“I was afraid of that.” He pointed an unsteady finger at the one cube in front of us. “I suppose they’re all in there.” Some of his agitation had begun to wear off and after a moment he said, “What was that you said about folding the paper to make a cube?”

I looked at him and managed an apologetic smile.

He didn’t smile back, but he got up and said, “Well, I doubt if it can bite,” and bent over and picked the cube up, hefting its weight carefully in his hand. “It seems to weigh the same as the—sixty-four did,” he said, quite calmly now. Then he looked at it closely and suddenly became agitated again. “Good heavens! Look at this!” He held it up. On one side, exactly in the center, was a neat little hole, about a half-inch across.

I moved my head closer to the cube and saw that the hole was not really circular. It was like the iris diaphragm of a camera, a polygon made of many overlapping, straight pieces of metal, allowing an opening for light to enter. Nothing was visible through the hole; I could see only an undefined blackness.

“I don’t understand how…” I began, and stopped.

“Nor I,” he said. “Let’s see if there’s anything in here.”

He put the cube up to his eye and squinted and peered for a minute. Then he carefully set it on the table, walked to his chair, sat down and folded his hands over his fat little lap.

“George,” he said, “there is something in there.” His voice now was very steady and yet strange.

“What?” I asked. What else do you say?

“A little ball,” he said. “A little round ball. Quite misted over, but nonetheless a ball.”

“Well!” I said.

“George, I’ll get the gin.”

He was back from the sideboard in what seemed an incredibly short time. He had the sloe gin in highball glasses, with ice and water. It tasted horrible.

When I finished mine, I said, “Delicious. Let’s have another,” and we did. After I drank that one, I felt a good deal more rational.

I set my glass down. “Farnsworth, it just occurred to me. Isn’t the fourth dimension supposed to be time, according to Einstein?”

He had finished his second sloe gin highball, unmulled, by then. “Supposed to be, yes, according to Einstein. I call it ifth—or oofth—take your pick.” He held up the cube again, much more confidently now, I noticed. “And what about the fifth dimension?”

“Beats me,” I said, looking at the cube, which was beginning to seem vaguely sinister to me. “Beats the hell out of me.”