had his mind called out to Jean across whatever unknown gulfs had sundered them. Now he went alone and fearless into the universe that was opening up before him.
In the mornings they would question him, and he would tell what he could remember. Sometimes his words stumbled and failed as he tried to describe scenes which were clearly not only beyond all his experience, but beyond the imagination of Man. They would prompt him with new words, show him pictures and colours to refresh his memory, then build up what pattern they could from his replies. Often they could make nothing of the result, though it seemed that in Jeff's own mind his dream worlds were perfectly plain and sharp. He was simply unable to communicate them to his parents. Yet some were clear enough… Space—no planet, no surrounding landscape, no world underfoot. Only the stars in the velvet night, and hanging against them a great red sun that was beating like a heart.
Huge and tenuous at one moment, it would slowly shrink, brightening at the same time as if new fuel was being fed to its internal fires. It would climb the spectrum and hover at the edge of yellow, and the cycle would reverse itself, the, star would expand and cool, becoming once more a ragged, flame-red cloud… ('Typical pulsating variable,” said Rashaverak eagerly. “Seen, too, under tremendous time-acceleration. I can't identify it precisely, but the nearest star that fits the description is Rhamsandron 9. Or it may be Pharanidon 12.”
“Whichever it is,” replied Karellen, “he's getting further away from home.”
“Much further,” said Rashaverak…)
It might have been Earth. A white sun hung in a blue sky flecked with clouds, which were racing before a storm. A bill sloped gently down to an ocean torn into spray by the ravening wind. Yet nothing moved: the scene was frozen as if glimpsed in a flash of lightning. And far, far away on the horizon was something that was not of Earth—a line of misty columns, tapering slightly as they soared out of the sea and lost themselves among the clouds. They were spaced with perfect precision along the rim of the planet—too huge to be artificial, yet too regular to be natural.
('Sideneus 4 and the Pillars of the Dawn,” said Rashaverak, and there was awe in his voice. “He has reached the centre of the Universe.”
“And he has barely begun his journey,” answered Karellen.)
The planet was absolutely flat. Its enormous gravity had long ago crushed into one uniform level the mountains of its fiery youth—mountains whose mightiest peaks had never exceeded a few metres in height. Yet there was life here, for the surface was covered with a myriad geometrical patterns that crawled and moved and changed their colour. It was a world of two dimensions, inhabited by beings who could be no more than a fraction of a centimetre in thickness.
And in its sky was such a sun as no opium eater could have imagined in his wildest dreams. Too hot to be white, it was a searing ghost at the frontiers of the ultra-violet, burning its planets with radiations which would be instantly lethal to all earthly forms of life. For millions of kilometres around extended great veils of gas and dust, fluorescing in countless colours as the blasts of ultra-violet tore through them. It was a star against which Earth's pale sun would have been as feeble as a glow-worm at noon.
('Hexanerax 2, and nowhere else in the known universe,” said Rashaverak. “Only a handful of our ships have ever reached it—and they have never risked any landings, for who would have thought that life could exist on such planets?”
“It seems,” said Karellen, “that you scientists have not been as thorough as you had believed. If those— patterns-are intelligent, the problem of communication will be interesting. I wonder if they have any knowledge of the third dimension?')
It was a world that could never know the meaning of night and day, of years or seasons. Six coloured suns shared its sky, so that there came only a change of light, never darkness.
Through the clash and tug of conflicting gravitational fields, the planet travelled along the loops and curves of its inconceivably complex orbit, never retracing the same path. Ever) moment was unique: the configuration which the six suns now held in the heavens would not repeat itself this side of eternity. And even here there was life. Though the planet might be scorched by the central fires in one age, and frozen in the outer reaches in another, it was yet the home of intelligence. The great, many-faceted crystals stood grouped in intricate geometrical patterns, motionless in the eras of cold, growing slowly along the veins of mineral when the world was warm again. No matter if it took a thousand years for them to complete a thought. The universe was still young, and Time stretched endlessly before them. ('I have searched all our records,” said Rashaverak. “We have no knowledge of such a world, or such a combination of suns. If it existed inside our universe, the astronomers would have detected it, even if it lay behind the range of our ships.”
“Then he has left the Galaxy.”
“Yes. Surely it cannot be much longer now.”
“Who knows? He is only dreaming. When he awakes, he is still the same. It is merely the first phase. We will know soon enough when the change begins.') 'We have met before, Mr. Greggson,” said the Overlord gravely. “My name is Rashaverak. No doubt you remember.”
“Yes,” said George. “That party of Rupert Boyce's. I am not likely to forget. And I thought we should meet again.”
“Tell me—why have you asked for this interview?”
“I think you already know.”
“Perhaps: but it will help us both if you tell me in your own words. It may surprise you a good deal, but I also am trying to understand, add in some ways my ignorance is as great as yours.”
George stared at the Overlord in astonishment. This was a thought that had never occurred to him. He had subconsciously assumed that the Overlords possessed all knowledge and all power—that they understood, and were probably responsible for, the things that had been happening to Jeff.
“I gather,” George continued, “that you have seen the reports I gave to the Island psychologist, so you know about the dreams.”
“Yes: we know about them.”
“I never believed that they were simply the imaginings of a child. They were so incredible that—I know this sounds ridiculous—they had to be based on some reality.”
He looked anxiously at Rashaverak, not knowing whether to hope for confirmation or denial. The Overlord said nothing, but merely regarded him with his great calm eyes. They were sitting almost face to face, for the room—which had obviously been designed for such interviews—was on two levels, the Overlord's massive chair being a good metre lower than George's. It was a friendly gesture, reassuring to the men who asked for these meetings and who were seldom in an easy frame of mind.
“We were worried, but not really alarmed at first. Jeff seemed perfectly normal when he woke up, and his dreams didn't appear to bother him. And then one night”—he hesitated and glanced defensively at the Overlord. “I've never believed in the supernatural: I'm no scientist, but I think there's a rational explanation for everything.”
“There is,” said Rashaverak “I know what you saw: I was watching.”
“I always suspected it. But Karellen had promised that you'd never spy on us with your instruments. Why have you broken that promise?”
“I have not broken it. The Supervisor said that the human race would no longer be under surveillance. That is a promise we have kept. I was watching your children, not you.”
It was several seconds before George understood the implications of Rashaverak's words. Then the colour drained slowly from his face.
“You mean?. .” he gasped. His voice trailed away and he had to begin again.
“Then what in God's name are my children?”
“That,” said Rashaverak solemnly, “is what we are trying to discover.” Jennifer Anne Greggson, lately known as the Poppet, lay on her back with her eyes tightly closed. She had not opened them for a long time; she would never open them again, for sight was now as superfluous to her as to the many-sensed creatures of the lightless ocean deeps. She was aware of the world that surrounded her: indeed, she was aware of much more than that.
One reflex remained from her brief babyhood, by some unaccountable trick of development. The rattle which had once delighted her sounded incessantly now, beating a complex, ever-changing rhythm in her cot. It was that strange syncopation which had amused Jean from her sleep and sent her flying Into the nursery. But it
