Diavilev thanked him. Because of the unexpected courtesy the level of his fear began to go down. _Perhaps it will not be so bad_, he thought. _Maybe after all it is only interrogation._ But again he thought that you never knew what to expect, that in all the long years of yessing and bowing and applauding he had never understood them. Well then, now was the time to understand. _I will say whatever they want me to say, I will not resist in the least. What does it matter? The world belongs to them, and if a man wishes to live he must be logical and agree. Let them do what they will, and I will applaud every step of the way._ He folded his hands in his lap. After a long while the car stopped. The first army man gave him over to another army man whom he could not see in the darkness, and after many a salute he was conducted through a black iron gate. Within minutes he was aboard a plane with four more army men. No one would say anything. Pyotr Diavilev slept. * * * * * This of course he could not believe. He saw the thing clearly in the late morning sun, rising in an enormous, shining tube from the hard-baked floor of the desert, but it was obviously impossible. He was taken on an elevator one hundred feet into the air and ushered through a door into the side of the thing, not believing any of it for an instant. He was told, rather kindly for once, that he was to be taken up in this thing and not to worry, because it had been tested. Many times. But he was so completely overwhelmed that he could not ask a question. There was nothing but army men now, one of whom conducted him to a foam rubber hammock and strapped him in. To his utter astonishment, the thing actually did take off. There were some very bad minutes. For a while he weighed several tons and could not move, and then he weighed nothing at all and was sick. Someone else unstrapped him and gave him pills, and then thoughtfully tied him to a handring on the wall. And at long last his mind began to accept it. The incredible Soviet had succeeded. His Russian contemporaries had put a manned vessel in outer space. Diavilev sat quietly stupefied. That the spouting, unshaven, preposterous baboons with whom he had worked could have built this thing seemed to him blankly impossible. Being one himself, Pyotr Diavilev had no great respect for what Russian scientists the great many purges had left. But of course there the thing was. Built by Germans perhaps, with secrets stolen from the Americans while they haggled about peace; nevertheless, there the thing was. And if he was going up now there could be only one place to go and therefore he was not a prisoner at all. The wonder and relief of it was too much at once. He surrendered himself to awe. When the time came to board the satellite he was poised and ready. * * * * *