Louis B. Mayer used to boast that MGM had more stars than in heaven, but it's obvious he never paid a visit to Observatory Hill. There, on a clear night, zillions of far-out superstars known as supernovas steal the spotlight, sharing the bill with assorted nebulae, galaxies, black holes, white dwarfs, red giants and other celestial curiosities.

Nestled on a crest in Riverview Park sits the three-domed Allegheny Observatory, a city secret that was heaven-sent when three citizens of Allegheny City met with Professor Lewis Bradley on Feb. 15, 1859, to consider the purchase of a telescope. This trio, along with 29 others, knew the importance of tweaking the twilight zone, and the Allegheny Telescope Association was brought into focus.

The Carnegie International may have Life on Mars, but the Allegheny Observatory has the goods to make Mercury rise ... and for Pluto to never appear goofy, even if the poor planet has been tossed out of the solar system.

There are three scopes at the observatory: a 30-inch refractor (the observatory's principal scope and the one that takes all the great research photos), a 16-inch reflector and a 13-inch refractor that the public gets to look through during Thursday and Friday night public tours.

And what a tall tale this smallest scope can tell! Its lens was "lens-napped" on July 8, 1872; as University of Pittsburgh legend has it, Samuel P. Langley, then director of the observatory, refused to fork over the ransom. Instead, he secretly met with the thief, promising the glass grabber that he/she would remain anonymous if the lens was returned. He kept his word, as did the thief.

As a star gazer (yes, take that both ways), I was so delighted such a local extraterrestrial treasure exists that I stole time from my schedule for a visit. Lou Coban gave me an insider's tour -- he's a maelstrom of minutiae. It's midday, and I ask him if I can look at sunspots and solar flares, just as Professor S. P. Langley had done in 1867 when he became director of the Observatory. No, Lou tells me; the sun isn't showing any activity, but he promises me a good time if I return after dark.

I arrive shortly before 9 pm. The sun has set, the moon has risen, the sky is sprinkled with stars. One observatory dome has been opened, and Lou is guiding a group of students through the art of sky-gazing. We look at the double stars Mizar (the second star from the end of the Big Dipper's handle) and its constant companion Alcor. When I think of double stars, I think Gable and Lombard, Garbo and Gilbert, Laurel and Hardy. Try as I may, Mizar and Alcor leave me in the dark -- they look like two white dots on a black background.

The moon is ripe for viewing, but the students moan that they've seen it too many times. Lou announces that Saturn is making a special appearance that night. He plugs some data into the scope, and the hunter-green tube of metal locks into place.

I look through the eyepiece. The magnifying power brings the ringed planet, some 812 million miles from Earth, into view. I look through the scope several times before I finally embrace what is happening. The teeny image at which I am staring is not a cardboard cutout being help up by a student (I checked), but the sixth planet from the sun, the second largest in the solar system, the very thing observed by Galileo in 1610.

I am in another world. Tonight there is no Gable or Lombard, Garbo or Gilbert, Laurel or Hardy. Tonight the star is Saturn. And I have a front-row seat.