"D'you mean there's a machine for each of us?" I asked, with a feeble attempt at humor. "If you like to put it that way, George. . . ." It was very evident that he had some tremendous scheme afoot, and the tantalizing air of secrecy he maintained rather annoyed me. "Why be so secretive?" I asked. "Surely you can tell us all exactly what you intend doing." He blew out a cloud of smoke and sat there as unruffled as a sphinx. "Ever thought of foreign travel?" he queried, mildly. "I have. We all have! But certainly not by aeroplane." "Ah! You're still very conservative, George. You should move with the times. You don't think that, now I've got my youth back, I'm going to be content with fussy old steamers and railway trains, do you? I want to fly--_soar!_--get above the world and look down on it. Besides," he added slyly, "there aren't any trains where I'm going. . . ." I knew that he wanted me to fire a volley of questions at him. But I didn't! I sat and waited. So did Gran'pa. Presently he said: "You've read Robert Louis Stevenson, George?" "I have!" "D'you like treasure hunting yarns?" "I do!" "But you don't think there's much scope for that sort of thing nowadays?" "I don't think there ever was--except in books," I answered, peevishly. "You're a frightful sceptic, George. It's through living in London all your life. A dull, blasé place! . . . Lot of noise and bustle--and talk--but nothing ever _happens_!" He puffed away at his pipe for a few moments, and then resumed, with the air of some politician portraying a world which needs reforming: "All that's got to be changed. Humanity in the mass moves very slowly. If you want things done, you must rely on the individual who can elbow his way out of the rut." He gazed at me with inspiration in his eyes. "George," he said quietly. "I believe I'm one of those individuals. Already, I'm the first man to travel backwards through life. There was that convict they experimented on in America, of course, but one never heard any more of him. Possibly he died. In any case he was only sixty or so. _I_ was ninety-five. . . ." "Was . . . ?" I murmured. He chuckled. "How old am I now?" He stood up and smote his chest. "How old do I look and feel?" "About forty-five, I should say." "Not a day older! Not a day. . . . Well, that's the first step away from the rut. Then there's this--the greatest of all. Treasure hunting in aeroplanes!" "Where? And _what_?" I asked, involuntarily--knowing full well that he was gloating over my curiosity. He waited awhile before he continued. Then he suddenly disclosed his scheme in all its fascinating glory. It staggered me--at first by its utter absurdity; then by its alarming possibility; and, finally, by its sheer plausibility. It was gigantic, gruesome, grotesque; and yet, to hear Gran'pa talk, it was so transparently simple that it made me wonder why no one had thought of it before.