Laura, with eyes still red and weepy, said, ‘It isn’t mine. I didn’t even know it was under the seat.’

The stewardess, looking up from the whining baby, said, ‘What is it?’

Mr Ellis shrugged. ‘It’s a box.’

His wife said, ‘Well, what do you want with it, for heaven’s sake?’

Mr Ellis groped for a reason. What did he want with it? He mumbled, ‘I was just curious.’

The stewardess said, ‘There! The little boy is all nice and dry, and I’ll bet in two minutes he’ll just be as happy as anything. Hmm? Won’t you, little funny-face?’

But little funny-face was still sobbing. He turned his head away sharply as a bottle was once more produced.

The stewardess said, ‘Let me warm it a bit.’

She took it and went back down the aisle.

Mr Ellis came to a decision. Firmly he lifted the box and balanced it on the arm of his seat. He ignored his wife’s frown.

He said, ‘I’m not doing it any harm. I’m just looking. What’s it made of, anyway?’

He rapped it with his knuckles. None of the other passengers seemed interested. They paid no attention to either Mr Ellis or the box. It was as though something had switched off that particular line of interest among them. Even Mrs Ellis, in conversation with Laura, kept her back to him.

Mr Ellis tipped the box up and found the opening. He knew it had to have an opening. It was large enough for him to insert a finger, though there was no reason, of course, why he should want to put a finger into a strange box.

Carefully he reached in. There was a black knob, which he longed to touch. He pressed it.

The box shuddered and was suddenly out of his hands and passed through the arm of the chair.

He caught a glimpse of it moving through the floor, and then there was unbroken flooring and nothing more. Slowly he spread out his hands and stared at his palms. Then, dropping to his knees, he felt the floor.

The stewardess, returning with the bottle, said politely, ‘Have you lost something, sir?’

Mrs Ellis, looking down, said, ‘George!’

Mr Ellis heaved himself upward. He was flushed and flustered. He said, ‘The box— It slipped out and went down—’

The stewardess said, ‘What box, sir?’

Laura said, ‘May I have the bottle, miss? He’s stopped crying.’

‘Certainly. Here it is.,’

Walter opened his mouth eagerly, accepting the nipple. Air bubbles moved upward through the milk and there were little swallowing sounds.

Laura looked up radiantly. ‘He seems fine now. Thank you, Stewardess. Thank you, Mrs Ellis. For a while there, it almost seemed as though he weren’t my little boy.’

‘He’ll be all right,’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘Maybe it was just a bit of airsickness. Sit down, George.’

The stewardess said, ‘Just call me if you need me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Laura.

Mr Ellis said, ‘The box—’ and stopped.

What box? He didn’t remember any box.

But one mind aboard plane could follow the black cube as it dropped in a parabola unimpeded by wind or air resistance, passing through the molecules of gas that lay in its way.

Below it, the atoll was a tiny bull’s eye in a huge target. Once, during a time of war, it had boasted an air strip and barracks. The barracks had collapsed, the air strip was a vanishing ragged line, and the atoll was empty.

The cube struck the feathery foliage of a palm and not a frond was disturbed. It passed through the trunk and down to the coral. It sank into the planet itself without the smallest fog of dust kicked up to tell of its entrance.

Twenty feet below the surface of the soil, the cube passed into stasis and remained motionless, mingled intimately with the atoms of the rock, yet remaining distinct.

That was all. It was night, then day. It rained, the wind blew, and the Pacific waves broke whitely on the white coral. Nothing had happened.

Nothing would happen – for ten years.

8

‘We have broadcast the news,’ said Gan, ‘that you have succeeded. I think you ought to rest now.’

Roi said, ‘Rest? Now? When I’m back with complete minds? Thank you, but no. The enjoyment is too keen.’

‘Did it bother you so much? Intelligence without mental contact?’

‘Yes,’ said Roi shortly. Gan tactfully refrained from attempting to follow the line of retreating thought.

Instead, he said, ‘And the surface?’

Roi said, ‘Entirely horrible. What the ancients called ‘Sun’ is an unbearable patch of brilliance overhead. It is apparently a source of light and varies periodically; ‘day’ and ‘night,’ in other words. There is also unpredictable variation.’

‘Clouds’ perhaps, said Gan.

‘Why ‘clouds’?’

‘You know the traditional phrase: ‘Clouds hid the Sun.’

‘You think so? Yes, it could be.’

‘Well, go on.’’

‘Let’s see. ‘Ocean’ and ‘island’ I’ve explained. ‘Storm’ involves wetness in the air, falling in drops. ‘Wind’ is a movement of air on a huge scale. ‘Thunder’ is either a spontaneous, static discharge in the air or a great spontaneous noise. ‘Sleet’ is falling ice.’’ .

Gan said, ‘That’s a curious one. Where would ice fall from? How? Why?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea. It’s all very vanable. It will storm at one time and not at another. There are apparently regions on the surface where it is always cold, others where it is always hot, still others where it is both at different times.’