I didn't think much about these things at the time. Jones smiled and shook hands with me. Then he excused himself and went out into the hall. So far so good. No smart pusher keeps the stuff in his room. Possession carries a stiff rap. I had my works with me--needle and eye-dropper--but Jones told me I wouldn't need it. I was surprised. If his place wasn't a shooting gallery, what was it? A weed joint? Weed was no good--that was fag stuff. Marijuana, bennies, goof balls, nembies--that stuff was nowhere for a cat who'd been mainlining it for a decade. I told that to Jones. He smiled and told me to relax. He meant it literally. "Lie down on the bed," he said. "Take your coat off. No, don't roll up your sleeve." He pulled down a blue shade over the single window and the room got dim. Sunlight squeezed through the cracks at the edges and made shimmering little patterns on the walls and ceiling. He took a cigaret holder out of his pocket. It was green, like jade, and carved around its fat middle was a design of some kind. I couldn't make it out, even when I held it in my hand. Jones put a cigaret in the holder. It looked like an ordinary king-size smoke and I told him so. "That is correct," he said. "It is not the cigaret that provides the effect, but the _uru_ in the holder. The smoke travels over the _uru_ and activates it. Enough of it is absorbed by the warm smoke for the desired result. Do not inhale too deeply the first time." I took a short drag, half suspecting he was conning me. Nothing happened right away. It didn't taste any different from any cigaret smoked through a holder. I took another drag, deeper this time. I was off. I became a tiny replica of myself, swimming effortlessly within my own eyeball, looking down the length of that other me lying on the bed. My feet looked a mile away. I moved them and it seemed to take almost a minute for the impulse to communicate itself from my mind along the vast body. Then I lost interest in my body as the flecks of sunlight on the ceiling became tiny planets, whirling in perfect, intricate orbits around a fiery blue-white sun. The smoke in the room climbed up in a graceful dance and became a dust-cloud in the sparkling solar system. The dark head of Jones came into view among the tiny worlds, not obscuring them. The little jewel-like planets were a shimmering crown hovering about him. He spoke then, and his words echoed to me as if through the vastness of infinity itself. "Barry," the voice said, powerful but warm, far away but deliciously close, awesome but comfortable. "Barry, my good friend." I could see the great face, both with my real eyes and with the eyes of that tiny other me swimming within. It was a mighty face, but reassuring--the face of a kind father and loving wife and adoring son all in one. The face was smiling, a dear familiar smile. But the lips were not moving. The voice was that of a mind, reaching out through vastness and into my own thoughts.