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the metal is titanium it should not take too long.”
    Cautiously, he made his way to the nearest air-lock—if, indeed, that was what they were. He took care not to pass near any of the metal rods. It was almost certain that there were no living creatures on the ship. But it was still possible that the rods could discharge some sort of energy.
    “Why not burn through one of the port-holes?” suggested Kwango. “It would probably be easier.”
    Conrad was professionally shocked. “Suppose we were in S.A. on the Santa Maria and somebody torched through to the nav deck. We’d all be dead of explosive decompression. We have a fail-safe on our air-lock. I assume these people have one on theirs.”
    Kwango chuckled. “Boss, you are a real white man.”
    “I’m a trespasser ,” retorted Conrad primly. “I’m just trying to be as careful as I can.”
    The nearest hexagon was about one hundred and fifty metres from where Conrad had first touched down. He examined it carefully, and was none the wiser. It had to be an air-lock; but there was no way of knowing.
    He unhooked the laser torch from his belt and set it at maximum power. “If ‘t’were done,” he quoted to himself, “ t’ were best done quickly.” He had forgotten the reference, but he thought it was Shakespeare and—vaguely—Macbeth.
    “How’s that again, Boss?” asked Kwango.
    “Nothing. I was talking to myself. Cancel statement.”
    Kwango did his impersonation of Matthew. “Decision noted. Execution proceeds.”
    From the way the laser torch sliced through the metal, it looked as if Conrad had been right about titanium. He cut a circular hole almost a metre in diameter. He needed it that big to get through without damaging his life-support systems.
    As soon as the torch burned through the metal, Conrad braced himself. He had suspected that the lock might be filled with air. In which case, he would have been blasted away from the vessel as it rushed out.
    He was right about it being an air-lock. He was wrong about it containing any air.
    When there remained only two or three millimetres of metal left to be torched before he completed the full circle, Conrad killed the laser and returned the torch to his belt. Expertly, he tapped the section. It fell inside the lock. He adjusted his jets, switched on his head light, and went in after it.
    The lock was not greatly dissimilar from the Santa Maria’s air-lock. It was a cubiform chamber; and Conrad was mystified as to why it should have a hexagonal exterior panel. Perhaps the hexagon had some emotive / in tellectual / religious / philosophical / scientific significance for the people who designed it.
    There was a problem, and it was a nasty one. The airlock contained a control panel—as did the air-lock of the Santa Maria . But Conrad could not interpret the symbols. The problem was: should he torch his way through the panel that gave access to the vessel’s interior, or should he pull out—having satisfied himself beyond any reasonable doubt that the vessel was derelict? -
    Indira’s voice came over the radio. “Are you all right, James?”
    “Yes. I’m in one of the air-locks. I’m afraid I am going to have to cut through into the main section of the ship> after all.”
    “Why not leave it and come back? You have proved that the thing is dead.”
    “All we know is that nobody has responded,” he said. “We can’t continue the Tantalus mission until we are sure there can be no interference from upstairs. I hate to have to do it, but I think I’m going to burn through.”
    “Then take care—and come back in one piece.” She managed to laugh. “Kurt will testify that I am no longer hovering over the D.M.W. stud.”
    “That’s right, Boss,” cut in Kwango. “The Lieutenant is only looking pale and interesting.”
    “Fine. I’ll keep you informed,” said Conrad.
    First he played with a series of buttons on what was evidently a control console. Nothing happened. Regretfully, he