The Frazia motors were still droning. "How high are we, do you suppose?" George demanded after a moment. "Possibly five thousand feet. We're blowing westward over New Jersey. And a little to the south, I think. Soon it will be day." His words were anticipated. The scene lighted swiftly. It was day; a dull, cold-looking, cloudy morning. Below them lay New Jersey, almost a network of villages on the fringe of lowlands. A more congested area of building was almost directly beneath and slid under them as they watched it. "Newark!" exclaimed George. "And we're into tomorrow. We're making it--we'll soon be with Loto." They were up higher than Rogers realized--ten thousand feet, at least. And their drift seemed constantly of a more southern trend. It was still uncomfortably cold in the cabin. "Perhaps we should stay at this level," Rogers remarked. "We seem to have caught a wind from the north." Night came again in a few moments. Lights dotted the landscape below, but they were vague, flickering lights. Then day, with sunlight. The wind sudsided. The plane's southern drift was stilled. And then came night with a moon plunging across the sky, and stars dizzily sweeping past. Then day again, until presently the daylight and the darkness were blended into gray. The drift was permanently passed. In a blending of all the diversified air currents, the plane remained almost stationary. The white, snowy hills of New Jersey soon turned to green. The cabin air warmed a little. Then autumn and winter came again--and passed in a moment or two. Rogers sighed with relief. "We're fairly started. One year out of twenty-eight thousand!" "And we've got eight hundred or a thousand miles of space to travel also," said George. "We're going to make that simultaneously, aren't we?" "Yes," agreed Rogers. George took a last look through the floor window at the blurring gray landscape beneath, and stood up to join him. "Let's talk things over," he suggested. "I've got a lot of questions--plans and things." Rogers had taken a sheaf of script from his pocket. "Loto's notes to guide us," he explained. "I've followed them closely so far. We have a flight through time of something more than twenty-five thousand years at the fifteenth intensity, and then we slacken. Simultaneously, we must fly southward some thousand miles or more through space, directing our course for the southern tip of Florida. Loto specifies that we should, under all circumstances, reach the latitude of north Florida coincident with twenty-five thousand years of our time-progress. We will then--or perhaps a thousand years further along--see the island. We cannot miss it, of course. It is so large, and it must certainly endure over a great period of time." "How long did Loto take to reach twenty-five thousand years?"