"Might I ask what you're doing breaking out of my room in this fashion?" one of the queerly-costumed men demanded, glaring at Hugh. The other, a younger man, waved his hand indulgently at his friend and sat down again. "Relax, Jonathan," he said. "Can't you see he's a transportee?"
The older man stared more closely at the befuddled Dr. Tracy. "So he is," he said. "I swear, since Yero came to power again this country has been the dumping ground of half the universe. Wherever do they get such queer clothes, do you suppose?"
"Come on in," invited the other. "Tell us your story." He winked knowingly at Jonathan, and Hugh decided he did not like him.
"First," he said, "Would you mind telling me something about that window?"
The two turned to follow his pointed finger. "Why, it's just an ordinary window, in that it shows what's beyond it," said the young man. "Why?"
"I wish I knew," Hugh groaned, closing his eyes and trying to remember a few childhood prayers. The only one that came to mind was something about fourteen angels which hardly fitted the situation. After a moment he looked again, this time behind him. As he had suspected, the broken door did not lead back into the hallway of the apartment building, but into a small bedchamber of decidedly pre-Restoration cast.
"Take it easy," advised Jonathan. "It's hard to get used to at first. And put that thing away—it's a weapon of some kind, I suppose. The last transportee had one that spouted a streamer of purple gas. He was a very unpleasant customer. What do you shoot?"
"Metal slugs," said Hugh, feeling faintly hysterical. "Where am I, anyhow?"
"Outside."
"Outside what?"