The thing was clear to us now. This girl had come in a Time-traveling tower from the Past—or the Future. Turber also possessed a Time-vehicle; one more effective than the tower, since it seemed a vehicle also capable of traveling through Space. This girl undoubtedly knew Turber in some other Time-world. And feared him—just as Nanette feared him.
With purring motor we were speeding along one of the island's highways, almost deserted at this hour of the night.
"Which way you going, Alan? Not to the ferry?"
"No. West, over the bridge into Jersey. Get back to New York that way. We're safe enough."
"What are you going to do with the girl?" I asked.
He hardly knew. "Take her home, I guess. See if we can't learn to understand her. She's intelligent—she speaks some kind of language."
We sped through a quiet, sleeping village. It was a long drive, around this way through Jersey. The night was well advanced toward the new dawn when we were again in Manhattan.
We had stopped once on a lonely Jersey road. Stopped by Nanette's voice.
"Alan! She's trying to talk to me!"
We drew down the car curtains; lighted the tiny dome light. The girl was much smaller than Nanette; she sat, with her blue robe crushed about her, enveloped in Nanette's long cloak. She was smiling, gesturing.