At the last I settled down to a sort of compromise with myself, based on my recollection of Croft's assertion that he would come to me some time for an astral conversation, similar to those meetings with Naia he had employed to sway her decision, before he finally won her and that I myself should visit Palos some time again. If those things happened I felt I could give credence without reservation. I did a lot of reading in Croft's books and waited. But he did not come.
A month passed and a little more, approximately such a span of time as they called a Zitran on Palos, where the year was a trifle longer than ours, though divided in similar fashion into twelve periods. I had about settled back into acceptance of a completely corporeal routine, and then—once more I had word of Jason's son.
"Murray—Murray," a voice whispered to me in my slumber.
It roused me. I sat up, distinctly conscious of an intelligent presence in my room.
"Murray—get out of that cloud, and let's talk," what seemed a whisper prompted.
Something happened. Suddenly I was intensely awake, and I saw—the nebulous form of Jason, seated against the metal rail at the foot of my bed.
"That's better. How would you like to take another trip to Palos?" he inquired.
He smiled as he said it, and I answered in similar fashion. "If I can make the round trip a little quicker I wouldn't mind it. What's wrong up there now?"
"Nothing's wrong up there. Everything's all right."
His expression quickened. "But what happened?"