“I’m not used to this excitement,” Napier whispered. “Round about this stage on a trip I’m usually tucked away quietly with a bottle of ninety-proof consolation, and I almost think I liked it better that way.”

“I didn’t,” Garamond said firmly. “This is changing things for all of us.”

“I know — I was kidding. Have you tried to work out what the prize money ought to be if it turns out that all these ships can still be flown?”

“No.” Garamond had finished his third bulb of coffee and was bending over to put it in the disposal chute.

“Forget it,” Napier said, with a new note in his voice. “Look at that, Vance!”

There was a murmur of shock from the central gallery as Garamond was raising his head to look at the first images coming back from the distant torpedo. They were of a large grey ship which had been ripped open along its length like a gutted fish. Twisted sections of infrastructure were visible inside the wound, like entrails. Lesser scars which had not penetrated the hull criss-crossed the remainder of the great ovoid’s sunlit side.

“Something really chopped her up.” “Not as much as the next one.”

The images were changing rapidly as the surveillance torpedo, unhampered by any considerations of the effects of G-force on human tissue, darted towards a second ship, which proved to be only half a ship. It had been sliced in two, laterally, by some unimaginable weapon, sculpted ripples of metal flowing back from the sheared edges. A small vessel, corresponding in size to a lifeboat, hung in space near the open cross-section, joined to the mother ship by cables.

After the first startled comments a silence fell over the control gallery as the images of destruction were multiplied. An hour passed as the torpedo examined all the ships in the single shaft of sunlight and spiralled outwards into the darkness to scan others by the light of its own flares. It became evident that every vessel in the huge swarm had died violently, cataclysmically. Garamond found that the ships illuminated dimly by the flares were the most hideous — their ruptured hulls, silent, brooding over gashes filled with the black blood of shadow, could have been organic remains, preserved by the chill of space, contorted by ancient agonies.

“A signal has just come up from telemetry,” Napier said. “There’s a malfunctioning developing in the torpedo’s flare circuits. Do you want another one sent out?”

“No. I think we’ve seen enough for the present. Have the torpedo come round and take a look through the aperture. I’m sure Mister Yamoto would like some readings on the sun in there.” Garamond leaned back in his seat and looked at Napier. “Has it ever struck you as odd that we, as representatives of a warlike race, don’t carry any armament?”

“It has never come up — the Lindstroms wouldn’t want their own ships destroyed by each other. Besides, the main ionizing beam would make a pretty effective weapon.”

“Not in that class.” Garamond nodded at the viewscreens. “We couldn’t even aim it without turning the whole ship.”

“You think those hulls prove Serra’s theory about the sphere being a defence?”

“Perhaps.” Garamond’s voice was thoughtful. “We won’t know for sure until we have a look inside the sphere and see if there was anything worth defending.”

“What makes you think you would see anything?”

“That.” Garamond pointed at the screen which had just begun to show the new images being transmitted back from the torpedo. The aperture in the dark surface of the sphere was circular and almost a kilometre in diameter. A yellow Sol-type sun hung within it, perfectly centred by the torpedo’s aiming mechanisms, and the remarkable thing was that the space inside the sphere did not appear black, as the watchers on board the Bissendorf knew it ought to do. It was as blue as the summer skies of Earth.

Two hours later, and against all the regulations concerning the safety of Starflight commanders, Garamond was at the head of a small expedition which entered the sphere. The buggy was positioned almost on the edge of the aperture, held in place against the surface by the thrust of its tubes. Garamond was able to grip the strut of a landing leg with one hand and slide the other over the edge of the aperture. Its hard rim was only a few centimetres thick. There was a spongy resistance to the passage of his hand, which told of a force field spanning the aperture like a diaphragm, then his gloved fingers gripped something which felt like grass. He pulled himself through to the inside of the sphere and stood up.

And there — on the edge of a circular black lake of stars, suited and armoured to withstand the lethal vacuum of interplanetary space — Garamond had his first look at the green and infinite meadows of Orbitsville.

Garamond’s sense of dislocation was almost complete.

He received an impression of grasslands and low hills running on for ever — and, although his mind was numbed, his thoughts contained an element of immediate acceptance, as if an event for which he had been preparing all his life had finally occurred. Garamond felt as though he had been born again. In that first moment, when his vision was swamped by the brilliance of the impossible landscape, he was able to look at the circular lake of blackness from which he had emerged and see it through alien eyes. The grass — the tall, lush grass grew right to the rim! — shimmered green and it was difficult to accept that there were stars down in that pool. It was impossible to comprehend that were he to lie at its edge and look downwards he would see sunken ships drifting in the black crystal waters…

Something was emerging from the lake. Something white, groping blindly upwards.

Garamond’s identity returned to him abruptly as he recognized the spacesuited figure of Lieutenant Kraemer struggling to an upright position. He moved to help the other man and became aware of yet another ‘impossibility’ — there was gravity sufficient to give him almost his normal Earth weight. Kraemer and he leaned against each other like drunk men, bemused, stunned, helpless because there were blue skies where there should have been only the hostile blackness of space, because they had stepped through the looking glass into a secret garden. The grass moved gently, reminding Garamond of perhaps the greatest miracle of all, of the presence of an atmosphere. He felt an insane but powerful urge to open his helmet, and was fighting it when his tear-blurred eyes focused on the buildings.

They were visible at several points around the rim of the aperture, ancient buildings, low and ruinous. The reason they had not registered immediately with Garamond was that time had robbed them of the appearance of artifacts, clothing the shattered walls with moss and climbing grasses. As he began to orient himself within the new reality, and the images being transmitted from eyes to brain became capable of interpretation, he saw amid the ruins the skeletons of what had once been great machines.

“Look over there,” he said. “What do you think?”

There was no reply from Kraemer. Garamond glanced at his companion, saw his lips moving silently behind his faceplate and remembered they were still on radio communication. Both men switched to the audio circuits which used small microphones and speakers on the chest panels.

“The suit radios seem to have packed up,” Kraemer said casually, then his professional composure cracked. “Is it a dream? Is it? Is it a dream?” His voice was hoarse.

“If it is, we’re all in it together. What do you think of the ruins over there?”

Kraemer shielded his eyes and studied the buildings, apparently seeing them for the first time. “They remind me of fortifications.”

“Me too.” Garamond’s mind made an intuitive leap. “It wasn’t always possible to stroll in here the way we just did.”