l be, for time
is that medium in which events occur. Matter exists in space, but
events--"_

_The image smiled no longer. "Time is past!" it roared in tones deep as
the cathedral bell outside, and burst into ten thousand pieces_.

* * * * *

"There," said old Haskel van Manderpootz, shutting the book, "is my
classical authority in this experiment. This story, overlaid as it is
with mediaeval myth and legend, proves that Roger Bacon himself attempted
the experiment--and failed." He shook a long finger at me. "Yet do not
get the impression, Dixon, that Friar Bacon was not a great man. He
was--extremely great, in fact; he lighted the torch that his namesake
Francis Bacon took up four centuries later, and that now van Manderpootz
rekindles."

I stared in silence.

"Indeed," resumed the Professor, "Roger Bacon might almost be called a
thirteenth century van Manderpootz, or van Manderpootz a twenty-first
century Roger Bacon. His _Opus Majus_, _Opus Minus_, and _Opus
Tertium_--"

"What," I interrupted impatiently, "has all this to do with--that?" I
indicated the clumsy metal robot standing in the corner of the
laboratory.

"Don't interrupt!" snapped van Manderpootz. "I'll--"

At this point I fell out of my chair. The mass of metal had ejaculated
something like "_A-a-gh-rasp_" and had lunged a single pace toward the
window, arms upraised. "What the devil!" I sputtered as the thing
dropped its arms and returned stolidly to its place.

"A car must have passed in the alley," said van Manderpootz
indifferently. "Now as I was saying, Roger Bacon--"

I ceased to listen. When van Manderpootz is determined to finish a
statement, interruptions are worse than futile. As an ex-student of his,
I know. So I permitted my thoughts to drift to certain personal problems
of my own, particularly Tips Alva, who was the most pressing problem of
the moment. Yes, I mean Tips Alva the 'vision dancer, the little blonde
imp who entertains on the Yerba Mate hour for that Brazilian company.
Chorus girls, dancers, and television stars are a weakness of mine;
maybe it indicates that there's a latent artistic soul in me. Maybe.

I'm Dixon Wells, you know, scion of the N. J. Wells Corporation,
Engineers Extraordinary. I'm supposed to be an engineer myself; I say
supposed, because in the seven years since my graduation, my father
hasn't given me much opportunity to prove it. He has a strong sense of
value of time,