At the opposite end of the viaduct the ground seemed rising like a hill. A small mound-shaped building was there: a house with a convex roof which had a leveled platform on one end, a platform banked with vivid flowers. It seemed a two-storied building, built of smooth, dull-gray blocks. Balconies girdled it. There were windows, and a large, lower doorway, with a broad flight of circular stairs leading up the hill to it. Our viaduct led us into the second floor of the house. We entered on a large room, an oval, two-storied room so that we found ourselves up on a sort of second-story platform, midway from floor to ceiling. Low couches were here, a row of them with sliding panels of what might have been paper dividing them. The platform, this second story, was some thirty feet, broadly oval. It had a low, encircling railing; a spiral staircase led downward to the main floor of the apartment. I saw furniture down there of strange, unnatural design, a metallic floor splashed with vivid mosaic pattern, a large gray frame, ornately carved, with a great number of long strips stretched across it, strings of different length. It seemed not unlike an enormous harp lying horizontal. Narrow windows, draped with dark gauze, were up near the ceiling. They admitted a dim light. This whole interior was dim, cool and silent. A peace, a restfulness pervaded it. And our captors—if captors they were—seemed more like proud hosts. They were all smiling. But when they left a moment later, I fancied that they barred the door after them. “Well,” said Jim. “I can’t say but that this is very nice. Let’s look things over and then go to bed. I’m tired out, I can tell you that. Say, Dolores, it just occurred to me—these fellows can’t understand a word we say. But you were thinking thoughts to them a while ago, and you understood each other. Why don’t you try that now?” It had occurred to me also. Why had these people understood Dolores’ thoughts, when her words were incomprehensible? Were thoughts, then, the universal language? Tiny vibrations which each human brain amplified, transformed into its own version of what we call words? It seemed so. Dolores was clinging closely to Alice’s hand. In these unfamiliar surroundings she was at a loss to move alone. “I did,” she answered Jim. “I tried . . . but there was so much noise. They could not hear me.” “Try now,” said Dr. Weatherby. “I will. I am.” She stood motionless, hands to her forehead. There was a long silence. Then she said, “I think . . . yes, someone thought to me, _The Man of Language will come to you_.” “Is that all, Dolores?” “Yes. That’s all. It’s gone.” “The Man of Language!” Jim exclaimed. “An interpreter! Dolores, what about that young man and girl who were in distress? They were out here, weren’t they?” “I don’t know. I never get their thoughts now.” “Try.” “I have tried. They may get mine. I can’t say. But they never answer.”