“Nope!” I answered sullenly. “Very diverting,” he informed me, “highly anarchistic in tone, but devoid of the feverish sensationalism affected by so many journals of our world. The news of Centur is printed exquisitely clear upon odd parchment-like sheets, the editorials are brief, scintillating with wit and powerfully impressive with honesty, sense and simplicity. That sort of thing in our country would dwindle the subscriptions to bankruptcy.” Suspicious, but not certain what Saxe. might be driving at and as I never sassed the gentleman, I cautiously promised to look over the journals he mentioned. Then, curious how the Centaurians had disposed of Sheldon, I asked him about his plans. “Oh, I’ll spend most of the time in the Ocstas,” he told me. “I am forced to prove my theories, which have roused universal discussion. Two societies with conflicting views will occupy caves in the close vicinity of Yours Truly, just to watch the ‘wonderful operations.’ Quartered with me will be a crew of doubters, delegates from various Geographical-Geological societies, who pretend to be assistants. The Ocstas abound in mysteries, caves are innumerable, some tunneling far into the mountains honeycombed with apartments. At one time, I understand, these mountains were level country, and the caves are ruins heaved up by some—er—awful eruption. Ahem! The Centaurians are remarkable people, but move slowly. Give us six centuries the start and we’d have traced that body of water to the heart of the earth. Of course, I’m considered a crank, a huge joke, but these scientists are the most absurd set I’ve ever run across. One eloquent individual broadly hinted that a mania controlled me and thought it extremely fortunate my attention was attracted to the Otega oceanlet, instead of to the boiling sea at the pivot. But I’m a brave gentleman, you know, the guest of Centauri, and at liberty to remove the Ocstas if disposed. He did not doubt should a Centaurian, alive with a watery hobby, stray to our side of the globe, reciprocal courtesies would be extended and an ocean or two thrown in. Now, what d’ye think of that? “I laughed—everybody did—and shouted for a reply. I told them every argument indulged marked one year less of life, and that I would easily prove all my assertions. And, Sally, I’ll remain in those damned mountains till I prove one of two theories—Saxe.’s or mine. I’ll discover the source of that ocean and trace the great arteries which extend over the globe, or it’ll turn out a freak of nature, phenomenon, die aftermath of something terrible. Saxe.’s theory is very plausible, to some it would be the solution, but plausible theories are not always correct ones. I’ll look for you often, Sally, a change, you know, is a wonderful restorative.” “Oh, I’ll run over occasionally,” I promised. “I believe in restoratives, but it doesn’t always require a change.” “Bravo! bravo!” he shouted, twirling his glass. “Luck to Sally, and his—er—dangerous enterprise!”