“We’ll be out of it in a second,” the literary gent assured us. “I feared we were venturing rather near the danger point. There four wind currents meet; anything caught in it is lost. The gale we’re flying before is merely one of the four. Imagine the extreme north point of the crescent. It is said that at one time this land extended half across the ocean; but these four gales blowing constantly for ages have gradually blown the Belt to its present small dimensions. Possibly in a few centuries more the Belt will vanish and the crescent country become one of the great legends of Centauri.” The ladies laughed incredulously, but the men pretended to take the speaker seriously. “You speak with prophetic wisdom,” said the tragedian. “An interpreter of tragedies can be blunt, and his words always taken in jest. The Vespa Belt will never be swallowed by the Four Winds, but in less than ten years she will be submerged by Centauri. For perfect civilization, progression, harmony, there must be unity. I do not jest, but a tragedian is always a jester.” He was vigorously applauded and encouraged to continue, but, bowing, modestly refrained commenting further upon the subject and suggested we go above, as the wind had calmed. We trooped up on deck and were greeted by a hot, blazing sun, a deep blue sky, and a fierce ocean with mountainous waves boiling white beneath us. Far in the distance were the snow mountains and white cliffs of the Vespa Belt, which in the clear sunlight showed up a perfect crescent. “We have entered another zone,” the writing gent informed us. “We have emerged from the wind regions, and—er—ahem!——.” He ended abruptly; no one was listening to him. All looked in one direction, and, as I looked the blood rushed to my head. Alpha Centauri stepped from her cabin, radiantly beautiful, garbed in white. In an instant I was beside her. With passionate ardor I pressed her hand to my lips. Her face flushed delicately, pallor, dejection had vanished; her eyes gleamed and burned, she was the personification of joy. “In a few days we will be in Centur—think what that means to me, Virgillius,” she murmured. “You are positive then?” “As though I were already there,” she replied. “He waits me. Centur ends all disappointments. I will talk with you later, this is a day of worship. I am the Priestess of the Sun.” Rising to her full height majestically she walked down the deck with upstretched arms waving toward the Sun. High, clear, rang out her clarion voice in the call to worship, and people flocked from all parts of the ship, circled around her, and kneeled.