Carefully he inserted the rod into the doorway. A moment of fumbling, then I heard a click. The little milk-white model seemed to tremble. It glowed; from it there came a soft, infinitely small humming sound. It glowed, melted into translucency--transparency. For an instant I had a vague sense that a spectral wraith of it was still before me. Then with a blink of my eyelids I realized that it was gone. The taboret was empty. Beside it, Dr. Gryce knelt with the rod melted off midway of its length in his hand. I breathed again. Brett said softly, "It is gone, Frank. Gone into the Past, relative to our consciousness of Time. Gone from our senses--yet it is here--occupying the same Space it did before--but with a different Time." He passed his hand through the apparent vacancy above the taboret. To me then came a realization of how crowded all Space must be! Of what a tiny fraction of things existent--of events occurring--are we conscious! That Space over the taboret--empty to me. . . . yet it held for a mind omniscient an infinity of things strewn through the ages of the Past and Future. What multiplicity of events--unseen by me--Time was holding separate in that crowded Space above the taboret! Dr. Gryce was saying, "Let us test one now by sending it into smallness--come here, Frank." He had risen to stand by the table, with another of the models before him. "This bit of stone," he said. "Let us send it into that." He laid a flat piece of black-gray, smoothly polished stone on the table near the model. And with another rod he reached into the doorway. Again I heard a click. He withdrew the rod. "You see, Frank." I saw that the rod was slightly compressed along the length he had inserted. The model was already dwindling. Soundlessly, untremblingly--it was contracting, becoming smaller, with shape and aspect otherwise unchanged. Soon it was the size of my fist. Dr. Gryce picked it up, rested it upon his opened hand. But in a moment it was no more than a tiny cube rocking in the movement of his palm. He gripped it gingerly with thumb and forefinger and set it on the polished black slab of stone. Its milk-white color there showed it clearly. But it was very small--smaller than the thumb-nail of my little finger. The cone-shaped tower was a needle-point. A breathless moment passed. It was now no more than a white speck upon the black stone surface. Brett said, "Try the microscope, Frank. You watch it." I put the low-powered instrument over it; Brett adjusted the light. The stone was smoothly polished. But now, under the glass, upon a shaggy mass of uneven rock surface I saw the vehicle visually as large as it had been originally. But it was dwindling progressively faster. Soon it lay tilted sidewise upon a slope of the rock; smaller--a tiny speck clinging there. "Can you still see it?" Brett murmured.