. The huge body gave no sign of life. I looked again at the soles of her naked feet; they had not been flattened or deformed in any way by the weight which they had had to carry. Walking had not calloused the skin, which was as unblemished as that of her shoulders.

  With a far greater effort than it had taken to touch Gibarian's corpse, I forced myself to touch one of the bare feet. Then I made a second bewildering discovery: this body, abandoned in a deep freeze, this apparent corpse, lived and moved. The woman had withdrawn her foot, like a sleeping dog when you try to take its paw.

  "She'll freeze," I thought confusedly, but her flesh had been warm to the touch, and I even imagined I had felt the regular beating of her pulse. I backed out and fled.

  As I emerged from the white cave, the heat seemed suffocating. I climbed the spiral stairway back to the hangar-deck.

  I sat on the hoops of a rolled-up parachute and put my head in my hands. I was stunned. My thoughts ran wild. What was happening to me? If my reason was giving way, the sooner I lost consciousness the better. The idea of sudden ext
inction aroused an inexpressible, unrealistic hope.

  Useless to go and find Snow or Sartorius: no one could fully understand what I had just experienced, what I had seen, what I had touched with my own hands. There was only one possible explanation, one possible conclusion: madness. Yes, that was it, I had gone mad as soon as I arrived here. Emanations from the ocean had attacked my brain, and hallucination had followed hallucination. Rather than exhaust myself trying to solve these illusory riddles, I would do better to ask for medical assistance, to radio the Prometheus or some other vessel, to send out an SOS.

  Then a curious change came over me: at the thought that I had gone mad, I calmed down.

  And yet … I had heard Snow's words quite clearly. If, that is, Snow existed and I had ever spoken to him. The hallucinations might have begun much earlier. Perhaps I was still on board the Prometheus, perhaps I had been stricken with a sudden mental illness and was now confronting the creations of my own inflamed brain. Assuming that I was ill, there was reason to believe that I would get better, which gave me some hope of deliverance—a hope irreconcilable with a belief in the reality of the tangled nightmares through which I had just lived.

  If only I could think up some experiment in logic—a key experiment—which would reveal whether I had really gone mad and was a helpless prey to the figments of my imagination, or whether, in spite of their ludicrous improbability, I had been experiencing real events.

  As I turned all this over in my mind, I was looking at the monorail which led to the launching pad. It was a steel girder, painted pale green, a yard above the ground. Here and there, the paint was chipped, worn by the friction of the rocket trolleys. I touched the steel, feeling it grow warm beneath my fingers, and rapped the metal plating with my knuckles. Could madness attain such a degree of reality? Yes, I answered myself. After all, it was my own subject, I knew what I was talking about.