The observatory staff and the builders who were some distance away saw very little. Something flashed across the profound Tibetan sky that dimmed the brightness of the stars. Some invisible power crashed down on to the mountain on which the experimental station was situated. Then came a whirlwind that swept up a mass of stones. A black stream, some five hundred metres in diameter that seemed to have been fired from a gigantic hydraulic gun raced towards the observatory building, swept upwards, turned back and again struck the mountain, smashing the entire installation and scattering the fragments. An instant later everything was quiet again. The dust-filled air was saturated with the odour of hot stones and burning mixed with a strange aroma similar to that of the flowering coast of a tropical sea.

At the site of the catastrophe the people saw that a wide furrow with molten edges had been ploughed across the valley, and that the side of the mountain facing it had been torn clean away. The observatory building had not been touched. The furrow stretched as far as the southeastern wall where it had destroyed the transformer chamber built against it; it ended at the dome of the underground chamber cast from a four-metre thick layer of molten basalt. The basalt was polished as though it had been worked on a grinding machine. Part of it remained untouched and that had saved Mven Mass and the underground chamber from complete destruction.

A stream of molten silver hardened in a hollow — the melted fuses of the power receiver!

Emergency lighting cables were soon connected and when the searchlight from the lighthouse on the highway threw out its beam an appalling sight met the eyes of the onlookers — the whole of the metal structure of the experimental installation was spread along the furrow in a gleaming thin coating making the ground shine as though it had been chromium-plated. A piece of the bronze spiral had been pressed into the precipice formed where the side of the hill had been cut away as clean as with a knife. The rocks had melted into a glassy mass, like sealing wax under a hot stamp. The turns of the spiral of reddish metal with its white rhenium tooth-like contacts were embedded in the rock and gleamed in the electric light like a flower done in enamel. One glance at that piece of jewellery two hundred metres in diameter was sufficient to arouse fear of the unknown force that had operated there.

When the fallen boulders had been cleared away from the entrance to the underground chamber rescue workers found Mven Mass on his knees with his head resting on the bottom step. The Director of the Outer Stations had apparently made an effort to escape the moment he regained consciousness. There were doctors amongst the volunteers who had been working there and his powerful organism aided by no less powerful medicines soon recovered. Mven Mass got to his feet, still trembling and staggering and had to be supported on both sides.

“Renn Bose?”

The faces of the people surrounding the scientist darkened at this question, and the Director of the observatory said harshly:

“Renn Bose has been badly disfigured. He is hardly expected to live.”

“Where is he?”

“He was found at the bottom of the eastern slope of the mountain. He must have been hurled out of the installation building. There is nothing left on top of the mountain, even the ruins have been wiped off the face of the earth!”

“Is Renn Bose still lying there?”

“He must not be touched. Some bones have been crushed, some ribs broken and his stomach injured.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“His stomach has been split open and his insides have fallen out.”

Mven Mass’ legs gave way under him and he clutched spasmodically at the necks of those supporting him. His will and his mind, however, were functioning clearly.

“Renn Bose must be saved at all costs. He is the greatest of all scientists….”

“We know. There are five doctors there. They have erected a sterilized operation tent over him. Two men who have volunteered to give blood are lying beside him. The tiratron[25], the artificial heart and liver are already working.”

“Then help me to the telephone room. Switch on to the world network and call the information centre in the northern zone. How are things on Satellite 57?”

“We called the satellite but got no answer.”

“Are the telescopes in working order?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Look for the satellite in the telescope and examine it through the electronic inverter to get the maximum magnification.”

The night operator at the northern information centre looked into his screen and saw a face smeared with blood, the eyes gleaming feverishly. He had to study the face for some time before he recognized Mven Mass who, as the Director of the Outer Stations, was a person well known throughout the planet.

“I want Grom Orme, President of the Astronautical Council and Evda Nahl, psychiatrist.”

The operator nodded his head and began fiddling with the switches and vernier scales of the memory machines. The answer came back in a minute.

“Grom Orme is preparing some papers and is spending the night at the Council. Shall I call the Council?”

“Yes, call them. And Evda Nahl?”

“She’s at School No. 410 in Ireland. If you need her I can try to call her to…” — here the operator looked up at a diagram — ”… to telephone station No. 5654SP!”

“She’s badly needed. It is a matter of life or death!”

The operator looked up from his diagrams.

“Has there been an accident?”

“A very serious accident.”

“Then I’ll hand everything over to my assistant and get busy on your call alone. Wait for me.”

Mven Mass dropped into an armchair that had been pushed towards him, in an effort to gather his thoughts and regain his strength. The Director of the observatory came running into the room.

“The situation of Satellite 57 has been ascertained. There is no satellite.”

Mven Mass jumped to his feet as though he had not received any injuries.

“A piece of the bow which acts as a quay for the reception of ships, has survived,” continued the staggering report, “and is still in the same orbit. There are probably some smaller pieces but they have not yet been discovered.”

“So the observers….”

“They must have been killed!”

Mven Mass clenched his fists and sank back into the chair. A few minutes of oppressive silence followed, then the screen lit up again.

“Grom Orme is at the Council transmitter,” said the operator and turned a handle. The screen showed a huge, dimly-lit hall and then the well-known head of the President of the Astronautical Council appeared. The narrow seemingly streamlined face, the big aquiline nose, the deep-set eyes under sceptically raised brows, the questioning twist of the tightly pressed lips…. Under Grom Orme’s glance Mven Mass hung his head like a naughty boy.

“Satellite 57 has just been destroyed,” began the African, plunging straight into his confession as he would into dark water. Grom Orme started and his face seemed even sharper.

“How could that have happened?”

Briefly and precisely Mven Mass told him everything, not hiding the illegality of the experiment or in any way sparing himself. The President’s brows knitted together, deep lines appeared at the corners of his mouth but his glance remained calm.

“Wait a moment, I’ll see about aid for Renn Bose. Do you think that Ahf Noot….”

“Oh, if you could get Ahf Noot!”

The screen went dark. There was a long wait and Mven Mass forced restraint upon himself with the last of his strength. He would be all right, soon… ah, here was Grom Orme.

“I found Ahf Noot and have given him a planetship. He will require an hour to prepare his apparatus and his assistants. In two hours he’ll be at your observatory. Make the necessary arrangements for the handling of heavy cargo. Now about you — did the experiment succeed?”