The old scientist stared at him quizzically. "I wish I could be as sure of that as you, Ramey. Unfortunately, science is forced to admit too many contradictory points of evidence to make such bold statements. I might mention the strange case of the two Twentieth Century American lady-tourists who, strolling in the gardens at Versailles, found themselves suddenly translated, incomprehensibly face to face with members of the Eighteenth Century royal French Court. This record is, unhappily, too well authenticated to ignore. I might also point to the accuracy of the prophecies of Michel de Nostradamus who claimed that by means of his magic he was able to move forward into the future and see those things which were to be.[5]
"Many other instances. An Italian record of a stranger who appeared mysteriously in Sicily some two hundred years ago in a machine, the description of which shows a marked resemblance to a rocket-propelled airship. Legend relates that this wise man, who spoke a curiously distorted English, made his home with the natives for several months, taught them new and better methods of husbandry, instructed them in the construction of mechanical devices, and stayed an incipient plague by medical means unknown to that era."
"Still," expostulated Ramey, "to travel across Time—"
"As a hazard," pursued the old man, "let us suppose the continuum of Space-Time may be likened to a huge volume in which is inscribed all the history of past, present, and future. All things are written there—all. From man's darkest beginnings till the last feeble flutter of a dying sun stills in cold death a forlorn earth. Man, reading this volume, must perforce turn the pages one by one. He has memory of that which he has read, comprehension of that upon which his eyes presently rest—but no knowledge whatsoever of what lies before.
"But there is another pathway through this volume. The creeping pathway of the bookworm. This is the shortest route between era and era. Through this infinitesimal tunnel the bookworm—or let us say a 'time machine' constructed by one who knows the manner of its making—can skip from epoch to epoch in the twinkling of an eye."
Ramey stared at him incredulously. "And you—you think this thing we're in may be a sort of mechanical bookworm piercing the pages of Time?"
"I do not know," Dr. Aiken told him again. "I simply point out that at least hypothetically these things could be. I do not know; no. But we will learn in a minute. For, see? The needle has stopped. And if I am not mistaken, the humming, too, has ended."
He pointed. The moving needle had indeed completed its circuit and come to rest; the vibration was gone. Whatever had been the nature of the metal chamber's movements, it was motionless now. Red fidgeted impatiently above them.
"All right now, Doc? Okay for me to lift the trap now?"