That, at least, Dirk knew. He answered eagerly.
"I came here through the medium of the greatest discovery ever made by man. The teleport, a machine invented by Robert Townsend. A perfect solution to the long puzzling problem of material transport through Space. It disassembles the atoms of any body placed in its transmitting chamber, and reconstructs that body at a destination selected by a setting of its dials.
"Through circumstances not of my own choosing, I was a subject of that machine. I was forced into the transmitter by ... well, it does not matter whom ... and my body broadcast to this spot. Though I do not yet, sir, understand just where I am, or exactly how I reached here—"
The old man shook his head regretfully.
"I am sorry, my boy, to tell you the machine did not work as was planned. Its theory was sound; in one respect it performed as expected. It did disassemble your atomic components, did reconstruct your body elsewhere. But it was to no far bourne your journey carried you.
"Your body still stands in exactly the spot it stood before the machine operated!"
For a long, uncomprehending moment Dirk Morris gaped at his informant. At last his bedazement found words.
"Oh, now, surely you can't expect me to believe—"
"No," interrupted the graybeard gently, "not without visual evidence. Rima, my dear—?"