I do not think I lost consciousness. My senses reeled for what seemed an age, but was doubtlessly only a second or two. I fell into a chair and the horrible dizziness passed. I raised my head and looked about me. My first impression was of the extraordinary solidity of the cabin interior. I had not realized how shadowy it had been before. Two little electric bulbs were burning overhead. They illuminated the compartment. The windows were black rectangles; It was night outside. I was cold; I could see my breath in the chill of the room, even though one of the electric heaters was in operation. Everything close to me was oppressively silent; the humming still seemed to persist vaguely, but I knew it was only the reaction from it roaring in my ears. From the next compartment came the drone of the Frazia motors. When I had fairly recovered normality, I went to the nearest window. The sky was blue-black. There was no moon and the stars seemed a trifle hazy. Beneath me I could make out a barren expanse of snow. I checked my compass. Its needle had steadied now, and I saw that my drift was almost directly south. The ship was moving rapidly, and I was alarmed. I knew that, even with the compass, I could easily get lost--geographically, so to speak. My first action was to ascend. When I was up some six thousand feet I started back northward, against the wind. I was hopelessly lost, both in time and in space. I could distinguish nothing in the starlit, snowy landscape that seemed familiar. Whether or not I had passed the time world I was seeking, I had no idea. Then I flew low, skimming the snow no more than one or two hundred feet above it. There were houses! Huts would be a better word. I think they were built of snow, but I could not tell. It seemed an Arctic world. I knew then I had gone too far in time. I decided to stay near here in space until morning. Fortunately that proved only a short time away. Within half an hour the stars paled; twilight came and passed, and the sun rose--a huge, red, glowing ball. I was circling about, quite high--six or eight thousand feet possibly. By this reddish light of early morning I could see the bay south of me. There was no Long Island; the ocean had closed in to the north and east, and I was near its shore--a cold, snowy beach, with lazy rollers. But west of me there was a river--the Hudson, I was sure--double the breadth of one I had known. It seemed to come from a mountainous region in the northwest, and an arm of it north of Manhattan emptied into the sea. Everywhere there was snow. The bay was full of floating ice. Across the river was an area of stunted trees. I was over Manhattan Island, I was sure. I circled around, searching. It was not the time world I was seeking--that was obvious. Should I go on, or go back through the centuries I had passed? I decided on the latter.