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 André 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.