“A temple!  How did I get there, sir?  Do you know?”

“We only know that a moment before there was nothing; next instant—­you.”

Watson thought.  There was a subconscious sound that still lingered in his memory; a sound full-toned, flooding, enveloping.  Was there any connection—­

“‘The Temple of the Leaf,’ you call it, sir.  I seem to remember having heard a bell.  Is there such a thing in that temple?”

The Rhamda Geos smiled, his eyes brightening.  “It is sometimes called the Temple of the Bell.”

“Ah!” A pause, and Watson asked, “Where is this temple?  And is this room a part of the building?”

“No.  You are in the Sar-Amenive Hospital, an institution of the Rhamdas.”

The Rhamdas!  So there were several of them.  A sort of society, perhaps.

“In San Francisco?”

“No.  San Francisco!  Again I fail to understand.  This locality is known as the Mahovisal.”

“The Mahovisal!” Watson thought in silence for a moment.  He noted the extremely keen interest of the Rhamda, the ultra-intelligent flicker of the eyes, the light of query and critical analysis.  “You call this the Mahovisal, sir?  What is it:  town, world or institution?”

The other smiled again.  The lines about his sensitive mouth were susceptible of various interpretations:  emotion, or condescension, or the satisfying feeling that comes from the simple vindication of some inner conviction.  His whole manner was that of interest and respectful wonder.

“You have never heard of the Mahovisal?  Never?”

“Not until this minute,” answered Watson.

“You have no knowledge of anything before?  Do you know who you are?”

“I”—­Watson hesitated, wondering whether he had best withhold this information.  He decided to chance the truth.  “My name is Chick Watson.  I am—­an American.”

“An American?”

The Rhamda pronounced the word with a roll of the “r” that sounded more like the Chinese “Mellican” than anything else.  It was evident that the sounds were totally unfamiliar to him.  And his manner was a bit indefinite, doubtful, yet weighted with care, as he slowly repeated the question: 

“An American?  Once more I don’t understand.  I have never heard the word, my dear sir.  You are neither D’Hartian nor Kospian; although there are some—­materialists for the most part—­who contend that you are just as any one else.  That is—­a man.”

“Perhaps I am,” returned Watson, utterly confounded.  He did not know what to say.  He had never heard of a Kospian or a D’Hartian, nor of the Mahovisal.  It made things difficult; he couldn’t get started.  Most of all, he wanted information; and, instead, he was being questioned.  The best he could do was to equivocate.

As for the Rhamda, he frowned.  Apparently his eager interest had been dashed with disappointment.  But only slightly, as Watson could see; the man was of such culture and intellect as to have perfect control over his emotions.  In his balance and poise he was very like Avec, and he had the same pleasing manner.