re the whisky stood, leaving us
alone.

Melbourne had been a fascinating man to talk to. He discussed topics
ranging from theories of matter to the early Cretan culture, and related
them all to one dominant scientific thread. He spoke like a man of wide
knowledge and experience.... As I walked up the Drive, bits of his
conversation came disjointedly back to me with the clarity and
significance of sentences from Spengler.

An early-morning taxi went by slowly as I crossed the Drive to my
apartment. The driver stopped a moment, and looked at me in
astonishment.

"What's the matter, buddy," he said, "you look all wet. Fall in the
lake?" I smiled, embarrassed.

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" I answered.

"Can I take you anywhere?"

"No," I said, "I live here." He grinned, and started off again.

"Wish I'd been in on that party!" he called back, as he drove away.

I frowned, once more with that puzzled feeling, and went in.

Melbourne's Story

Glimpses of last night came back to me and pieced themselves together
slowly while I undressed and drew the water for my bath.

Melbourne had been interested to know that I worked for Bausch, the
motion picture producer.

"Perhaps you could be of aid to me some time," he said thoughtfully.

"In what way, Mr. Melbourne?" I asked him.

"I can talk to you about that later," he replied cryptically. "Tell me
about your work."

So I told him the conception I had of the motion pictures to be made in
the future. He listened with keen interest.

"I visualize a production going beyond anything done today," I said,
"and yet one that would be possible now, if there were someone capable
of creating it. A picture with sound and color, reproducing faithfully
the ordinary life about us, its tints and voices, even the noises of the
city--or traffic passing in the street and newsboys crying the scores of
the afternoon games--vividly and naturally. My picture would be so
carefully constructed that the projector could be stopped at any moment
and the screen would show a scene as harmonious in design and
composition and coloring, and as powerful in feeling, as a painting by
Rockwell Kent." After a pause I added, "And I'd give almost anything if
I could do it myself."

Melbourne looked at me sympathetically, reflectively.

"It might be possible," he said after a time.

"What do you mean, Mr. Melbourne?" He puffed at a cigar, and considered.

"It's not something I could expla