ated. The vibratory rate is lower than I expected. There's resistance somewhere."
"I'll see that Bridges makes up a fresh supply for you," the Doctor assured him. He turned to Mason. "We're just arriving at the responsive vibratory rate of blood plasma," and, seeing the archaeologist's look of incredulity, he continued, "No. We're not delirious. Come along."
The second building was a replica of the first laboratory, externally; but it lacked the tower and radio mast. Doctor Santurn rapped at the door.
"All right, Bridges?" he called. "Sometimes he resents intrusion at a critical moment," he explained in an aside before the door opened.
A bald, weazoned and swarthy individual in a grayish smock appeared in the doorway and glanced at their feet immediately.
"You're all right, Doctor; but I'll have to get a pair of rubbers for this gentleman." He acknowleged the introduction to Mason, excused himself for a moment, and returned at once with a heavy pair of rubbers. Mason put them on, wondering at the thick, cushiony, spring-rubber treads.
"Unlike the other mosques," explained the Doctor with a curious little laugh, "we require you to put on footgear before entering at this shrine of Bridges!"
"Move lightly!" cautioned the little man, "Come in!"
Description of the Work
ROWS on rows of kegs and vats lined the walls, huge containers of chemical reagents from which the smaller stock bottles in their racks were evidently replenished. The glitter of glassware, grotesquely shaped flasks and tubes, the sheen of lacquered brass, scores of test tubes in serried array in racks, an indefineable odor of commingled gases, gave to the room the atmosphere of a Merlin's retreat.
"We do things in a wholesale way," explained Bridges. "We can perform almost any sort of biochemical experiment here, from the infinitesimally small to those requiring a hundredweight or more of materials. There's a bacterial incubator in that corner, and a refrigerator in this—duplicates of those in the 'zoo.'"
"Electrically controlled," supplemented the Doctor. "Most of our heating and all our lighting comes on those wires strung on the poles you passed on the road coming up here. The town beyond supplies us with current, and keeps the meter at their end of our private line, so that the total current consumption is recorded there, no matter what new devices we hook on here. It keeps inspectors from coming up here constantly, and incidentally excludes them from a glimpse of affairs that do not concern them. Naturally, I pay well for the privacy."
He approached the workbench whereon reposed the bulkiest microscope Mason had ever seen. It rested under a glass bell on a rubber pad.
"How far have you gotten, Bridges?" asked his chief.
Bridges waved a hand at a row of stoppered test tubes containing various colored fluids.
"The solutions are still settling, Doctor. That is why I wanted to have you avoid all unnecessary jarring. The qualitative analysis is completed. 'Quantitative' will be finished by this evening. When Stevens checks up with me tonight, I'll make a leukocyte for you!"
Mason gasped audibly, and Doctor Santurn turned to regard him with a self-satisfied smile.
"Are you astounded?" I assure you we're not trying to 'pull your leg.' To paraphrase old Shakespeare, 'There are more things on The Plateau,' Gary, 'than you ever dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
"I don't believe what I've heard!" vociferated Mason stoutly. "How can I? Such things are preposterous! Do you mean to tell me?"
"Not a thing!" said Doctor Santurn. "Tonight you shall see. At present I want you to steep a bit longer. Let us go over to see Johnssen."
What the Village Says About It All
EXCEEDINGLY bewildered, a trifle loathe to leave the fascination of the bio-chemical laboratory, Mason followed after the Doctor, and with him kept to the path, to the last of the three one-room buildings that lay to the rear of the residence.
"Here we are!" said the Doctor, passing with Mason through the door. "This place houses our menagerie and equarium."
"Then it's true!" exclaimed Mason, recalling the innkeeper's story.
"What is?" asked the Doctor.
"One of the rumors the village is circulating about you."
"Is it a crime to possess a private collection?" asked the Doctor, ironically.
"No-o."
"Here's Johnssen," interrupted the Doctor.
A huge man approached them—a man perhaps fifty years of age, yet whose full head of ash blond hair, unlined, ruddy face and keen, sea-green eyes gave the impression of a remarkable state of preservation.
"What is new here?" asked the Doctor.
"We need a new thermostat for the primate's cage," said Johnssen, the words rumbling slowly and deeply in his throat. "Our youngster coughed once or twice last evening. It was chilly, if you remember, and I'm afraid he caught a cold. The old thermostat sticks, somewhere around seventy, and I'd like to get up to about ninety-five for emergencies."
"Are you referring to that orang?" asked Mason.
"Yes," said Johnssen, "the devil! For a two-year-old specimen born and brought up in captivity, one would think he'd be up to the usual monkey tricks. Not he! He sits there quietly and watches, watches"
"Born and brought up here?" asked Mason of the Doctor.
"That is correct. He's always been an orphan."
"Cryptic, as most of the things I hear," retorted Mason, a trifle impatiently. "I simply can't contain myself much longer. What is this all about?"
He leaned over the guard rail built around a huge
