*

The relief, after the hideous suspense of the past days, was almost
too much for the three white people. "We're free, we're going back
home!" cried Jim exultantly, as he caught Lucille in his arms. And she
surrendered her lips to his, while the tears streamed down her checks.
Old Parrish, at the instrument board, looked up, smiling and
chuckling. Even Cain, understanding that they were not to be hacked to
bits with knives, gurgled and grinned all over his black face.

"How long will it take us to get back?" Jim asked Parrish after a
while.

"I--I'm not quite sure, my boy," the old man replied. "You see--I
haven't quite familiarized myself with the machine as yet."

"But we'll get back all right?" asked Jim.

"Well, we--we're headed in the right direction," answered Parrish.
"You see, my boy, it's rather an intricate table of logarithmic
calculations that that scoundrel has pasted on this board. The great
danger appears to be that of coming within the orbit of the giant
planet Jupiter. Of course, I'm trying to keep within the orbit of the
Earth, but there is a danger of being deflected onto Pallas, Ceres, or
one of the smaller asteroids, and finding ourselves upon a rock in
space."

Jim and Lucille looked at Parrish in consternation. "But you don't
have to leave the Earth, do you?" Jim asked.

"Unfortunately, it's pretty hard sticking to the Earth, my lad," said
Parrish. "You see, Earth has moved a good many million miles through
space since the time of Atlantis."

But both Jim and Lucille noticed that Parrish was already speaking of
Atlantis as if it was in the past. They drew a hopeful augury from
that. And then there was nothing to do but resign themselves to that
universal greyness--and to hope.

* * * * *

They noticed that Cain seemed to be watching Parrish's movements with
unusual interest. The Neanderthal man seemed fascinated by the play of
the dials, the whir of the wheels and gyroscopes.

"Are you setting a course, dad?" asked Lucille presently. "I mean, do
you know just where we are?"

"To tell you the truth, my dear," answered her father, "I don't. I'm
relying on some markings that Tode made on the chart--certain
combinations of figures. God only knows where they'll take us to. But
I'm hoping that by following them we shall find ourselves back on Long
Island in the year 1930.

"No, that rascal could hardly have written down those figures to no
purpose. Th