THE LIGHT MACHINE by Ray Cummings Tubby took his feet off the fender of the little stove in the back room of O’Connor’s Grocery and glared at his two friends aggressively. “That ain’t so,” he declared. “That ain’t so, nohow.” “Well _he_ said,” the first man repeated, “as how that’s just the way it is—that light travels one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles in a second.” “’Taint so,” said Tubby. “That’s too fast for anything to go.” “That’s what he said,” the first man reiterated imperturbably. “One hundred and eighty-six thousand miles in a second— that’s what he said.” “Well ’taint so,” Tubby repeated; he rose to his feet suddenly. “You can see light, can’t you?” he demanded. “’Course I can see light. I ain’t blind.” “Can you see a automobile when it’s going past a hundred miles a hour?” Tubby pointed a fat little forefinger directly into the first man’s face. “Why, why, yes,” said the first man, surprised into confusion. “And can you see the _spokes_ of a automobile wheel when it’s going past a hundred miles a hour?” The first man thought a moment. “Why, why, no,” he said finally. Tubby lowered his forefinger. “Then that proves it ain’t so,” he declared triumphantly. “Nor you couldn’t see a bullet if I shot it past your nose, could you?” “You couldn’t, Jake,” the second man put in. “No, you couldn’t,” said Tubby. “Nor you couldn’t see light if it went that fast neither. Ain’t I right? Could you?” “He’s right, Jake,” said the second man. Tubby sat down. “Well, _he_ said,” the first man resumed unabashed—“he said as how light travels one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles in a second. And furthermore, and in addition, he said as how some of the stars were so far away that it takes the light hundreds and hundreds of years just getting here from them.” “It was all in the movie,” said the second man wearily. “‘The Wonders of Light’—I remember it.” “Well, _I_ don’t believe it,” said Tubby. “Because I know it ain’t so—not none of it.” He stood up again; then with sudden thought he waddled across the room to the open window. “Come here,” he said, commandingly; the two other men joined him. “Ain’t them stars up there?” he asked. He pointed through the open casement to a brilliant, cloudless summer evening sky. “Yes—them’s stars all right,” the first man agreed. “If that’s what you mean.” “That _ain’t_ what I mean,” said Tubby. “I said, ‘Ain’t them stars up there?’ Are they up there, or ain’t they? That’s what I want to know.” “They’re up there all right, Jake,” said the second man. “If you can see them, mustn’t they be there?” Tubby persisted. “Yes,” said the first man. “When you can see them they must be there.” “Then,” said Tubby—he paused impressively—“then the light of them must be here and there at the same time. Am I right?” “He’s right, Jake,” said the second man. “’Cause if it took the light a hundred years to get here we couldn’t see them for a hundred years yet. Am I right?”