Like a swimmer taking a plunge into the Serpentine on Christmas morning, Saul Hartz suddenly dipped his fingers among the cigarettes. Moreover, with the faint-smiling aid of his host he lit one defiantly, and what was of even more consequence proceeded to smoke it with an air of slight bravado. It was a powerful, rare, full-flavored Arabian tobacco. Mumbo jumbo, of course! However, he would humor this trickster, who found it so easy to deceive the world into believing that he was a wielder of occult powers. Nevertheless, a dozen whiffs or so cleared the brain wonderfully. Doubts melted. The mind began to germinate. And the man on the ground in spite of his queer trappings and his feline ways acquired a power, an atmosphere, an authority that Saul Hartz had never before conceded to any human being. “You suffer from limitations, Mr. Hartz.” The fall of the soft syllables had a music beyond anything the Colossus had ever heard. “We all do, don’t we?” he answered, with a first gruff approach to geniality. “Yes, but some in a greater, some in a less, degree.” “True.” “Even to the verge of platitude! But the trouble with you clean-run westerners, if you’ll excuse my saying so, is that your minds can only react to one small fragment of the Truth; and again, if you’ll excuse my saying so, it is not the fragment that really matters.” At any other moment, the creator of the _Planet_ newspaper, whose circulation over five continents was reckoned in millions of copies a day, would have challenged this statement. A brain such as his susceptible only to things that didn’t matter! Yes, the usual “gup” of the inflated high-brow ass. But he was good to listen to, this pseudo-oriental, for the simple reason that he was clever enough to keep a special blend of tobacco to soothe, tickle, stimulate the brains of his patrons. “You ‘practical’ men, who harness Niagara and dream of making the material universe your servant, who aspire to shoot yourselves out of a gun to the planet Jupiter and back again, have got hold of the wrong end of the stick, if you’ll excuse my saying so. However, that’s neither here nor there. You are a busy man with only a limited portion of what you are pleased to call ‘time’ at your disposal.” “True enough,” Mr. Hartz was now able to muster his own private blend of raillery. “And you would have one believe that what lesser mortals call time and space are completely transcended by such a mind as your own.” “In a manner of speaking, yes. If one is able to glimpse the Whole its counterfeits don’t matter much. But as I am sure you are not particularly concerned with the Realities, perhaps you’ll tell me what I can do for you.”