On this day he had gone down the stairs through a number of floors, until he came to a room in the very bottom of the sphere. The door to the chamber was closed. It was an unusual door, of a gleaming material that made him blink, and had a single character in the center of it: a red circle from which a small sector had been removed. The sector hovered over the gap, as if asking to be replaced.
Rog pushed the door open and went in, suddenly stopped. His face froze, then brightened with eagerness. Hastily he went to the bubble-like dome of glass in the middle of the room.
Then he was standing rigid with shock. On a low couch under the glass bell lay an old man clad in flowing, white garments. But he was different from the tribe's old men. He was taller and frailer. His brow was lofty, instead of being crowded down over his eyebrows, and his expression was serene in death.
Rog shoved his nose against the glass, studying the dignified figure. He wished, suddenly, that the old man were not dead, for he could undoubtedly explain all these things to him that had him puzzling so hopelessly. At last his gaze wandered to the maze of machines at the head of the couch.
There was nothing there that he could begin to understand. Just a battery of glass and metal and tubes. Two red wires led from the machinery to a board on which were a number of dials and things that Rog scarcely gave a second glance.
Then, all at once, he stiffened. His eyes fastened on a shining red circle of metal, exactly the same as the symbol on the door. And there was a section out of it, lying there asking him to put it back in!
Now he went to it and lifted the heavy little bit of red stuff. It had prongs that fitted into corresponding holes in the rest of the circle which was firmly fixed to the board. Rog knew he was supposed to shove the sector into place. His fingers were trembling as he hesitated. Suddenly he bent forward and pushed the prongs home!
