"We've observed all sorts of variable stars--Cepheids, RR Lyrae's, T Tauri's. We assume that what we see are stars, pulsating and changing brightness for reasons that are natural, but unexplainable to us. Now, suppose what we are really viewing are laser beams, signalling from planets that circle stars too faint to be seen from Earth?" In spite of himself, Rizzo looked intrigued. "It would be fairly simple to examine the spectra of such light sources and determine whether they're natural stars or artificial laser beams." "Have you tried it?" I nodded. "And?" I hesitated long enough to make him hold his breath, waiting for my answer. "No soap. Every variable star I've examined is a real star." He let out his breath in a long, disgusted puff. "Ahhh, you were kidding all along. I thought so." "Yes," I said. "I suppose I was." * * * * * Time dragged along in the weather dome. I had managed to smuggle a small portable telescope along with me, and tried to make observations whenever possible. But the weather was usually too poor. Rizzo, almost in desperation for something to do, started to build an electronic image-amplifier for me. Our one link with the rest of the world was our weekly radio message from McMurdo. The times for the messages were randomly scrambled, so that the chances of their being intercepted or jammed were lessened. And we were ordered to maintain strict radio silence. As the weeks sloughed on, we learned that one of our manned satellites had been boarded by the Reds at gunpoint. Our space-crews had put two Red automated spy-satellites out of commission. Shots had been exchanged on an ice-island in the Arctic. And six different nations were testing nuclear bombs. We didn't get any mail of course. Our letters would be waiting for us at McMurdo when we were relieved. I thought about Gloria and our two children quite a bit, and tried not to think about the blast and fallout patterns in the San Francisco area, where they were. "My wife hounded me until I spent pretty nearly every damned cent I had on a shelter, under the house," Rizzo told me. "Damned shelter is fancier than the house. She's the social leader of the disaster set. If we don't have a war, she's gonna feel damned silly." I said nothing. The weather cleared and steadied for a while (days and nights were indistinguishable during the long Antarctic winter) and I split my time evenly between monitoring the meteorological sensors and observing the stars. The snow had covered the dome completely, of course, but our "snorkel" burrowed through it and out into the air. "This dome's just like a submarine, only we're submerged in snow instead of water," Rizzo observed. "I just hope we don't sink to the bottom." "The calculations show that we'll be all right." He made a sour face. "Calculations proved that airplanes would never get off the ground."