'I am speaking,' said the Voice and instantly each of us knew that the strange cone before us had voiced the words.
'I am not speaking,' went on the Voice. That was a misstatement. I am thinking. You hear my thoughts. I can as easily hear yours.'
Telepathy,' I suggested.
'Your term is a strange one,' replied the Voice, 'but the mental image the term calls up tells me that you faintly understand the principle.
T perceive from your thoughts that you are from a place which you call the Earth. I know where the Earth is located. I understand you are puzzled and discomfited by my appearance, my powers, and my general disresemblance to anything you have ever encountered. Do not be alarmed. I welcome you here. I understand you worked hard and well to arrive here and no harm will befall you.'
'I am Scott Marston,' said my friend, 'and this man is Peter Sands.'
The thoughts of the light-cone reached out to envelop us and there was a faint tinge of rebuke, a timbre of pity at what must have appeared to the thing as unwarranted egotism on our part.
'In this place there are no names. We are known by our personalities. However, as your mentality demands an identifying name, you may think of me as the Creator.
'And now, there are others I would have you see.'
He sounded a call, a weird call which seemed to incorporate as equally a weird name.