" said Dauge. The giant bumble-bee was silent for a second, then buzzed again. Dauge rose to his knees and buried his face in the periscope frame. "Look!" he shouted. Yurkovsky crawled to his periscope. "Just look at that!" Dauge shouted again. A multitude of huge iridescent spheres were sailing upwards out of the yellowish-pink abyss like so many soap-bubbles. It was a sight of rare beauty. The spheres, all of different sizes, were rising with a low rumbling sound that swelled as they shot past the ship and out of sight. Dauge clutched at the drum of the range-finder. One of the spheres, looking especially huge and pulsating, was passing quite close to them, and, for a moment, the bay reverberated to an unbearably low, sort of nagging rumble and rocked a little. "Hey, you in the observatory," Bykov was heard on the intercom. "What's that outside?" "Phenomena," Yurkovsky said, bending his head to the mike. "What phenomena?" asked Bykov. "Bubbles of some kind," Yurkovsky explained. "That much I understand myself," Bykov muttered and cut off. "This is no longer metallic hydrogen," Yurkovsky said when the last bubbles were gone. "There," said Dauge. "Diameters of six hundred, ten hundred and three thousand five hundred yards-provided of course there's been no distortion of perspective. That's all I've been able to manage. What could it be?" Two more bubbles shot past them in the pinkish void outside. A bass rumble swelled and died away. "That's the planet's mechanism in action," said Yurkovsky. "But we'll never learn its workings...." "Bubbles in gas," said Dauge. "Not gas really- "it's as dense as petrol." He turned and saw Mollard sitting in the doorway, his head pressed against the jamb. All the skin on his face seemed to have sagged to his chin under the pull of gravity. His forehead was white and his neck ripe-cherry. "It's me," he said. Then he turned on his stomach and crawled to his place at the breech. The planetologists looked at him in silence, then Dauge got up, took two cushions-one of his and one of Yurkovsky's-and made Mollard more comfortable. Nobody said a word. "Very dull," Mollard said finally. "I can't be alone. I want to talk." "Delighted to see you, Charles," Dauge said sincerely. "We too find it dull and are talking all the time." Mollard wanted to sit up but thought better of it and remained lying, breathing heavily, his eye fixed on the ceiling. "How's life, Charles?" Yurkovsky asked with interest. "Life's good," Charles said and smiled wanly. "Only short." Dauge lay down and also Stared at the ceiling. Life's short, he thought. Much too short. He swore in Lettish softly. '"Pardon?" asked Mollard. "He's swearing," explained Yurkovsky. Suddenly Mollard said, "My friends!" in a high-pitched voice and the planetologists turned to him. "My friends!" Mollard repeated. "What shall I do? You're experienced space flyers. You are great men and heroes. Yes, heroes. Mon dieu! You faced death more often than I looked into a girl's eyes." He shook his head ruefully on the cushion. "But I am not experienced. I am afraid and I want to talk much, but the end is near and I don't know how." He was looking at them with bright eyes. Dauge muttered, "Damn," awkwardly and glanced at Yurkovsky. He was lying back, his head cradled in his arms, looking at Mollard out of the corner of his eye. "I can tell you a story of how I nearly got a leg sawn off," Yurkovsky suggested. "Excellent," Dauge said happily. "And then you tell us something funny, Charles." "You are always joking," said Mollard. "Or we can sing," said Dauge. "It's been done-I read about it somewhere. Can you sing us something, Charles?" "Sorry," said Mollard. "I've gone to pieces." "Not in the least," said Dauge. "You're doing fine, Charles. That's the main thing. Isn't Charles doing fine, Vladimir?" "Of course he is," said Yurkovsky. "Just fine." "Our captain's not napping," Dauge continued in a cheery voice. "Have you noticed, Charles? He's thought something up, our captain has." "Yes," said Mollard. "Oh, yes. Our captain is our big hope." "I should think so," said Dauge. "You just can't imagine how big a hope he is." "Six-foot-six," said Yurkovsky. Mollard laughed. "You are always joking," he said. "And in the meantime we shall talk and observe," said Dauge. "Want to have a