We stopped at a globe of larger size. Ala said, "I will leave you here. And when I come back—we will go together to the meeting place. They are waiting for you."
Will nodded. "Very well, Ala. How long before you come?"
Again she was puzzled. "How long? Why, I will come."
She left us; I did not see how or where she went.
Will said, "Come on. This is our house they have given us."
Together we passed through the side of the globe. I felt almost nothing—as though I had brushed against something, no more. Were the globes of a material solidity? I do not know.
Within the globe was a hollow interior. Call it a room. The same luminous twilight illumined it. A room of circular concavity. No walls, no ceiling; it was all floor. We walked upon it and though we had passed through it, nevertheless it sustained us; and in every position beneath us seemed the floor, above us the ceiling. A memory of the vanished gravity of our earth came to me. The word—the conception—had no meaning here. Yet we had weight; the substance upon which we rested attracted us perhaps. I cannot say.
We gazed around us. There were places of rest—rectangles of a misty white into one of which I found myself instinctively reclining as though with a need of physical quiet. A sense of ease came to me; but it was only vaguely of the physical. I was indeed now barely conscious of a body; but of my mind I was increasingly aware. I could be tired in mind. I was, and I was resting.
Will and Bee were resting also. I saw upon Bee's face that same queer, wistful expression which had marked Ala's; I saw her regarding me intently; and I answered her affectionate smile.