out into largeness unending to our vision, what is left hut our imagination? And that, at least, we can send winging into the infinite!
I would not have you fear from this foreword that my story may be some pedantic, heavily technical exposition It is not; for it is fiction only—-a romance with which to entertain you; an effort, by using fictional methods, to reduce theories purely imaginative into concrete form with as great a degree of plausibility as may be. It is this only I desire: to carry you with me as you read; to make plausible this flight of our imaginations momentarily set free from the tiny everyday universe which is all we have physically to envisage.
Chapter 1
Freedom in Time and Space
I was busy with the Martian mail which had just arrived when the message from Brett Gryce reached me. I did not apprehend that there was anything of secrecy about it, since he was using the open air; yet there was in his voice a note of tenseness and his summons was urgent.
"I can't come, Brett, until I get through the mail." I was rushed, and in a mood of ill-temper at the universe in general.
"When will that be?" he demanded.
"I don't know. It's accursedly large. Most of it seems to call for radio distribution—these Martians are always in a hurry."
"Come when you can," he said quietly.
"Tonight?"
"Yes—tonight. No matter how late—I must see you, Frank."
"I'll come," I said, and cut him off.
It was long past trinight, with dawn beginning to brighten the sky beyond the masonry of lower GreatNew York, when I had disposed of those miserable Martian dispatches. The Gryces lived in the Southern Pennsylvania area. My aerocar was at hand. I had rather planned to use it; but I was tired and in no mood for effort. I decided to take the pneumatic, since there was a branch—little traveled, it is true—which would drop me within some twenty kilometers of the Gryce home.
They gave me an individual cylinder, with a bed if I eared to sleep. I did not. I lay there wondering what Brett could want of me; pleased also that I would see Francine—dear little Frannie. . . .
Occasionally I would call the Director ahead. They are sometimes careless in the switching of special individual cylinders; and I had no wish to pass the branch and find myself bringing up at some gulf terminal with half the morning getting back. Once I called Brett. He would meet me with his aero at the end of the branch when I arrived. He, too, reminded the Director. A surly sort of fellow; the Gryces had already reported him to the General Traffic Staff of Great-London.
I was not misdirected, however; but it was broad daylight when I emerged to find Brett impatiently awaiting me. And in a few minutes more vre were landing at the aerostage beside the Gryce home.
It was a simple enough place—for all Dr. Gryce's reputed wealth. An estate of a few kilometers, set in a heavy grove of trees with a high metallic wall about it. The granite house itself was small, unpretentious. There were few outbuildings; one a large rectangular affair which vaguely I understood was a workshop. I had never been in it. I knew old Dr. Gryce was interested in science; in his day he had materially advanced civilization with several
