A lantern slide flashed onto the screen as the hall darkened. "There you see me and my partner, Art Clair, directly after we received the Nobel Prize. Suffice to say that it took us a week to learn that you can't drink Akvavit, the national potion of Norway, like water, or even gasoline. The best way to handle the stuff is to place a bowl of it at a distance of fifteen feet and lie down in a padded room where you aren't likely to hurt yourself when you advance into the spastic stage of an Akvavit jag. Note the bruises on Mr. Clair's jaw. He thought he was saying 'Thank you' in Norwegian. He wasn't. Next!
"This fetching creature on the screen is Miss Jocelyn Earle, at the time of the picture, a reporter for the Helio. She was given the assignment, one sunshiny day, of investigating the work in progress of those two lovable madcaps, Gaynor and Clair. Fool that she was, she accepted it. She found that the work in progress consisted of a little thing known as the Prototype, whose modest aim was to transmit Art and me to the beginning of the universe. This it did, but with a difference. Jocelyn came too.
"Now you see the Prototype, all forty feet of it. I won't go into the details of construction and theory; suffice to say that it worked, and you see—get it up, Mr. Projectionist!—a porthole view of things as they were about eleven skillion years ago, before the planets, before the stars, before, even, the nebulae. By this time, Art and I were desperately in love with Miss Earle. Despite her obvious physical charms, we discovered on that journey that she was a woman of much brain-capacity, besides cooking up the best dish of beans that side of eternity. Next!
"Observe the pixies. I don't expect you to believe me, but after the Prototype got out into the primordial state before the nebulae, we were chased by, in rapid succession, flying dragons, pixies, and a planet with a mouth. Eggs for the Alimentary Asteroid, as it were.
"Following this unhappy circumstance, we went through some very trying times. The ship drifted for weeks, nearly out of fuel, and almost wholly out of control. Things were in a very sad way until—next!—a greenish sort of glow filled the ship and we found ourselves on the planet of the Gaylens, not much the worse for wear.
"These Gaylens were a charming but absentminded people of a peculiarly lopsided kind of scientific development. They were just about precisely like us, human physically and very nearly so psychologically.
"Comes nova. Mr. Projectionist, will you change that damn slide?" A view of a tropical island flashed onto the screen. "Cut out the horseplay!" Gaynor bawled. The tropical island vanished and a terrific view of a nova sun appeared. "That's better, thanks.
"These Gaylens changed themselves into little leather slugs to live during the nova. This, Art, Jocelyn, and I couldn't stand. So they kindly whipped up for us a spaceship—we couldn't use the Prototype because Jocelyn and a Gaylen girl named Ionic Intersection—the Gaylens name themselves according to their work; this gal had developed something terrific in the way of Ionic Intersections and thus the odd-sounding name for her—had gone off with it by accident—and sent us off to another of their planets. Next!"
A view of sunset over Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, appeared. Gaynor muttered a curse. "Bud, if you want me to climb your crow's-nest and break your neck, I'll do it. Let's have that Protean before I hurt you!" The sunset yielded to an immense whale-like creature glancing coyly out of the corner of its seven eyes. "Okay, Mr. Projectionist, I'll see you later.
"That big thing is a Protean, the highest form of life in that or any other universe, I suspect. They live a completely mental existence, and their only wish is not to be bothered by Outsiders. And as such we qualified, for theirs was the planet on which we landed. Anyway they did us a favor—or rather, this particular Protean did—by finding Jocelyn, Ionic Intersection, and the Prototype for us, dragging them back from some Godforsaken corner of creation.
Then he sped us on our merry way with the blessings of his tribe on our heads and the heartfelt wish that we'd come back no more.
"Once out in space and time in the Prototype, we had yet to find our way home. And that, to make a long story short, was by intellectual means. By a kind of mental discipline we were able to preselect our landing place and time. Anyway, my friend Clair had somewhere forgotten that he was madly in love with Miss Earle and had gone overboard for Miss Intersection, a pretty brunette, it turns out. Next!
"Here you see a wedding group. Being captain of the ship, I was empowered to perform marriages, of course. So it was a double wedding. Miss Earle is now Mrs. Gaynor, and Miss Intersection is now Mrs. Clair, much to her regret. Next!
"A scenic shot of our welcoming committee, including the mayor and other notables. Art is holding the key to the city. We tried to hock it, later. No go."
The screen went blank and the house lights on. "To complete the story," said Gaynor gently, "I need only add that two weeks ago Art Clair vanished with the look of liquor in his eyes and has not been seen since. Thank you one and all." He bowed himself from the stage to thunderous applause.
"Nice work," said Jocelyn. "A few more like that and maybe we'll be able to pay off." Ionic Intersection bustled up. "Jos," she said worriedly, extending a note, "what does this say? I think it's from Art. He's been home then gone to the lab. He left the note home, but when I got to the lab he was gone. Everything was messed up."
Gaynor took the note. "Lemme see." He whistled as he read. "Io, your husband's done a very rash thing. Listen:
Dear kids:
In spite of your unflattering opinions I still have reason to suspect that I know more than a little science in my field. In proof whereof I submit that you will find the Six-Phase Integrated Analyser—I like that better than Differential Compass—in my desk drawer. To make a long story short, I've hopped off in Proto, Jr., the little experimental one-man ship.
And I'm going to get myself thoroughly lost in time, space, and dimensions—as much so as is humanly possible. I don't want to be able to get back of my own free will. This, chums, is so you will just have to find me—and to find me you'll have to use the much-derided Analyser. Okay?
Love.
Art.
Gaynor stared about him. "That dope," he said to the world at large. "How do you like that?"
Ionic Intersection was weeping softly. "What are we going to do?" she asked.
"Just wait around, dear," said Jocelyn. "He'll probably come back with a wild tale or two. Right, Paul?"
"Wrong," said her husband incisively. "He meant what he said. We'd better outfit the Prototype for an extended journey. The Proto Jr. doesn't hold enough air, water, and food for more than a few days. And I hope he won't be late. This is what comes of forming an alliance with a ringtailed baboon."
"Don't you say that about my husband!" objected Io. "He just wants to show that his tracer works."
"Yeah. And if it doesn't, I'll be minus a partner and you'll be minus a husband. Come on; we're off!"
II.
The Prototype loomed on the colossal floor of the lab like a big silver fish, slick with oil. Gaynor shuddered. "That baboon— " he muttered incontinently.
"Okay, kids, we're ready for the happy journey. Pile in." He inspected the tracing compass and held it to his ear. "Just barely sounding," he mused worriedly. "It's below the estimated level of perception. I suspect that our mutual friend has kept his promise and is very lost indeed."
He climbed into the ship and sealed the rubber-lipped bulkhead. "Anteros, here we come," he sighed, flinging down the lever of the protolens. There was a soft, slipping moment of transition that they could all recognize so well, and then through the port blinked countless stars in strange configurations. "Now," said Gaynor, "where do you suppose we are?"