The cabin interior was unlighted and dark, except for that phosphorescence with which everything glowed. In their absorption in the scene below, the travelers had forgotten their own curious aspect, until George suddenly remarked: "Look at us! Ghosts flying through space! Doesn't it make you feel queer, Mr. Rogers?" The dim cabin interior, with its vague, luminous human figures, did indeed seem unreal. But the unreality was matched now by the scene beneath; their forward flight through space, combined with a time-progress now tremendously accelerated, made everything below a shifting, sliding kaleidoscope of changing effects. Details were transient things, blurred one into the other. The broad fundamentals, however, were obvious. The gray, concave land, ridged with mountains, the indented coast line, the gray, changeless sea--all were distinguishable. And overhead the sky was luminous with the mingled light of sun and moon and a myriad starry worlds, all blended darker by nights of rain and snow and storm. * * * * * They were over North Carolina when Rogers, at the Frazia controls, grew tired. The clock stood at two five. They had been gone some five hours. "I must rest," said Rogers. "George, can you take my place?" George hesitated. "I've flown a bit, but never in a Frazia. I think I'd better not experiment--not on this flight." "All right," Rogers agreed. "I'll use the automatic 'copters for a while. Half an hour will rest me up." In a few moments they were hovering, seemingly motionless, over North Carolina. Far away to the east, over a bulge in the coast line, they could just make out Cape Hatteras and the ocean beyond it. Rogers stretched himself out on one of the leather seats, and lighted a cigar. George sat beside him. "I figure we should be at least halfway to the northern coast of the island," the older man said. "We have flown some four hundred miles in four hours." "But Loto will be waiting at the southeastern tip of the island," protested George. "That will be easily two or three hundred miles further, won't it? I wonder how far along we are in time." "Look at the dials." George bent over them. "About sixty-five hundred years. Some of the hands are going too fast to read." "More than I had thought," commented Rogers. "Do you figure we're still accelerating?" "I think we have just about reached our greatest speed," Rogers answered slowly. "Let us see. We've done an average of thirteen hundred years an hour. We must be progressing at double that now." George was figuring on the back of an old envelope. "Twenty-six hundred an hour. In five more hours at that rate we'll be close to twenty thousand. We can fly down to the north coast of the island easily by then." "Exactly. We're a little ahead in our space flight. I'm glad of it. We shall have to slow our time-progress to almost nothing at the end. We must take no chances of missing Loto's light signal."