[The gnuppa is a creature seemingly half deer and half horse. The sarpelca is not unlike some weird Silurian lizard, twice the size of an elephant, with a pointed tail, a scale-armored back, a long neck somewhat resembling that of a camel, and the head of a marine serpent having a series of fleshy tentacles about the mouth. They are driven by reins affixed to these latter appendages, and stream across the Palosian deserts bearing merchandise upon their enormous backs.] All these things I knew from Croft's previous talks. He had told me he could go to Palos as quickly as I could think of it myself, and here I was anticipating a resumption that night of his story concerning beings I had never seen, with an eagerness amounting to impatience of the dragging hours. Here was I thinking of Naia--the golden-haired, purple-eyed beauty of Aphur; of Lakkon, her father; of Jadgor, her uncle; of Robur, her cousin, the Aphurian crown prince and Croft's loyal co-worker and friend; of the sweet and matronly Gaya, his wife; of Magur, Zud's deputy in Himyra; of Zud himself and others, as one thinks of people well known--actually visualizing them before my mental eye according to Croft's description--portraying their thoughts and acts and feelings to myself, as I might with any man or woman on earth. And to me in that moment Naia--glorious in her purity and youth, waiting for her mate in the quarters of Ga--the virgin--where burned the never-dying fires of life, on the altar before Ga's feet--was far more clear in her seeming than a million mundane women, despite the billions of miles between her and my present physical estate. Billions of miles. My mind bridged it in thought. And Croft had bridged it in spirit at first, until at last he had learned how to cross the bridge and gain a life in the flesh--because the lure of the woman had nerved him to that test. The thing thrilled me, fired every element within me capable of responding to the stimulus of romance. Sane or insane, true or untrue, I wanted to hear the rest of the story. Only remember--that if it wasn't Croft, his spirit--indwelling in the new patient's miserable wreck of a body--how would he have known the elements of the former story he had already mentioned--been able to pick it up where he left it off, and preface what he had promised to tell me, with his account of the actions of the Tamarizian high priest? That argument alone seemed enough to remove the last shreds of unbelief. Consequently I felt that when I entered my patient's room that evening, it would be to hear not so much a story as a narrative of life. And at that I was to be amazed by what had happened to Jason Croft. CHAPTER III HARNESSED TO HEAVEN Meanwhile I sent him the books he had said he wanted, together with a box of good cigars. And along about eight forty-five, when I had finished my evening round of patients, I went up myself.