"Wait," said the Clockwork man, without altering his position, "moment of lucidity--see things as they are--begin to understand--finite world--only one thing at a time. _Now_ we've got it--a place for everything and everything in its place." "Just what I'm always telling my missus," reflected the constable. The Clockwork man shifted his head very slightly, and one eye screwed slowly round. "I want to grasp things," he resumed, "I want to grasp _you_. So far as I can judge, I see before me--a constable--minion of the law--curious relic--primitive stage of civilisation--order people about finite world--lock people up--finite cell." "That's my job," agreed the other, with a warning glint in his red eye. "Finite world," proceeded the Clockwork man, "fixed laws--limited dimensions--_essentially_ limited. Now, when I'm working properly, I can move about in all dimensions. That is to say, in addition to moving backwards and forwards, and this way and that, I can also move X and Y, and X^2 and Y^2." The corners of the constable's eyes wrinkled a little. "Of course," he ruminated, "if you're going to drag algebra into the discussion I shall 'ave to cry off. I never got beyond decimals." "Let me explain," urged the Clockwork man, who was gaining in verbal ease and intellectual elasticity every moment. "Supposing I was to hit you hard. You would fall down. You would become supine. You would assume a horizontal position at right angles to your present perpendicularity." He gazed upwards at the tall figure of the constable. "But if you were to hit me, I should have an alternative. I could, for example, fall into the middle of next week." The constable rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as though he thought this highly likely. "Whatdyemean by that," he demanded. "I said next week," explained the other, "in order to make my meaning clear. Actually, of course, I don't describe time in such arbitrary terms. But when one is in Rome, you know. What I mean to convey is that I am capable of going not only somewhere, but also _somewhen_." "'Ere, stow that gammon," broke in the constable, impatiently, "s'nuff of that sort of talk. You come along with me." He spat determinedly and prepared to take action. But at that moment, as the constable afterwards described it to himself, it seemed to him that there came before his eyes a sort of mist. The figure leaning against the lamp-post looked less obvious. He did not appear now to be a palpable individual at all, but a sort of shadowy outline of himself, blurred and indistinct. The constable rubbed his eyes and stretched out a hand. "Alright," he heard a tiny, remote voice, "I'm still here--I haven't gone yet--I _can't_ go--that's what's so distressing. I don't really understand your world, you know--and I can't get back to my own. Don't be harsh with me--it's so awkward--between the devil and the deep sea." "What's up?" exclaimed the constable, startled. "What yer playing at? Where are you?"