satisfied to have first enjoyed making contact with other men who live so many light-years from our own Ykaa.

When will this contact be, my friends?

Today?

Tomorrow?

When?

As he concluded his reading of the report, Mr. Goodnight’s eyes reflected the relief he felt.

“It is reassuring, Doctor, isn’t it?” he asked, huskily.

“I think so,” Dr. Lowenthal replied. “Even with my liberal translation, the nonaggressive attitude comes through continually.”

“This is the final proof we needed as to the authenticity of the saucers,” Goodnight remarked. “This couldn’t possibly be a hoax, could it?”

“Not a chance. The substance of the original paper is completely alien in its composition and manufacture, and the language is undoubtedly the creation of minds farther advanced than our own.”

Mr. Goodnight sighed as if a great burden had been lifted from him. “Well, our part in this is closed, Dr. Lowenthal,” he said. “It is out of our hands.”

“And now?” Lowenthal prompted.

“It is the job of others to determine if the manuscript is to be made public. This thing could be revolutionary in impact, Dr. Lowenthal. It could change the thinking and living of every person on Earth.”

The scientist nodded in agreement. “You know, Mr. Goodnight,” he said after a meditative pause, “I believe that Kal-Pota-Tekkala would be a rather nice fellow to know. I should really like to meet him.”

“So would I,” Goodnight replied, then added significantly with a sparkle of anticipation in his eyes, “Who knows? Perhaps some day, Doctor, not too distant, we shall.”

RACE AROUND THE SUN

Steve Gordon stared out of the forward port of the Condon Comet, which was streaking toward the sun. A dense filter protected his eyes from the searing brilliance of the star, 

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