peep in the periscope, Charles? It's beautiful. It's something nobody has ever seen before." He rose and looked into the periscope. Yurkovsky noticed his back arch suddenly. Dauge seized the periscope frame with his both hands. "Good God," he breathed out. "A spaceship!" A spaceship hung motionless outside. They saw her clearly in all details and she seemed to be at a distance of a mile or so from the Tahmasib. She was a first-class photon cargo ship, with parabolic reflector which looked like a hooped skirt, globular living quarters, a flat cargo bay, and three cigarshaped emergency rockets flung far out on brackets. She hung vertically and was completely motionless. And she was grey like a black-and-white film still. "Who's that?" Dauge mumbled. "Surely not Petrushevsky?" "Look at her reflector," said Yurkovsky. The reflector of the grey ship was chipped. "They've had bad luck too," said Dauge. "Oh," said Mollard. "There's another one." The second spaceship-an exact replica of the first-hung farther and lower. "She's got a chipped reflector too," said Dauge. "I've got it," Yurkovsky said suddenly. "It's our Tahmasib. A mirage." It was a double mirage. A string of iridescent bubbles raced upwards and the ghost Tahmasibs rippled and vanished. But three more appeared- to the right and higher. "What beautiful bubbles," said Mollard. "And they sing." He lay on his back again. His nose had started bleeding and he was blowing it, wincing and glancing at the planetologists to make sure they were not looking. Of course they weren't. "There," said Dauge. "And you say it's dull." "I don't," said Yurkovsky. "Yes, you do," said Dauge. "You keep whining that it's dull." They both avoided looking at Mollard. The bleeding couldn't be stopped. The blood would congeal of itself. They really ought to get him into his acceleration absorber, but. ... Never mind, it would congeal. Mollard was blowing his nose softly. "There's another mirage," said Dauge, "but it's not a ship." Yurkovsky looked in the periscope. No, he thought. It just doesn't make sense. Not here in Jupiter. Slowly gliding below and past the Tahmasib was the peak of an enormous grey cliff. Its base was lost in the pinkish haze. Another cliff rose near by, bare, vertical, deep-creviced. A little further there was a whole range of similar sharp sheer peaks. The silence in the observation bay was now filled with creaking, rustling and faint rumbling like echoes of far-off mountain-slides. "This is no mirage," said Yurkovsky. "This looks like a core." "Rubbish," said Dauge. "Perhaps Jupiter has a core after all." "Stuff and nonsense," Dauge said impatiently. The mountain range under the Tahmasib now stretched as far as they could see. "Look over there," said Dauge. Above the jagged peaks a dark silhouette loomed, grew, assumed the shape of a huge fragment of black rock, then disappeared. Immediately another appeared, then a third, while in the distance some roundish grey mass shimmered palely, only just visible. The mountain range, which had been sinking slowly, slipped out of view. Yurkovsky, without taking his eyes off the sight, picked up his mike. In the silence his joints cracked. "Bykov," he called. "Alexei." "Alexei's not here, Vladimir," they heard the navigator's voice. The voice was hoarse and faltering. "He's in the engine." "Mikhail, we're passing over some cliffs," said Yurkovsky. "What cliffs?" Mikhail Antonovich asked in a frightened voice. In the distance a huge plain fringed by low hills slid into view and then vanished in the pinkish haze. "We don't understand it yet," said Yurkovsky. "I'll have a look right away," said Mikhail Antonovich. Another mountain range was gliding past them. Its base was far above them and its tops were thrust downwards. It was an eerie, fantastic sight and Yurkovsky took it for a mirage at first, but it wasn't. Then he understood and said, "It's no core, this, Grigory. It's a graveyard." Dauge did not understand. "It's a graveyard of worlds," said Yurkovsky. "Jupe's gobbled them up." Dauge didn't say anything for a while, then he muttered: "What discoveries.... Ring, pinkish radiation, graveyard of worlds.... A pity." He turned and called Mollard. 