“There, somewhere.” Conrad pointed past the bulky sphere of the cortex. “We ought to be able to see the-uh-the arrival area there.”

“I’ll make sure!” Yanderman snapped, and hoisted the heatbeam, resting it on the curious twisted crystal structure Conrad had found. A sweep with the beam, and another, cleft the masking creepers and laid bare a path downwards to a dim hollow space hundreds of feet on a side; like a needle hunting a splinter, the beam of Conrad’s handlight stabbed the opening into the gloom.

“Nothing,” he breathed after a minute’s silence. “The alarm must have been-”

“No, look there,” Yanderman whispered. “To the left. Isn’t something moving among the plants?”

Conrad’s heart hammered. Yes, plainly to be seen in the beam of the handlight there was movement. The leaves swayed wildly, as though a thing were about to emerge into view.

“Use the heatbeam!” Keefe begged. Yanderman nodded and pressed the activating switch.

And the beam died in the same instant as it began.

“No more power,” Yanderman said emptily. “Now what will they do? Without heatbeams, if it gets to the exterior of the dome …” He let the words trail away, gazing accusingly at Conrad, who felt sick with horror and shame at what he had brought about.

So this was the inevitable fate of Conrad, visionary, brave explorer of the barrenland, best soapmaker in Lagwich, unraveller of the mystery of the Station … He closed his eyes, his mind reeling as it had done under the impact of the signal from the organochemic cortex.

It wasn’t for a long time that he realised his companions had begun to make noises. They were laughing-or weeping? Which? Or both together! Yes!

He snapped his eyes open and stared at them. They were embracing each other, making meaningless, hysterical sounds, waving, dancing up and down, trying to sing. Uncomprehending, Conrad turned from them to the slanting hole cut by the last flicker of the heatbeam into the heart of what he had taken to be the arrival area.

And there he saw the thing for which the alarm had sounded.

A man.

A man in strange shiny garments, his head covered with a crystal helmet, his gauntleted hands stretched out as though in acclamation of a miracle-reaching up towards him, Conrad, standing on the platform beside the looming shell of the cortex.

And shouting.

“Earth! Earth! We’ve got through! We reached Earth again!”

And not one man only, but another, and another, and another pouring from the concealment of the alien plants, to stand in a shouting group and laugh and cry and wave at the laughing, crying, waving Conrad and his companions on the platform above.

After four and a half centuries, he, Conrad, had unwittingly opened the way, and the isolated children of Earth had found it possible to return.