CHAPTER. II

Despite many years of concentration on technical things, Professor Palmer was a surprisingly human and ordinary-appearing man. The fact that he was considered one of the world’s foremost authorities on astronomy, and was a lecturer of world-wide renown, did not detract from his naturally benign disposition. Yet there was something compelling about his personality. Students before whom he delivered lectures accorded him marked attention, and went away with a graphic picture in their minds of the things he wished to convey to them.

“Henry,” he remarked quizzically to his young but capable secretary one morning, having just read a particularly seathing criticism of his pet theories, “these gentlemen at least take my hobby seriously. That in itself convinces me that my deductions are worthy of consideration.”

“They take advantage of the fact that you have no means of definitely proving your deductions,” defended Henry, loyally. “As you have remarked, even Columbus was ridiculed; but he, at least, had means of obtaining concrete proof to silence the scoffers.”

“Well put, my friend. A few more earnest advocates of my theories like yourself, and I should require no proof.”

“That reminds me,” resumed the grateful Henry G. Simms, “there was a young chap in here yesterday who claimed to be an ardent champion of your views. He was extremely anxious to see you. Said he had a matter of great importance to take up with you.”

“He’ll return?”

“Grant’s army couldn’t keep him away. He will be here at 10 o’clock.”

“So? What sort of a chap is he?” curiously.

“A well set-up fellow of about twenty-four. About six feet tall; light hair, pleasant features, refined manners. Impetuous sort of fellow.”

That was how Robert Sprague happened to meet Professor Palmer a half hour later.

A pleasant thrill possessed him as he shook hands with the professor. The kindly, though keen, gray eyes met his encouragingly. This was contrary to Robert’s expectations, for he had assumed that he would be fortunate if he succeeded in seeing so busy and prominent a man for a few minutes. He was prepared even for a curt dismissal. What he did not know was that his evident earnestness and enthusiasm had obtained for him an interview through the redoubtable Henry where others would have failed.

Without realizing how he had commenced, he found himself conversing easily with this learned man as if such interviews were everyday occurrences with him. The professor was impressed with equal favorableness by his caller. The frank, winning countenance and earnest manner created a profound impression upon him in spite of an extraordinary story.

“Let me get this right,” said the professor, finally. “You say that the machine is virtually perfected—that you have succeeded in accomplishing the aim for which your father unsuccessfully spent his life?”

“Not unsuccessfully,” defended Robert, quickly; “without what he had accomplished I could never have constructed a machine of its kind.”

“But it can actually be controlled as you suggest?”

“It can.”

“Pardon my insistence, Mr. Sprague. The idea is so—ah—extraordinary.”

“I realize that, professor. I should be happy to have you see for yourself.”

Professor Palmer pondered. The young man’s story had impressed him, notwithstanding its unusualness. At any rate, he concluded, he would investigate. He could risk no more than disappointment. If there was anything in it, the possibilities for research and discovery were boundless. He found his own enthusiasm rivaling that of his caller as he momentarily allowed it free rein. Why—he might yet prove his own weird theories to the world!

The next moment he smiled at his own indulgence. First he would humor this young man by investigating his wild claims: time enough for dreams afterward.

“Well, Mr. Sprague,” he said, “this is an age of strange accomplishments. I’m going to look at that machine of yours. How will tomorrow evening do?”

A feeling of relief and exultation swept over Robert as the professor spoke. At last his absurd-sounding claims for the life-work of his father had been taken seriously, and recognition of his labors was within reach. He stammered his thanks, shook hands with the amused professor, and departed.

“That boy believes in the machine; and he is no fool, either,” remarked Professor Palmer after Robert had left.

“The world is full of them,” observed Henry sagely.

Henry even openly questioned his employer’s theories at times. Not that the latter minded, for the ensuing arguments furnished interesting debates, and fresh ideas sometimes; and in the end he usually succeeded in silencing his intrepid secretary—if only temporarily.

But today, Henry’s caustic comment irritated him. He wanted to believe in the weird claims of his caller regarding a strange, gravity-defying machine, in spite of his saner judgment to the contrary. He subconsciously resented any expression of his own disbelief.

Professor Palmer slept poorly that night, though he rarely failed to sleep soundly. Try as he would, he could not dismiss from his mind the hope which struggled so persistently with his natural skepticism.

But he was not alone in his sleeplessness. Robert slept not a minute that night. Over and over he reflected on just how he would best explain the intricacies of the Sphere in order that he could convince Professor Palmer of its practicability. The fact that he lacked the necessary funds to complete the apparatus gave him considerable concern. For much, therefore, depended upon his ability to convince the professor of the feasibility of mere theories.