As if in answer, a low chime cut across our talk. Pearly light sprang up on a square panel. I got to my feet, moved over to stare at it. Foster came to my side.
"What do you make of it?" he said.
"I'm no expert on stone-age relics," I said. "But if that's not a radar screen, I'll eat it."
I sat down in the single chair before the dusty control console, and watched a red blip creep across the screen. Foster stood behind me.
"We owe a debt to that ancient sinner," he said. "Who would have dreamed he'd lead us here?"
"Ancient sinner?" I said. "This place is as modern as next year's juke box."
"Look at the symbols on the machines," Foster said. "They're identical with those in the first section of the journal."
"All pot-hooks look alike to me," I said. "It's this screen that's got me worried. If I've got it doped out correctly, that blip is either a mighty slow airplane—or it's at one hell of an altitude."
"Modern aircraft operate at great heights," Foster said.
"Not at this height," I said. "Give me a few more minutes to study these scales...."