“All those dead ships?”

“I’d say a lot of people once tried to come through that opening, and other people tried to keep them out.”

“But why should they? I mean, if the whole inside of the sphere is like this…” Kraemer gestured at the sea of grass. “Oh, Christ! If it’s all like this there’s as much living room as you’d get on a million Earths.”

“More,” Garamond told him. “I’ve already done the sums. This sphere has a surface area equivalent to 625,000,000 times the total surface of Earth. If we allow for the fact that only a quarter of the Earth’s surface is land and perhaps only half of that is usable, it means the sphere is equivalent to five billion Earths.

“That’s one each for every man, woman and child in existence.”

“Provided one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That we can breathe the air.”

“We’ll find that out right now.” Garamond felt a momentary dizziness. When he had been playing around with comparisons of the size of Earth and the sphere he had treated it as a purely mathematical exercise, his mind solely on the figures, but Kraemer had gone ahead of him to think in terms of people actually living on the sphere, arriving at the aperture in fleets sent from crowded and worn-out Earth, spreading outward across those prairies which promised to go on for ever. Trying to accommodate the vision along with his other speculations about the origins and purpose of the sphere brought Garamond an almost-physical pain behind his eyes. And superimposed on all his swirling thoughts, overriding every other consideration, a new concept of his personal status was struggling to be born. If he, Vance Garamond, gave humanity five billion Earths… then he, and not Elizabeth Lindstrom, would be the most important human being alive… then his wife and child would be safe.

“There’s an analyser kit in the buggy,” Kraemer said. “Shall I go for it?”

“Of course.” Garamond was surprised by the lieutenant’s question, then with a flash of insight he understood that it had taken only a few minutes of exposure to the unbounded lebensraum of the sphere to alter a relationship which was part of the tight, closed society of the Two Worlds. Kraemer was actually reluctant to leave the secret garden by climbing down into the circular black lake, and — as the potential owner of a super-continent — he saw no reason why Garamond should not go instead. So quickly, Garamond thought. We’ll all be changed so quickly.

Aloud he said, “While you’re getting the kit you can break the news to the others — they’ll want to see for themselves.”

“Right.” Kraemer looked pleased at the idea of being first with the most sensational story of all time. He went to the edge of the aperture, lay down and lowered his head into the blackness, obviously straining to force the helmet through the membrane field which retained the sphere’s atmosphere. After wriggling sideways a little to obtain his grip on the buggy’s leg, Kraemer slid out of sight into the darkness. Garamond again felt a sense of dislocation. The fact that he had weight, that there was a natural-seeming gravity pulling him ‘downwards’ against the grassy soil created an illusion that he was standing on the surface of a planet. His instincts rebelled against the idea that he was standing on a thin shell of unknown metal, that below him was the hard vacuum of space, that the buggy was close underneath his feet, upside down, clinging to the sphere by the force of its drive.

Garamond moved away from the aperture a short distance, shocked by the incongruity of the heavy spacesuit which shut him off from what surely must be his natural element. He knelt for a closer look at the grass. It grew thickly, in mixed varieties which to his inexperienced eye had stems and laminae very similar to those of Earth. He parted the grass, pushed his gloved fingers into the matted roots and scooped up a handful of brown soil. Small crumbs of it clung to the material of his gloves, making moist smears. Garamond looked upwards and for the first time noticed the lacy white streamers of cloud. With the small sun positioned vertically overhead it was difficult to study the sky, but beyond the cloud he thought he could distinguish narrow bands of a lighter blue which created a delicate ribbed effect curving from horizon to horizon. He made a mental note to point it out to Chief Science Officer O’Hagan for early investigation, and returned his attention to the soil. Digging down into it a short distance he came to the ubiquitous grey metal of the shell, its surface unmarked by the damp earth. Garamond placed his hand against the metal and tried to imagine the building of the sphere, to visualize the creation of a seamless globe of metal with a circumference of a billion kilometres.

There could be only one source for such an inconceivable quantity of shell material, and that was in the sun itself. Matter is energy, and energy is matter. Every active star hurls the equivalent of millions of tons a day of its own substance into space in the form of light and other radiations. But in the case of Pengetty’s Star someone had set up a boundary, turned that energy back on itself, manipulating and modifying it, translating it into matter. With precise control over the most elemental forces of the universe they had created an impervious shell of exactly the sort of material they wanted — harder than diamond, immutable, eternal. When the sphere was complete, grown to the required thickness, they had again dipped their hands into the font of energy and wrought fresh miracles, coating the interior surface of the sphere with soil and water and air. Organic acids, even complete cells and seeds, had been constructed in the same way, because at the ultimate level of reality there is no difference between a blade of grass and one of steel…

“The air is good, sir.” Kraemer’s voice came from close behind. Garamond stood up, turned and saw the lieutenant had opened his faceplate.

“What was the reading like?”

“A shade low in oxygen, but everything else is about right.” Kraemer was grinning like a schoolboy. “You should try some.”

“I will.” Garamond opened his own helmet and took a deep breath. The air was soft and thick and pure. He discovered at that moment that he had never known truly fresh air before. Low shouts came from the direction of the aperture as other spacesuited figures emerged.

“I told the others they could come through,” Kraemer said. “All except Braunek — he’s holding the buggy in place. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

“It’s all right, yes. I’ll be setting up a rota system to let everybody on the ship have a look before we go back.” Again Garamond sensed a difference in Kraemer’s attitude — before the lieutenant had seen the interior of the sphere he would not have cleared the buggy without obtaining permission.

“Before we go back? But as soon as we signal Earth the traffic’s all going to be coming this way. Why go back?”

“No reason, I suppose.” Garamond had been thinking about Aileen’s reluctance ever to travel more than a few kilometres from their apartment. He had been planning to return her to the old familiar surroundings as soon as possible, but perhaps there was no need. Standing on the interior surface of the sphere was as close as one could get to being on the infinite plane of the geometer, yet there was nothing in the experience to inspire agoraphobia. The line of sight did not tangent away from the downward curve of a planet and so the uniform density of the air set a limit to the distance a man could see. Garamond studied the horizon. It appeared to curve upwards slightly, in contrast to that of Earth, but it did not seem much further away. There was no sense of peering into immensities.

Kraemer put the toe of one boot down into the small hole Garamond had made and tapped the metal at the bottom. “Did you find anything?”