For the first time on record Teal had nothing to say. Bailey echoed him, chewing on his cigar. Everything was in perfect order. Before them, through open doorway and translucent partition lay the kitchen, a chefs dream of up-to-the-minute domestic engineering, monel metal, continuous counter space, concealed lighting, functional arrangement. On the left the formal, yet gracious and hospitable dining room awaited guests, its furniture in parade-ground alignment.
Teal knew before he turned his head that the drawing room and lounge would be found in equally substantial and impossible existence.
"Well, I must admit this is charming," Mrs. Bailey approved, "and the kitchen is just too quaint or words—though I would never have guessed from the exterior that this house had so much room upstairs. Of course some changes will have to be made. That secretary now—if we moved it over here and put the settle over there—"
"Stow it, Matilda," Bailey cut in brusquely. "Wha’d’ yuh make of it, Teal?"
"Why, Homer Bailey! The very id—"
"Stow it, I said. Well, Teal?"
The architect shuffled his rambling body. "I’m afraid to say. Let’s go on up."
"How?"
"Like this." He touched another button; a mate, in deeper colors, to the fairy bridge that had let them up from below offered them access to the next floor. They climbed it, Mrs. Bailey expostulating in the rear, and found themselves in the master bedroom. Its shades were drawn, as had been those on the level below, but the mellow lighting came on automatically. Teal at once activated the switch which controlled still another flight of stairs, and they hurried up into the top floor study.
"Look, Teal," suggested Bailey when he had caught his breath, "can we get to the roof above this room? Then we could look around."
"Sure, it’s an observatory platform." They climbed a fourth flight of stairs, but when the cover at the top lifted to let them reach the level above, they found themselves, not on the roof, but standing in the ground floor room where they had entered the house.
Mr. Bailey turned a sickly gray. "Angels in heaven," he cried, "this place is haunted. We’re getting out of here." Grabbing his wife he threw open the front door and plunged out.
Teal was too much preoccupied to bother with their departure. There was an answer to all this, an answer that he did not believe. But he was forced to break off considering it because of hoarse shouts from somewhere above him. He lowered the staircase and rushed upstairs. Bailey was in the central room leaning over Mrs. Bailey, who had fainted. Teal took in the situation, went to the bar built into the lounge, and poured three fingers of brandy, which he returned with and handed to Bailey. "Here—this’ll fix her up."
Bailey drank it.
"That was for Mrs. Bailey," said Teal.
"Don’t quibble," snapped Bailey. "Get her another." Teal took the precaution of taking one himself before returning with a dose earmarked for his client’s wife. He found her just opening her eyes.
"Here, Mrs. Bailey," he soothed, "this will make you feel better."
"I never touch spirits," she protested, and gulped it.
"Now tell me what happened," suggested Teal. "I thought you two had left."
"But we did—we walked out the front door and found ourselves up here, in the lounge."
"The hell you say! Hm-m-m—wait a minute." Teal went into the lounge. There he found that the big view window at the end of the room was open. He peered cautiously through it. He stared, not out at the California countryside, but into the ground floor room—or a reasonable facsimile thereof. He said nothing, but went back to the stair well which he had left open and looked down it. The ground floor room was still in place. Somehow, it managed to be in two different places at once, on different levels.
He came back into the central room and seated himself opposite Bailey in a deep, low chair, and sighted him past his upthrust bony knees. "Homer," he said impressively, "do you know what has happened?"
"No, I don’t—but if I don’t find out pretty soon, something is going to happen and pretty drastic, too!"
"Homer, this is a vindication of my theories. This house is a real tesseract."
"What’s he talking about, Homer?"
"Wait, Matilda—now Teal, that’s ridiculous. You’ve pulled some hanky-panky here and I won’t have it—scaring Mrs. Bailey half to death, and making me nervous. All I want is to get out of here, with no more of your trapdoors and silly practical jokes."
"Speak for yourself, Homer," Mrs. Bailey interrupted, "I was not frightened; I was just took all over queer for a moment. It’s my heart; all of my people are delicate and high-strung. Now about this tessy thing—explain yourself, Mr. Teal. Speak up."
He told her as well as he could in the face of numerous interruptions the theory back of the house. "Now as I see it, Mrs. Bailey," he concluded, "this house, while perfectly stable in three dimensions, was not stable in four dimensions. I had built a house in the shape of an unfolded tesseract; something happened to it, some jar or side thrust, and it collapsed into its normal shape—it folded up." He snapped his fingers suddenly. "I’ve got it! The earthquake!"
"Earthquake?"
"Yes, yes, the little shake we had last night. From a four-dimensional standpoint this house was like a plane balanced on edge. One little push and it fell over, collapsed along its natural joints into a stable four-dimensional figure."
"I thought you boasted about how safe this house was."
"It is safe—three-dimensionally."
"I don’t call a house safe," commented Bailey edgily, "that collapses at the first little temblor."
"But look around you, man!" Teal protested. "Nothing has been disturbed, not a piece of glassware cracked. Rotation through a fourth dimension can’t affect a three-dimensional figure any more than you can shake letters off a printed page. If you had been sleeping in here last night, you would never have awakened."
"That’s just what I’m afraid of. Incidentally, has your great genius figured out any way for us to get out of this booby trap?"
"Huh? Oh, yes, you and Mrs. Bailey started to leave and landed back up here, didn’t you? But I’m sure there is no real difficulty—we came in, we can go out. I’ll try it." He was up and hurrying downstairs before he had finished talking. He flung open the front door, stepped through, and found himself staring at his companions, down the length of the second floor lounge. "Well, there does seem to be some slight problem," he admitted blandly. "A mere technicality, though—we can always go out a window." He jerked aside the long drapes that covered the deep French windows set in one side wall of the lounge. He stopped suddenly.
"Hm-m-m," he said, "this is interesting—very."
"What is?" asked Bailey, joining him.
"This." The window stared directly into the dining room, instead of looking outdoors. Bailey stepped back to the comer where the lounge and the dining room joined the central room at ninety degrees.
"But that can’t be," he protested, "that window is maybe fifteen, twenty feet from the dining room."
"Not in a tesseract," corrected Teal. "Watch." He opened the window and stepped through, talking back over his shoulder as he did so.
From the point of view of the Baileys he simply disappeared.
But not from his own viewpoint. It took him some seconds to catch his breath. Then he cautiously disentangled himself from the rosebush to which he had become almost irrevocably wedded, making a mental note the while never again to order landscaping which involved plants with thorns, and ooked around him.
He was outside the house. The massive bulk of the ground floor room thrust up beside him. Apparently he had fallen off the roof.
He dashed around the corner of the house, flung open the front door and hurried up the stairs. "Homer!" he called out. "Mrs. Bailey! I’ve found a way out!"