Mr. Moore did all these things with normal speed and in the proper order, but he did have a tendency to sit on the edge of his chair, as though he were sitting on a cliff and might topple over at any moment. The psychiatrist doodled on his pad impatiently. "Well now, just what seems to be the trouble?" Mr. Moore wet his lips. His face was white. He said, "I'm a mathematician. I work at the University." "Oh," the other said, bringing to voice facts he'd read a few minutes before. "You're _that_ Charles T. Moore, the one whose picture was in the paper a short time ago. Something about mathematics, I remember." Moore nodded. "Einstein, wasn't it?" the psychiatrist mused. "Something I don't understand, Einstein." "It's not easy," Moore agreed. "That's what started my difficulty." "Oh?" "Yes, when I learned that any point is the beginning or the end of the universe. Any point at all, the edge of this chair, the tip of my finger--behind any door." "That's Einstein?" He shook his head. "Partly. Mostly, it's Moore." The psychiatrist seemed puzzled. "More what?" "I mean it's _me_, my theory, my calculations. I've proved theoretically that any given spot can be a jumping off place for another universe. Do you realize what that means?" The psychiatrist was annoyed by the question, for he had no idea what it meant. His one over-whelming, immediate desire was to start a chicken farm. "Just what does it mean?" he compromised. "It means that if we can develop this commercially, space travel to the farthest star will be as easy as walking across the street." Dr. Rawlings' annoyance rose higher at this. Space travel again, after only a few weeks ago he had convinced a woman from Mars that such things were impossible. Oh, well. "This is very interesting," he lied, "but--ah--just what is the nature of your difficulty?" "My ideas used to be _only_ theoretical," Moore told him. "But through some quirk of fate I've advanced beyond that stage to a point where I'm actually capable of crossing the barrier." The psychiatrist nodded. "You mean you think you can actually do this?" Moore shook his head emphatically. "I mean I _have_ done it," he insisted. "Mind control." "I see," the doctor said. On his pad he wrote 'hallucinations,' although he was jumping the gun slightly on that. Still, he felt sure of himself, and the pencil still had some eraser left on it. Under the word he drew a crude and rather vulgar picture of a rooster chasing a hen. "That's why I came to you, Dr. Rawlings," Moore went on. "It's not that I'm neurotic or anything. It's just that I can't control this power, and I'd like to." He shuddered slightly. "_I'd better._" "And you want me to help you," the psychiatrist said. "Which, of course, I'll be only too happy to do. But first, do you have any outward signs that you have--eh--crossed the barrier. That is, do you--well, see things, for example."