“Beats me, too, George,” he said almost gaily—an astonishing mood for old Farnsworth. He turned the cube around with his small, fat fingers. “This is probably all wrapped up in time in some strange way. Not to mention the very peculiar kind of space it appears to be involved with. Extraordinary, don’t you think?”

“Extraordinary,” I nodded.

“George, I think I’ll take another look.” And he put the cube back to his eye again. “Well,” he said, after a moment of squinting, “same little ball.”

“What’s it doing?” I wanted to know.

“Nothing. Or perhaps spinning a bit. I’m not sure. It’s quite fuzzy, you see, and misty. Dark in there, too.”

“Let me see,” I said, realizing that, after all, if Farnsworth could see the thing in there, so could I.

“In a minute. I wonder what sort of time I’m looking into—past or future, or what?”

“And what sort of space…” I was saying when, suddenly, little Farnsworth let out a shriek, dropped the cube as if it had suddenly turned into a snake, and threw his hands over his eyes.

He sank back into his chair and cried, “My God! My God!”

“What happened?” I asked, rushing over to Farnsworth, who was squirming in his armchair, his face still hidden by his hands.

“My eye!” he moaned, almost sobbing. “It stabbed my eye! Quick, George, call me an ambulance!”

I hurried to the telephone and fumbled with the book, looking for the right number, until Farnsworth said, “Quick, George!” again and, in desperation, I dialed the operator and told her to send us an ambulance.

When I got back to Farnsworth, he had taken his hand from the unhurt eye and I could see that a trickle of blood was beginning to run down the other wrist. He had almost stopped squirming, but from his face it was obvious that the pain was still intense.

He stood up. “I need another drink,” he said, and was heading unsteadily for the sideboard when he stepped on the cube, which was still lying in front of his chair, and was barely able to keep himself from falling headlong, tripping on it. The cube skidded a few feet, stopping, hole-side up, near the fire.

He said to the cube, enraged, “Damn you, I’ll show you…!” and he reached down and swooped up the poker from the hearth. It had been lying there for mulling drinks, its end resting on the coals, and by now it was a brilliant cherry red. He took the handle with both hands and plunged the red-hot tip into the hole of the cube, pushing it down against the floor.