t been
injured by the shock of the night before, it might be possible to carry
out the daring project which had suggested itself.

Passing through the inner door of the air-lock he entered the chart room
of the Ring, followed stumblingly by his companion. It was warm and
cozy; the first warmth Hooker had experienced for nearly a month. It
made him feel faint, and he dropped into an armchair and pulled off his
Glengarry. The survivor of the explosion, standing awkwardly at his
side, fumbled with his cap. Ever and anon he rubbed his head.

Bennie sank back into the cushions and looked about him. On the opposite
wall hung a map of the world on Mercator's Projection, and from a spot
in Northern Labrador red lines radiated in all directions, which formed
great curved loops, returning to the starting-point.

"The flights of the Ring," thought Bennie. "There's the one where they
busted the Atlas Mountains," following with his eyes the crimson thread
which ran diagonally across the Atlantic, traversed Spain and the
Mediterranean, and circling in a narrow loop over the coast of Northern
Africa turned back into its original track. Visions came to him of
guiding the car for an afternoon jaunt across the Sahara, the gloomy
forests of the Congo, into the Antarctic, and thence home in time for
afternoon tea, via the Easter Islands, Hawaii, and Alaska. But why stop
there? What was to prevent a trip to the moon? Or Mars? Or for that
matter into the unknown realms outside the solar system--the fourth
dimension, perhaps--or even the fifth dimension----

"Excuse me," said the machinist suddenly, "I just forgot--whether you
take--cigars or cigarettes. You see I only acted as--table
orderly--once--when Smith had that sprain." His hands moved uncertainly
on the shelves, beyond the map. The heart of Professor Hooker leaped.

"Cigars!" he almost shouted.

The man found a box of Havanas and struck a match.

The bliss of it! And if there was tobacco there must be food and drink
as well. He began to feel strangely exhilarated. But how to handle the
man beside him? Pax would certainly never ask the questions that he
wished to ask. He smoked rapidly, thinking hard. Of course he might
pretend that he, too, had forgotten things. And at first this seemed to
be the only way out of the difficulty. Then he had an inspiration.

"Look here," he remarked, rather severely. "Something's happened to you.
You say you've forgotten what occurred yesterday