There were towering buildings less than a half-mile from them of a simplicity and beauty that left no time for talk. The city was suddenly before them--a sparkling thing, unmarred by eye-stumbling bits and pieces--a flawless, symmetrical sweep toward the heavens that momentarily stupefied credulity. Traffic ramps soared from street-level in gently-curving ribbons above spacious quiet parks; sound was muffled to near-inaudibility, and the illusion of a great fairy kingdom was unmarred by the confusion of advertising posters, marquees, store front lettering, or the raucous stampede of elbowing mobs.... "I wonder how they illuminate at night," Doug was saying. "I wonder what they--my God, Dot, look up--all over. Where is it?" Far above, the sky seemed gradually to darken into an ever-deepening shadow of blackness. But the sun--She couldn't find the sun! "It's a different planet, Doug!" "And the city--it _is_ lit! There must be a sun but it's down--it's night, and they've found a way to illuminate an entire city as though daylight were perpetual!" And that was when it caught their eye. It was a small store, and she could see neatly-tiered rows of groceries inside--fruits and vegetables were easily recognizable even the street's width from them. But it was the little rack outside the store--the one that held the newspapers. Almost at a run they crossed the street, and Doug fought down the urge to reach out, grab one of the editions. The front pages of the newspapers were easily readable. Because they were printed in excellent English. The date beneath the masthead of one was April 17, 1958. The paper was the Washington Post. CHAPTER III It was light. Terry had been watching the darkness fade for about ten minutes, fascinated, because the diffused glow grew as though from nowhere, and he could not find the sun. At first he'd felt sort of scared, but nothing happened, so he'd kept watching, trying to find it. He was still in bed. It was when he became aware that it wasn't his own bed that he sat up straight, wondering, trying to remember. He was in a long, narrow place, and there were a lot of beds--bunks, like his own, lining each side, end to end. Across from him somebody else was sitting up. All the others were still asleep. "Hey!" Terry called. "Hey yourself! Who're you?" the other boy said. "Terry Blair. What in the heck is this place? What's your name?" He had a funny feeling in his stomach, and he was hot and sweaty. He wanted to hear the other boy's voice again. "Quit your kiddin'--Terry Blair's my brother!" "What're you talking about, anyway?" Terry said, wondering if the other boy was trying to pick a fight. "I'm Terry Blair all right, and I know _my_ brother when I see him! He's Mike Blair, and he don't look anything like you." "Say who are you anyhow? Somebody tell you my name or something? You aren't awful funny." "Neither are you, tryin' to imitate the way Mike talks."