‘What do you advise me to do?’ asked Hamer after a silence.

Seldon leaned forward briskly. ‘One of several things. Go away from London, seek out your “open country”. The dreams may cease.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Hamer quickly. ‘It’s come to this, that I can’t do without them. I don’t want to do without them.’

‘Ah! I guessed as much. Another alternative, find this fellow, this cripple. You’re endowing him now with all sorts of supernatural attributes. Talk to him. Break the spell.’

Hamer shook his head again.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Hamer simply.

Seldon made a gesture of impatience. ‘Don’t believe in it all so blindly! This tune now, the medium that starts it all, what is it like?’

Hamer hummed it, and Seldon listened with a puzzled frown.

‘Rather like a bit out of the Overture to Rienzi. There is something uplifting about it—it has wings. But I’m not carried off the earth! Now, these flights of yours, are they all exactly the same?’

‘No, no.’ Hamer leaned forward eagerly. ‘They develop. Each time I see a little more. It’s difficult to explain. You see, I’m always conscious of reaching a certain point—the music carries me there—not direct, but a succession of waves, each reaching higher than the last, until the highest point where one can go no further. I stay there until I’m dragged back. It isn’t a place, it’s more a state. Well, not just at first, but after a little while, I began to understand that there were other things all round me waiting until I was able to perceive them. Think of a kitten. It has eyes, but at first it can’t see with them. It’s blind and has to learn to see. Well, that was what it was to me. Mortal eyes and ears were no good to me, but there was something corresponding to them that hadn’t yet been developed—something that wasn’t bodily at all. And little by little that grew . . . there were sensations of light . . . then of sound . . . then of colour . . . All very vague and unformulated. It was more the knowledge of things than seeing or hearing them. First it was light, a light that grew stronger and clearer . . . then sand, great stretches of reddish sand . . . and here and there straight long lines of water like canals—’

Seldon drew in his breath sharply. ‘Canals! That’s interesting. Go on.’

‘But these things didn’t matter—they didn’t count any longer. The real things were the things I couldn’t see yet—but I heard them . . . It was a sound like the rushing of wings . . . somehow, I can’t explain why, it was glorious! There’s nothing like it here. And then came another glory—I saw them—the Wings! Oh, Seldon, the Wings!’

‘But what were they? Men—angels—birds?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see—not yet. But the colour of them! Wing colour—we haven’t got it here—it’s a wonderful colour.’