He clung to the radarscope, trembling. With every rushing mile upward, outward, his fear was growing. It wasn't right, it didn't make sense. But he felt as though he were rushing straight at a brick wall, head down, eyes closed. He lit the telescreens. The stars look funny, he thought uneasily. The timer ticked. The radar whispered, searching. Time passed and his fear grew thicker, less reasonable. His fingers dug hard at the metal of the instrument panel as the night slipped by outside the hull. The ship's orbital ellipse, Kepler's contribution to the new frontier, was established. Pete thought, something's wrong. Very wrong. The stars look queer. The constellations in the telescreens were distorting, and there was something ahead of the ship where there should be nothing but emptiness. It showed in the screen for just an instant and was lost. A ringed sphere. I must be dreaming, Pete thought. But then, what is reality? That sphere was Saturn. And it was a hundred yards across. Reality? _Insanity!_ I'd better check with Base, Pete thought, and tell them I've gone off my rocker, that I'm suffering hallucinations. But he did nothing except cling shaking to the panel, watching the distorted stars in the screen. They were blurring now, streaks of light that seemed to be very close to the ship. * * * * * And then came the moon. It came and went very quickly, pocked and scarred and with only one face. And _small_. Very small and very close. Pete felt closed in, suffocated. The radar alarm was screaming at him that something was near, too near. He clamped down savagely on himself. There was an explanation somewhere. He had to find it! He had to think! Item. The stars. Distorted. Blurred. Item. Saturn. A hundred yards across. Item. A tiny replica of the moon, like a pimple on the inside of an egg. Replica? No. _The_ moon. The only moon. Reality. Hypothesis. Say that space is not as men imagined it. Say that it is an illusion, without lightyears, without great suns, without huge planets. Say for the sake of argument that it is a shell with holes in it, and light outside, and the Sun itself an illusion of heat and power, and-- Say that this hollow shell is man's new frontier; a fraud, a toy for things outside-- The alarm screamed at him. The ship was plunging toward the blurry light of the stars. With an icy hand on his heart, Pete Moore turned to look at the telescreen behind him. A misty blue ball swam in musty darkness. The oceans gleamed in the light of the sun, cloud masses whitened it, the wrinkled face of the land looked unreal-- He began to laugh. Tears streaked his cheeks as he pounded his bloody fists against the instrument panel in time to the clanging of the alarm. The Earth, the Earth-- It _did_ rather look like papier-mâché. He touched the sky.