hris was speechless, and Mr. Wicker answered himself.

"Yes, it is a good trick, but before we talk, I should like to show you one more."

He dropped his hand on Chris's shoulder and somehow the firm touch was wonderfully comforting to the boy.

"You want to be at home, do you not, Christopher?" Mr. Wicker asked.

"Yes sir. Please."

"Well, that cannot be for a time," Mr. Wicker replied, "for you have important work to do."

Mr. Wicker turned and walked back to the two leather chairs with his hand still on Chris's shoulder. He stopped near the table and looked down.

"I know that all this—" he waved a hand to take in not only the room but, Chris thought, the different time as well, "—all this seems impossible to understand." He paused, pondering. "Perhaps we had better sit down and I will try to make it understandable."

"Let me put it this way," Mr. Wicker began when they were seated once more in their chairs before the fire. "You have a television set at home?"

"Oh yes!" Chris agreed enthusiastically, "And say! Some of the programs—"

"Yes, they are splendid, I know," Mr. Wicker broke in. "But will you please explain to me how television works?"

Chris stared at his questioner for a moment and then settled back in his chair, his forehead puckered with concentration.

"Well, gee—" He stopped. "Well," he began again, "I think it has to do with light rays passing through a—well, hm-mm, there's an electric impulse, see—I guess it's that that sends out—" He stopped altogether. "Well golly Moses, Mr. Wicker," he ended lamely, "it seems to be pretty complicated to go into."

Mr. Wicker smiled, a wide engaging smile showing strong white teeth.

"It is," he agreed warmly, his eyes twinkling, "Is it not? Very complicated. You probably would not be able to describe to me the details of how the radio or long-distance telephone work either, would you, young man?"

Chris had to grin back when he saw that Mr. Wicker was not laughing at him, but rather at the complexity of such mechanical things.

"No, sir, I guess not. We're just glad to be able to use them, I expect."

"Ah!" said Mr. Wicker in a tone of immense satisfaction, "Quite so. You are just glad to be able to use and enjoy them. Well, then, my boy, the things I have just shown you, and what I am about to show you now, are parts of knowledge which are yet to be discovered and learned, in a time beyond your own. And the ability to move within Time—within Time," Mr. Wicker stressed, leaning forward toward Chris, "that faculty is also still in the future. In the meantime it remains a rare gift."

Mr. Wicker put out a lean strong hand and tapped Chris's knee.

"You have it, Christopher. You were born with the ability to move backward into time that has passed. Whether or not you will ever master the gift of moving into the future, that, of course"—Mr. Wicker shrugged—"is impossible to tell. You may. But for my purposes, that you have been able to return this far is enough." He looked searchingly at Chris. "Have you understood what I have been saying up to now?" he asked.

"I think so, sir," Chris answered slowly.

"This ability to move back and forth in Time," Mr. Wicker continued, "is no more farfetched than the ability to send colored images and sound across the land into your own house, where you can see and hear them. It is something which, so far, and I mean, of course, in your time, has not yet been discovered. But it will be," mused Mr. Wicker thoughtfully, pulling at his underlip with thumb and forefinger. "Yes, it will be." He looked across at Chris as if returning from a great distance. "But until it has been it appears fantastic, does it not?"

"It certainly does!" Chris replied with fervor. "If it weren't happening to me I wouldn't believe it!"

"No," nodded Mr. Wicker, "and I would not blame you. But now," he announced, rising and turning toward the table, "you must have your mind set at rest regarding your mother." He motioned for Chris to join him. "You will need to know only once and they say—" he smiled down at the boy beside him "—they say that seeing is believing, so you shall see for yourself."

Mr. Wicker picked up the round-bellied silver pitcher and set it in front of Chris.

"They say too," Mr. Wicker said scornfully, "that crystal balls are the things to look into. Perfect tommyrot. This will do equally well. Look and see."

Chris bent to peer at the polished silver side of the pitcher. At first, it shone as no doubt it always did from Becky Boozer's powerful rubbing. Then, as he watched, the rounded side of the pitcher misted over, as if it had been filled with ice water. Next, the center of the misted portion cleared away, and as it cleared a picture formed, welling up into his sight as if from within the pitcher through the silver of its sides.

What Chris saw was a hospital room. On a white bed lay his mother, and beside her were his Aunt Rachel and a white-coated man Chris took to be a doctor. Then, as if inside his head, for he was not conscious of sound within the room which had grown deeply still, he heard voices and words, and saw the lips of the doctor and his Aunt Rachel move.

The doctor said, "The turn has come. She will pull through, but she will need watchful care."

"Oh, thank God! Thank God!" his Aunt Rachel cried, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.

The scene misted over once again and when it cleared, the pitcher was merely a pitcher on a table in Mr. Wicker's room. Chris looked up at the man who regarded him gravely.

"Is that a trick too?" he asked. "Just to make me stay?" he demanded more loudly.

"No, son," the man replied, and his eyes confirmed his words. "That is how it really is. My word of honor."

And to Chris's great surprise, all at once he felt tears on his cheeks while simultaneously a great lightness invaded him, and a wild wish to laugh.

Mr. Wicker poured him a glass of water and held it out.

"Drink this," he said. "All is well. You can be at peace. And now," he went on in a brisker tone, replacing the glass Chris had drained, "let us begin our talk."