To make things more unfair, Karellen himself recorded the whole proceedings. Reporters guilty of carelessness, or downright misrepresentation -- though this was very rare -- had been summoned to short and unpleasant sessions with Karellen's underlings and required to listen attentively to playbacks of what the Supervisor had really said. The lesson was not one that ever had to be repeated.

There had, of course, been several attempts to smuggle in recorders. They had been successfully smuggled out again, but a single glance at their smoking interiors had shown the futility of the experiment. Everyone understood, then, why they had always been warned, in their own interest, to leave watches and other metallic objects outside the conference room.

The conference room was always crowded for these weekly meetings, but today it was so closely packed that the reporters had difficulty in writing. For the hundredth time, they grumbled to each other at Karellen's conservatism and lack of consideration. Anywhere else in the world they could have brought TV cameras, tape recorders, and all the other tools of their highly mechanized trade. But here they had to rely on such archaic devices as paper and pencil -- and even, incredible to relate, shorthand.

"Quite a crowd today, Mr. Golde. There must be a shortage of news." The gentleman from the Times smiled and cleared his throat.

It was strange how these rumours got around. No prior announcement was made, yet there was always a full house whenever Karellen had an important statement to make -- which happened, on the average, two or three times a year. Silence descended on the murmuring crowd as the great doorway split open and Karellen came forward on to the dais. The light here was dim -- approximating, no doubt, to that of the Overlords' far distant sun -- so that, the Supervisor for Earth had discarded the dark glasses he normally wore when in the open. He replied to the ragged chorus of greetings with a formal "Good morning, everybody," then turned to the tall, distinguished figure at the front of the crowd. Mr. Golde, doyen of the Press Club, might have been the original inspirer of the butler's announcement: "Three reporters, m'lud, and a gentleman from the Times." He dressed and behaved like a diplomat of the old school: no one would ever hesitate to confide in him, and no one had ever regretted it subsequently.

"Yes, I have some news for you. As you are doubtless aware, one of my supply ships recently left Earth to return to its base. We have just discovered that there was a stowaway on board."

He watched intently as Karellen considered his reply. It seemed so unfair that the Overlords' faces, rigid as masks, betrayed no trace of emotion. The great, wide eyes, their pupils sharply contracted even in this indifferent light, stared fathomlessly back into the frankly curious human ones. The twin breathing orifices on either cheek -- if those fluted, basalt curves could be called cheeks -- emitted the faintest of whistles as Karellen's hypothetical lungs laboured in the thin air of Earth. Golde could just see the curtain of tiny white hairs fluttering to and fro, keeping accurately out of phase, as they responded to Karellen's rapid, double-action breathing cycle. Dust filters, they were generally believed to be, and elaborate theories concerning the atmosphere of the Overlords' home had been constructed on this slender foundation.

"I hope you can rectify that, Mr. Supervisor."

"A stowaway, did you say, Mr. Supervisor?" asked Golde. "May we ask who he was -- and how he got aboard?"

A hundred pencils braked to a halt: a hundred pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon Karellen.

"His name is Jan Rodricks: he is an engineering student from the University of Cape Town. Further details you can no doubt discover for yourselves through your own very efficient channels."

"As for how he left," continued the Supervisor, "that is of secondary importance. I can assure you, or any other potential astronauts, that there is no possibility of repeating the exploit."

"What will happen to this young man?" persisted Golde. "Will he be sent back to Earth?"

Karellen smiled. The Supervisor's smile was a curious affair. Most of the effect really resided in the eyes: the inflexible, lipless mouth scarcely moved at all. Was this, Golde wondered, another of the many human customs that Karellen had copied with such skill? For the total effect was, undoubtedly, that of a smile, and the mind readily accepted it as such.

"That is outside my jurisdiction, but I expect he will come back on the next ship. He would find conditions too -- alien -- for comfort where he has gone. And this leads me to the main purpose of our meeting today." Karellen paused, and the silence grew even deeper.

"There has been some complaint, among the younger and more romantic elements of your population, because outer space has been closed to you. We had a purpose in doing this: we do not impose bans for the pleasure of it. But have you ever stopped to consider -- if you will excuse a slightly unflattering analogy -- what a man from your Stone Age would have felt, if he suddenly found himself in a modern city?"

"Surely," protested the Herald Tribune, "there is a fundamental difference. We are accustomed to Science. On your world there are doubtless many things which we might not understand -- but they wouldn't seem magic to us."

"Are you quite sure of that?" said Karellen, so softly that it was hard to hear his words. "Only a hundred years lies between the age of electricity and the age of steam, but what would a Victorian engineer have made of a television set or an electronic computer. And how long would he have lived if he started to investigate their workings? The gulf between two technologies can easily become so great that it is -- lethal."

"And there are other reasons why we have restricted the human race to Earth. Watch."

("Hello," whispered Reuters to the B. B. C. "We're in luck. He's going to make a major policy statement. I know the symptoms.)

The lights dimmed and vanished. As they faded, a milky opalescence formed in the centre of the room. It congealed into a whirlpool of stars -- a spiral nebula seen from a point far beyond its outermost sun.

"Your race has shown a notable incapacity for dealing with the problems of its own rather small planet. When we arrived, you were on the point of destroying yourselves with the powers that science had rashly given you. Without our intervention, the Earth today would be a radioactive wilderness.

"No human eyes have ever seen this sight before," said Karellen's voice from the darkness. "You are looking at your own Universe, the island galaxy of which your sun is a member, from a distance of half a million light-years."

There was a long silence. Then Karellen continued, and now his voice held something that was not quite pity and not precisely scorn.

"Now you have a world at peace, and a united race. Soon you will be sufficiently civilized to run your planet without our assistance. Perhaps you could eventually handle the problems of an entire solar system -- say fifty moons and planets. But do you really imagine that you could ever cope with this?"

The nebula expanded. Now the individual stars were rushing past, appearing and vanishing as swiftly as sparks from a forge. And each of those transient sparks was a sun, with who knew how many circling worlds…

"In this single galaxy of ours," murmured Karellen, "there are eighty-seven thousand million suns. Even that figure gives only a faint idea of the immensity of space. In challenging it, you would be like ants attempting to label and classify all the grains of sand in all the deserts of the world.

"Your race, in its present stage of evolution, cannot face that stupendous challenge. One of my duties has been to protect you from the powers and forces that lie among the stars -- forces beyond anything that you can ever imagine."

Karellen turned to go: the audience was over. At the door he paused and looked back upon the hushed crowd.

The image of the galaxy's swirling fire-mists faded: light returned to the sudden silence of the great chamber.

And only Karellen knew with what inexorable swiftness the Golden Age was rushing to its close.

"The stars are not for Man." Yes, it would annoy them to have the celestial portals slammed in their faces. But they must learn to face the truth -- or as much of the truth as could mercifully be given to them.

From the lonely heights of the stratosphere, Karellen looked down upon the world and the people that had been given into his reluctant keeping. He thought of all that lay ahead, and what this world would be only a dozen years from now. They would never know how lucky they had been. For a lifetime Mankind had achieved as much happiness as any race can ever know. It had been the Golden Age. But gold was also the colour of sunset, of autumn: and only Karellen's ears could catch the first wailings of the winter storms.

"It is a bitter thought, but you must face it. The planets you may one day possess. But the stars are not for Man."