'There was no answer. He was lying on his face. They dragged Mollard all the way to his cabin, brought him round there and he instantly fell asleep in the acceleration absorber as though he had fainted. Then they returned to their periscopes. Under the ship, next to her and over her fragments of unborn worlds-mountains, cliffs, huge fissured rocks, grey transparent clouds of dust-swam slowly past in the streams of compressed hydrogen. Then the Tahmasib drifted off and the periscopes again showed nothing but a pinkish void all round them. "I'm fagged out," said Dauge. He turned to lie on his side and his bones cracked. "Hear that?" "Yes," said Yurkovsky. "Let's go on observing." "Yes," said Dauge. "I thought it was a core," said Yurkovsky. "It couldn't be," said Dauge. Yurkovsky rubbed his face with his hands. "That's what you say," he said. "Let's go on." They were to see and hear much more, or it seemed to them they did, for they were both utterly exhausted and often on the verge of a blackout. Then they were unaware of their surroundings except for the even pinkish light. They saw broad stark zigzags of lightning propped between the darkness overhead and the pinkish haze beneath, and heard the iron clang of the lilac discharges that pulsated in them. They saw quivering films of substance rush hard by with a thin whistle. They watched weird shadows which stirred and moved about, and Dauge argued they were three-dimensional, while Yurkovsky insisted he was just delirious. And they heard howling, and squeaking, and rattling, and strange noises like voices. Dauge suggested they record them, but noticed Yurkovsky was fast asleep, lying on his stomach. He turned Yurkovsky over and was back in his place when through the open door crawled Varya, white-specked blue and dragging her belly, sidled to Yurkovsky and clambered on to his knees. Dauge wanted to shoo her away but found he had no strength left for the effort. He could not even raise his head. Varya's sides heaved heavily and she was blinking. The bosses on her muzzle stood out and her two-foot tail jerked spasmodically in time to her breathing. 3. Time to take leave but the radio astronomer doesn't know how to. It was hard, unbelievably hard to work under those conditions. Zhilin had had several blackouts. His heart would just stop beating and he would be plunged into a bloody mist. And all the time there was a taste of blood in his mouth. And each time Zhilin was acutely mortified because Bykov worked on untiringly, with the steady rhythm and precision of a machine. He was drenched in sweat, probably found the work just as hard, but apparently was able to retain consciousness by force of will. After two hours Zhilin had lost all understanding of their purpose, all hope and even desire to survive, but after each black-out he picked up where he had left because Bykov was at his side. Once he had come to and there was no Bykov. He wept. But Bykov soon returned, placed a messtin of soup at his side and said, "Eat." He ate and pitched into his work. Bykov's face was white and his neck purple and hanging in folds. He was breathing heavily and hurriedly, his huge mouth wide open. And he never said a word. Zhilin was thinking: if we do break out of this I won't go on any interstellar flights or expeditions to Pluto or anywhere before I am like Bykov. As ordinary and even dull in times of routine. As morose and even slightly ridiculous. So much so that it was hard to believe in all those stories about the Golconda and Callisto and other places. Zhilin remembered that behind Bykov's back young space flyers would poke fun at the Red-Haired Hermit-incidentally, how did he come by that odd nickname?-but he had never heard a pilot or scientist of Bykov's generation speak slightingly about him. If I come out I must become like Bykov. If I don't I must die like Bykov. When Zhilin blacked out, Bykov stepped over him silently and finished his work. When Zhilin came to, Bykov went silently to his place. Then Bykov said, "Come on," and they filed out of the magnetic-system chamber. Everything was swimming in front of Zhilin's eyes, he wanted to lie down and bury his nose in something soft and wait until he was picked up. He got stuck in the hatchway following Bykov and lay down after all, his nose pressed against the cold floor, but came to rapidly and saw Bykov's boot close to his face. The boot was tapping