George sat with his chin cupped in his hands, staring out over the lights and the roofs of the city. The growing moonlight gleamed on his soft white shirt and white flannel trousers. Rogers stirred and sat up. "Are you awake, George?" "Go on to sleep. I'm good for nearly all night." But Rogers rose, stretching. "What time is it?" "Quarter of two. Go on to sleep, I tell you." "I've had enough." The older man sat down on the bench and lighted a cigar. "You'd better take a turn, George. You'll wear yourself out." "I can't. I'm too excited. How long has he been gone now?" Rogers calculated. "About twenty-eight hours." "Do you think he'll get back tonight?" "I don't know. Perhaps." "I wonder what he's doing right now," George persisted after a silence. Rogers did not answer. "You don't think anything could have happened to him, do you?" "No. I--I hope not." "I hope he brings that girl back with him," George said after another silence. "I certainly would like to meet her." Rogers plucked a flower from the trellis beside them, breaking it in his fingers idly. "He may get back tonight. It was our idea that--" He stopped abruptly, and simultaneously George gripped him by the arm. They both saw it; a little blob of radiance in the air just beyond the flower trellis; a shining spot small as a puff of tobacco smoke gleaming silvery in the moonlight. George murmured tensely, "Over there...something." A transparent radiance. But in a moment it was congealing, turning into a glistening, solid shape. The faint hum of it sounded as it hung in mid-air by the trellis. "Not the plane," George murmured. "Then what is it?" The humming ceased. They could see the little object clearly now; a metal cube, each of its faces some twenty inches in diameter. It hung for another moment, then dropped with a little thump to the rooftop. Both the men were on their feet. Rogers said, "A message from him. An emergency..." He picked up the cube. George stared wonderingly. "You know about this?" "We arranged it--only for an emergency. If he could not come, or felt it unwise, he was to send this. We did not want to worry anyone--particularly his mother--so we didn't mention this possibility." * * * * * In a downstairs club room, the men and Lylda were gathered, all of them gazing mute and solemn as Rogers opened the cube. Much of its interior was filled with the intricate time-mechanisms. To one side a sheaf of manuscript pages was crowded, closely written with Loto's script. "His message," George murmured. "I do hope he found the girl, and that they're all right." "I'll read it to you." Rogers' fingers were trembling as he drew out the pages. He lighted a cigarette, steadied himself. "The first thing he says--he's all right--" "Of course he's all right," the Banker growled. "That boy is resourceful." "He wants us to know that he's safe and well. It says...." CHAPTER THREE