The soldier replied unhesitatingly: “It is the Day of Life, my lord. Others call it the 'first of the Sixteen Days.' Still others, simply the Day of the Prophet, or Jarados.”

“When will it be?”

“Soon. It is but two days hence. And with the going down of the sun on that day the Fulfilment is to begin, and the Life is to come. Hence the crowd below, my lord; yet they are nothing compared with the crowds that today are pressing their way from all D'Hartia and Kospia towards the Mahovisal.”

“All because of the Day?”

“And to see YOU, my lord.”

“All believers in the Jarados?”

“All truly; but they do not all believe in your lordship. There are many sects, including the Bars, that consider you an imposter; but the rest—perhaps the most—believe you the Herald of the Day. All want to see you, for whatever motive.”

“These Bars; who are they?”

“The military priesthood, my lord. As priests they teach a literal interpretation of the prophecy; as soldiers they maintain their own aggrandisement. To be more specific, my lord, it is they who accuse you of being one of the false ones.”

“Why?”

“Because it is written in the prophecy, my lord, that we may expect impostors, and that we are to slay them.”

“Then this coming contest with the Senestro—” beginning to sense the drift of things.

“Yes, my lord; it will be a physical contest, in which the best man destroys the other!”

The guard was a tall, finely made and truly handsome chap of perhaps thirty-five. Watson liked the clear blue of his eyes and the openness of his manner. At the same time he felt that he was being weighed and balanced.

“My lord is not afraid?”

“Not at all! I was just thinking—when does this kill take place?”

“Two days hence, my lord; on the first of the Sixteen Sacred Days.”

And thus Chick found a staunch friend. The soldier's name, he learned, was “the Jan Lucar.” He was supreme in command of the royal guards; and Chick soon came to feel that the man would as cheerfully lay down his life for him, Watson, as for the queen herself. All told, Chick was able to store away in his memory a few very important facts:

First, that the Aradna did not like the Senestro.

Second, that the Jan Lucar hated the great Bar because of the prince's ambition to wed the queen and her cousin, the Nervina; also because of his selfish, autocratic ways.

Next, that were the Nervina on hand she would thwart the Senestro; for she was a very learned woman, as advanced as the Rhamda Avec himself. But that she was a queen first and a scholar afterwards; her motive in going through the Blind Spot was to take care of the political welfare of her people, her purposes were as high as Rhamda Avec's, but partook of statesmanship rather than spirituality.

Finally, that the Rhamdas were perfectly willing for the coming contest to take place, on the evening of the Day of the Prophet, in the Temple of the Bell and Leaf.

“Jan Lucar,” Watson felt prompted to say, “you need have no fear as to the outcome of the ordeal, whatever it may be. With your faith in me, I cannot fail. For the present, I need books, papers, scientific data. Moreover, I want to see the outside of this building.”

The guardsman bowed. “The data is possible, my lord, but as to leaving the building—I must consult the queen and the Rhamda Geos first.”

“But I said MUST” Watson dared to say. “I must go out into your world, see your cities, your lands, rivers, mountains, before I do aught else. I must be sure!”

The other bowed again. He was visibly impressed.

“What you ask, my lord, is full of danger. You must not be seen in the streets—yet. Untold bloodshed would ensue inevitably. To half the Thomahlians you are sacred, and to the other half an impostor. I repeat, my lord, that I must see the Geos and the queen.”

Another bow and the Jan disappeared, to return in a few moments with the Geos.

“The Jan has told me, my lord, that you would go out.”

“If possible. I want to see your world.”

“I think it can be arranged. Is your lordship ready to go?”

“Presently.” Watson laid a hand on the big globe he had already puzzled over. “This represents the Thomahlia?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How long is your day, Geos?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“I mean, how many revolutions in one circuit of the sun, in one year-circle?”

As he uttered the question Chick held his breath. It had suddenly struck him that he had touched an extremely definite point. The answer might PLACE him!

“You mean, my lord, how long is a circle in term of days?”

“Yes!”

“Three hundred and sixty-five and a fraction, my lord.”

Watson was dumbfounded. Could there be, in all the universe, another world with precisely the same revolution period? But he could not afford to show his concern. He said:

“Tell me, have you a moon?”

“Yes; it has a cycle of about twenty-eight days.”

Watson drew a deep breath. Inconceivable though it appeared, he was still on his own earth. For a moment he pondered, wondering if he had been caught up in tangle of time-displacement. Could it be that, instead of living in the present, he had somehow become entangled in the past or in the future?

If so—and by now he was so accustomed to the unusual that he considered this staggering possibility with equanimity—if the time coefficient was at fault, then how to account for the picture of the professor, in that leaf? Had they both been the victims of a ghastly cosmic joke?

There was but one way to find out.

“Come! Lead the way, Geos; let us take a look at your world!”