impatiently. Must be quite an effort-tapping one's boot with a G-load like this, he thought. Must try it. He made a supreme effort and forced himself through the hatchway. Then he squatted to batten the hatch more securely. The lock wouldn't obey and he clawed at it with his scratched fingers. Bykov towered near by like a radio mast, looking at him steadily from above. "Just a moment," Zhilin said hurriedly. "Just a. moment." Finally the hatch was locked. "Ready," Zhilin said and got up. His knees were shaking. "Come on," said Bykov. They went back to the control room. Mikhail Antonovich was asleep in his chair at the computer. His lips hung loose and he was snoring. The computer was on. Bykov leaned over the navigator, picked up the mike of the intercom and said: "All passengers are summoned to the mess-room." "What?" Mikhail Antonovich asked, startled out of his sleep. "What-already?" "Yes," said Bykov. "Let's go to the mess room." He didn't go immediately, but stood and absently watched Mikhail Antonovich get out of his chair, grunting and wincing. Then he came to and said, "Come on." They went to the mess room. Mikhail Antonovich made straight for the sofa, plopped down and folded his arms on his stomach. Zhilin too sat down-to stop his knees shaking-and stared at the table-top. Dirty plates still stood in a pile on it. Presently the door opened and in stumbled the passengers. The planetologists had Mollard between them. He hung limply, dragging his feet and clutching at their shoulders. In his hand he had a balled handkerchief covered with dark spots. In silence Dauge and Yurkovsky seated Mollard on to the sofa and sat down on either side of him. Zhilin ran his eye over them all. What horrible mugs, he thought. Surely I can't look like them? He touched his face stealthily. His cheeks felt very thin, while his chin seemed as thick as Mikhail Antonovich's. He felt pins and needles in his face. As if I've been sitting on it, he thought. "Well," said Bykov. He got up from a chair in a corner, went to the table and leaned on it heavily. Mollard gave Zhilin a sudden wink and covered his face with the spotted handkerchief. Bykov glanced at him coldly. Then he rested his glance on the opposite wall. "Well,", he repeated. "We have finished refitting the Tahmasib. We can now use the photon propulsion unit and that is precisely what I have decided to do. However -I should like first to let you into all possible consequences. I warn you the decision's final and I'm not proposing to consult you and ask for your opinions." "Please make it shorter, Alexei," said Dauge. "The decision is final," said Bykov. "But I consider you're entitled to know how it might end. First, the reactor's activation might touch off an explosion in the compressed hydrogen round us. And that would mean the Tahmasib's total destruction. Second, the plasma's first flash might destroy the reflector-the outer surface of the mirror's probably whittled away by corrosion by now. Then we'd stay here and.... It's clear what that would mean. Third, the Tahmasib might fight her way out of Jupiter and-" "That's clear," said Dauge. "And the food would be delivered to Amaltheia," said Bykov. "For which the food would be eternally grateful to Bykov," said Yurkovsky. Mikhail Antonovich smiled wanly. He didn't find it funny. Bykov was looking at the wall. "I'm giving the start right away," he said. "The passengers are requested to take their places in the acceleration absorbers. All of you. And without any of your tricks," he glanced at the planetologists. "It's going to be eight G's. If not more. Carry out orders. Engineer Zhilin, check on compliance and report to me." He ran his eye over them, then turned and strode into the control room. "Mon dieu;' said Mollard. "What a life." His nose was bleeding again. Dauge jerked his head and said: "We need someone who's lucky. Any lucky dog among you? We absolutely need someone who's lucky." Zhilin got up. "It's time. Comrades," he said. He wished everything would soon be over. He desperately wished everything was over and done with. They had all remained seated. "It's time, Comrades," he repeated in confusion. "There's about ten per cent of probability of a favourable result," Yurkovsky said musingly and started rubbing his cheeks. Mikhail Antonovich