topher," Mr. Wicker told him. "And I will reappear in whatever
part of the room you wish. Choose."

Chris looked around him, and then pointed to the end window.

"There," he said, "by the window. There's nothing anywhere around it.
Come back there."

"Very well," sounded Mr. Wicker's deep new voice.

The bluebottle fly buzzed upward from the table, flew directly at
Chris's nose, hit it, flew around his head, and bumped into his ear.

"Darn that ol' fly!" Chris muttered, and made a grab at it. The
bluebottle buzzed towards the window, swirled about, hit Chris on the
nose again with remarkable stupidity, and blundered off once more
towards the window.

Chris ran after it, saw it on a pane of glass, swooped down, and felt
the angry wings and heard the enraged buzz in his cupped hand. But
before he could either squeeze the fly or open his hand to let it
free, Mr. Wicker stood before him, and Chris found himself holding on
to the tail of Mr. Wicker's coat.

"And what did you think of _that_ trick?" asked Mr. Wicker smiling.

CHAPTER 7

Chris was speechless, and Mr. Wicker answered himself.

"Yes, it is a good trick, but before we talk, I should like to show
you one more."

He dropped his hand on Chris's shoulder and somehow the firm touch was
wonderfully comforting to the boy.

"You want to be at home, do you not, Christopher?" Mr. Wicker asked.

"Yes sir. Please."

"Well, that cannot be for a time," Mr. Wicker replied, "for you have
important work to do."

Mr. Wicker turned and walked back to the two leather chairs with his
hand still on Chris's shoulder. He stopped near the table and looked
down.

"I know that all this--" he waved a hand to take in not only the room
but, Chris thought, the different time as well, "--all this seems
impossible to understand." He paused, pondering. "Perhaps we had
better sit down and I will try to make it understandable."

"Let me put it this way," Mr. Wicker began when they were seated once
more in their chairs before the fire. "You have a television set at
home?"

"Oh yes!" Chris agreed enthusiastically, "And say! Some of the
programs--"

"Yes, they are splendid, I know," Mr. Wicker broke in. "But will you
please explain to me how television works?"

Chris stared at his questioner for a moment and then settled back in
his chair, his forehead puckered with concentration.

"Well, gee--" He stopped. "Well," he began again, "I _think_ it has to
do with light