a man."

"One way to find out," declared Greg. He rose from the chair and walked
to the television control board, snapped the switch. Russ took a chair
beside him. On the screen the mountains danced weirdly as the set
rocketed swiftly away and then came the glint of red and yellow desert.
Blackness blanked out the screen as the set plunged into the ground,
passing through the curvature of the Earth's surface. The blackness
passed and fields and farms were beneath them on the screen, a green and
brown checkerboard with tiny white lines that were roads.

New York was in the screen now. Greg's hand moved the control and the
city rushed up at them, the spires speeding toward them like plunging
spears. Down into the canyons plunged the set, down into the financial
district with its beetling buildings that hemmed in the roaring traffic.

Grimly, surely, Greg drove his strange machine through New York. Through
buildings, through shimmering planes, through men. Like an arrow the
television set sped to its mark and then Greg's hand snapped back the
lever and in the screen was a building that covered four whole blocks.
Above the entrance was the famous Solar System map and straddling the
map were the gleaming golden letters: INTERPLANETARY BUILDING.

"Now we'll see," said Greg.

He heard the whistle of the breath in Russ's nostrils as the television
set began to move, saw the tight grip Russ had upon the chair arms.

The interior of the building showed on the screen as he drove the set
through steel and stone, offices and corridors and brief glimpses of
steel partitions, until it came to a door marked: SPENCER CHAMBERS,
PRESIDENT.

Greg's hand twisted the control slightly and the set went through the
door, into the office of Spencer Chambers.

Four men were in the room--Chambers himself; Craven, the scientist;
Arnold Grant, head of Interplanetary's publicity department, _and Harry
Wilson_!

Wilson's voice came out of the screen, a frantic, almost terrified
voice.

"I've told you all I know. I'm not a scientist. I'm a mechanic. I've
told you what they're doing. I can't tell you how they do it."

Arnold Grant leaned forward in his chair. His face was twisted in fury.

"There were plans, weren't there?" he demanded. "There were equations
and formulas. Why didn't you bring us some of them?"

Spencer Chambers raised a hand from the desk, waved it toward Grant.
"The man has told us all he knows. Obviously, he can't be a