grunted and struggled up out of the sofa. "Boys," he said. "Looks we ought to bid farewell to one another. Just in case, you know. Anything might happen." He smiled piteously. "We might as well," said Dauge. "Yes." "And I again don't know how," said Mollard. Yurkovsky rose. "I'll tell you what," he said. "Let's go and get into the acceleration absorbers. Bykov might come any moment and then-I'd prefer to be burned up. He's a heavy hand-I remember to this day, though it was ten years ago...." "Quite," Mikhail Antonovich said and fussed. "Come on, boys, come on.... But let me kiss you first." He kissed Dauge, then Yurkovsky, then turned to Mollard and kissed him on the forehead. "Where will you be, Misha?" asked Dauge. Mikhail Antonovich kissed Zhilin, gave a little sob and said: "In the acceleration absorber-same as everyone." "And you, Vanya?" "Me too," said Zhilin. He was holding Mollard by his shoulders. "And the captain?" They were in the gangway now and everyone stopped. There were a few more steps before separation. "Alexei Petrovich says he doesn't trust automation inside Jupe," said Zhilin. "He'll steer her himself." "Just like Bykov," Yurkovsky said with a wry smile. "A knight in shining armour." Mikhail Antonovich gave a little whimper and headed for his cabin. "Let me help you. Monsieur Mollard," said Zhilin. "Please," Mollard said and Obediently clutched at Zhilin's shoulder. "Good luck and quiet plasma," said Yurkovsky. Dauge nodded and they parted. Zhilin led Mollard to his cabin and helped him into the absorber. "How's life, Vanya?" Mollard asked sadly. "Good?" "Good, Monsieur Mollard," said Zhilin. "And how are the girls?" "Very good," said Zhilin. "There're nice girls on Amaltheia." He smiled politely, slid the top in place and switched off the smile. I wish it was all over, he thought. He walked the length of the gangway and it looked very bare to him. He tapped on each shock-absorber, got the replies and went back to the control room. Bykov sat in the senior pilot's place. He was in an antigrav suit. It looked like a silk worm's cocoon, from one end of which a mop of red hair was sticking out. The face was as ordinary as always, only sterner and very tired. \ "All set, Alexei Petrovich," said Zhilin. "Good," said Bykov. He glanced at Zhilin sideways. "Not afraid, youngster?" "No," said Zhilin. He wasn't afraid. He only wished it would all be over soon. And then he suddenly wished to see Father as he used to emerge out of his spaceship after a long trip, stout, moustachioed, helmet in hand. And to introduce Father to Bykov. "Go, Ivan," said Bykov. "I give you ten minutes." "Quiet plasma to you, Alexei Petrovich," said Zhilin. "Thanks," said Bykov. "Go." I must bear it out, Zhilin thought. Surely I will bear it out. He was at the door of his cabin when he spotted Varya. Varya was crawling laboriously, hugging the wall, dragging her wedge-shaped tail. Catching sight of Zhilin she raised her triangular muzzle and winked slowly. "You poor beast," said Zhilin. He seized her by the loose skin on her neck, dragged her inside, slid open the top of his acceleration absorber and looked at his watch. Then he threw Varya into the box-she felt very heavy as she quivered in his hands-and got in himself. He lay back in complete darkness and listened to the gurgling of the absorber mixture while his body was becoming lighter and lighter. It was very pleasant, only Varya kept jerking at his side, her bosses prickling his hand. I must bear it out, he thought. Like he does. In the control room Bykov jabbed at the ribbed key of the starter with his thumb. EPILOGUE J-STATION, AMALTHEIA The chief of the Station has no eye for the setting Jupiter and Varya gets her tail pulled. 