“Then it was fortuitous,” spoke Watson.  “It was not the wisdom and science of Avec, in my case.”

“Quite so.  However, it is proof that the Rhamdas have fulfilled their duty.  We knew of the Spot of Life, all the while; it was to be closed until we, through the effort of our intellect and virtues, could lift ourselves up to the plane of the world beyond us—­your world.  It could not be opened by ourselves alone, however.  The Rhamda Avec had first to get in touch with your side, before he could apply the laws he had discovered.”

Somehow, Chick admired this Rhamda.  Men of his type could form but one kind of priesthood:  exalted, and devoted to the advance of intelligence.  If Rhamda Avec were of the same sort, then he was a man to be looked up to, not to hate.  As for the Jarados—­Watson could not make out who he had been; a prophet or teacher, seemingly, looming out of the past and reverenced from antiquity.

The Blind Spot became a shade less sinister.  Already Watson had the Temple of the Leaf, or Bell, the Rhamdas and their philosophy, the great amber sun, the huge birds, the musical cadence of the perfumed air, and the counter-announcement of Rhamda Avec to weigh against the work and words of Dr. Holcomb.

The world of the Blind Spot!

As if in reaction from the unaccustomed train of thought, Watson suddenly became conscious of extreme hunger.  He gave an uneasy glance round, a glance which the Rhamda Geos smilingly interpreted.  At a word the woman left the room and returned with a crimson garment, like a bath-robe.  When Chick had donned it and a pair of silken slippers, Geos bade him follow.

They stepped out into the corridor.

This was formed and coloured much as the room they had quitted; and it led to another apartment, much larger—­about fifty feet across—­coloured a deep, cool green.  Its ceiling, coved like the other, seemed made of some self-radiating substance from which came both light and heat.  Four or five tables, looking like ebony work, were arranged along the side walls.  When they were seated at one of these, the Rhamda placed his fingers on some round alna-white buttons ranged along the edge of the table.

“In your world,” he apologised, “our clumsy service would doubtless amuse you; but it is the best we have been able to devise so far.”

He pressed the button.  Instantly, without the slightest sound or anything else to betray just how the thing had been accomplished, the table was covered with golden dishes, heaped with food, and two flagon-like goblets, full to the brim with a dark, greenish liquid that gave off an aroma almost exhilarating; not alcoholic, but something just above that.  The Rhamda, disregarding or not noticing Watson’s gasp of wonder, lifted his goblet in the manner of the host in health and welcome.

“You may drink it,” he offered, “without fear.  It is not liquor—­ if I may use a word which I believe to be current in your world.  I may add that it is one of the best things that we shall be able to offer you while you are with us.”