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did not look at him, but continued staring at the cylinder which floated silently ahead of them.
    It was hard to keep your gaze away from the object. Now that its shape was clearly discernible, it was obvious that it was no natural formation — asteroid, meteor, or even monstrous chunk of frozen water or gases. A perfect cylinder — hundreds of times larger than the tallest building. Impossibly large, thought Melendez, yet there it was filling up the viewport with its bulk. The thought kept hitting him over and over: something this large, so cleanly-devised, had to have been designed. Created.
    The notion could hardly mesh with his acceptance, and yet before him was all the evidence he needed.
    “Oh, Jesus, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it,” said O’Hara, his voice soft, almost reverent. “What the hell is it, Melendez?”
    “I think you know about as much as I do, O’Hara.” A shiver of awe ran down his spine.

    * * *

    The VOR transmissions burst upon the Communications Center screens. Phineas Kemp and the Staff members stared at the images silently, unable to speak. Growing larger, clearer with each second, the representation on the computer-enhanced screens was obviously of an intelligently conceived and constructed object. Kemp could see the first details and markings along the dull, metallic surface. One end of the cylinder flat and almost featureless, but the opposite end, when it tumbled past the camera’s field, revealed large conical things, superstructure and tank-Iike formations. Engines. Engines capable of propelling the monstrous ship across impossible distances among the stars. No other alternative. The ship was not of Earth’s stellar system —humankind had already established that it was alone in Sol’s collection of planets.
    “It is a ship,” whispered Marcia Bertholde, beginning to look every bit of her forty-nine years. Smoke coiled up from her cigarette, coiling like DNA molecules near her lace.
    Rheinhardt’s aging, wrinkled face looked grim. “If you laid it on its side it would stretch from Washington to Manhattan.”
    Kolenkhov shifted his ample girth uneasily in his seat, hands clasped together as though for a wished-for drink. “What are you going to have those two men do, Phineas?” he asked. “It might be dangerous.”
    “Observatory data indicates that the object has been locked into that cometary orbit for a long time. The orbit is very stable, and the period is precise. Aside from an undifferentiated electromagnetic field —which the Snipe’s instruments are picking up here ”—Kemp pointed to a column of readouts on one of the console’s screens—“the object seems to be dead in space, although the scanners indicate precise axial spin. Probably for artificial gravity inside.”
    “A derelict?” asked Rheinhardt.
    “I don’t know,” Kemp said slowly. “All I’m is that it appears tobe a derelict. It could have been orbiting the sun for God knows how long.”
    “Is it safe for those men?”
    Kemp looked back at Marcia Bertholde. “ Safe? How should I know? We’re in a hostile environment, Marcia. What the hell is ‘safe’ out here?” He sighed, suddenly sorry he’d snapped like-that. “Listen everybody. I don’t know what we’re dealing with any more than the rest of you. All l know is that we have a chance for an extreme close-up recon of something that appears to be an extraterrestrial object. A ship . And we can get a first-hand look at it! I intend to get it! If anybody has any objections, I want to hear them. Now.”
    No one spoke.

    * * *

    The Snipe had come so close to the object that its viewing ports were totally filled with the greyish-silver expanse of its hull. The stars and the darkness had been matted out, effectively removed from reality. It was though the Snipe were preparing to land on the surface of a planet.
    “Let’s get the hell out of here!” said O’Hara. “We got their pictures . . . Let’s scram.”
    “I