'The setting of Jupiter is also a spectacular sight. The yellowish-green exospheric glow dies out and stars flicker up one after another in the darkening sky like diamond needles against black velvet. But the chief of the J-Station saw neither the stars nor the yellowish-green glow above the cliffs. His eyes were on the icy field of the spacedrome. Just where the colossal tower of the Tahmasib was falling slowly, in a barely perceptible movement. The first-class cargo photon ship was indeed colossal. It was so huge it even dwarfed the bluish-green plain pitted with black round spots it was falling on. From the spectrolite dome it seemed the ship was free-coasting. But in real fact it was being towed into place. Hidden in the shadows of the cliffs on the sides of the field there were powerful winches, and bright filaments of hawser would sometimes sparkle into view in the sun's rays. The sun shone full on the ship and she was all in sight, from the huge bowl of the reflector to the globe of the living quarters. Never before had so badly damaged a ship come to Amaltheia. The reflector was cracked on the edge so that there was a dense distorted shadow in the huge bowl. The six-hundred-foot tube of the photon reactor looked mottled as though eaten away by scab. The emergency rockets protruded at awkward angles on the twisted brackets, the cargo bay was lop-sided and looked like a round tin that had been trodden on by a magnetic boot. Part of the food has perished, thought the chief. What nonsense I'm thinking. As though that mattered. But one thing's certain: the Tahmasib is going to stay here for a while. "Quite a price to pay for chicken broth," said Uncle Hoak. "Yes," the chief muttered. "Chicken broth. Stop it, Hoak. You don't really mean it." "Why not?" said Hoak. "The boys could do with some chicken broth." The spaceship settled on the plain and was lost in the shade. Only the ship's titanium sides glowed a faint green, then there were pin-points of light and the fuss of tiny black figures. Jupiter's shaggy hump dipped behind the cliffs and they darkened and became taller, and a gorge was lit bright for an instant, revealing the trellis-work of the antennae. The radiophone in the chief's pocket sang mosquito-like. He got the smooth case out and pressed reception. "Listening," he said. The switchboardman's tenor-gay, with no diffidence-came to him in a rattle: "Comrade chief, Captain Bykov's arrived with crew and passengers and is waiting for you in your office." "Coming," said the chief. Together with Uncle Hoak he took the lift down and went to his office. The door was wide open. The room was full of people who all 'spoke and laughed loudly. Still in the gangway the chief heard a gay yell: "How's life-good? How're the boys- good?" The chief lingered in the doorway, his eyes searching for the newcomers. Hoak was breathing noisily just behind him and the chief knew he was grinning from ear to ear. It would be interesting to look at a grinning Hoak, but the chief didn't turn. He saw Mollard, his hair wet after a bath. The Frenchman was gesticulating wildly and laughing his head off. There were girls round him, Zoya, Galya, Nadya, Jane, Yuriko-in fact, all the Station's girls-who were laughing heartily too. Mollard had a way of gathering all the girls round him. Then the chief spotted Yurkovsky, or rather the back of his head, and a nightmarish monster on his shoulder. The monster was jerking its head here and there and yawning horribly, while a few daredevils kept pulling at its tail. Dauge was not in sight but could be heard as easily as Mollard. He was yelling: "Hands off! Let me go! Ah-ah!" A huge young fellow he did not know was standing to the side, very handsome and very pale compared with the group of local space flyers with whom he was engaged in a lively conversation. Mikhail Antonovich Krutikov was sitting in a chair beside the chief's desk. He was talking away, waving his short pudgy hands and sometimes pressing a balled lace-trimmed handkerchief to his eyes. Only then did the chief recognise Bykov. He was pale to the point of blueness and there were bluish bags under his bloodshot eyes that spoke of prolonged exposure to high acceleration. Round him stood department chiefs and the chief of the spacedrome. He was speaking to them, but in so low a voice that the chief could not understand a word and only saw his lips move slowly in the effort of speech. This was the quietest group in the room. Presently Bykov looked up and saw the chief. He got up, a whisper ran around and there was a general hush. They both moved at the same time, their magnetic soles clanging against the metal floor, and met in the middle of the room. They shook hands and stood for a while silently and motionlessly. Then Bykov disengaged his hand and said: "Comrade Kangren, I report the spaceship Tahmasib with its cargo."