“Well, my good man, I certainly hope I know my name,” Dr. Brainbridge said. “And who, pray tell, are you? I’m not exactly sure what’s happening, but this is by far the most delightful encounter that I’ve had under these circumstances—”

“Uh, what year did you say it was?” Seven asked. He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

“It’s May 21, 1890,” George said. “You mean, you mean, you don’t know that either?” His voice grew excited, and looking at him, Oversoul Seven got his first real look at George Brainbridge the First. He had sandy hair, frazzled right now, a sandy beard, and light blue eyes that were shaped like the electric Christmas tree lights that he, George, would probably never live to see; and he had two dimples on his left cheek. As George’s eyes lit up with excitement and expectancy, Oversoul Seven immediately knew George for what he was—a dreamer, an idealist, forever caught between dreaming and acting.

Oversoul Seven just groaned: “You’re the wrong George Brainbridge. I’m in the wrong time period; but if my calculations are right, you’re far too old to be George’s father. It must be your grandson I want.”

The gas hadn’t begun to wear off yet. George Brainbridge now thought the entire affair was magnificent. “Well, while you’re here, let’s talk,” he said agreeably. “I keep a journal of my gaseous activities, as I call them, and what an entry this will make.” He rubbed his chin, reached for a pipe, and prepared to settle himself for a long chat.

Without thinking about it, Seven hallucinated a pipe for George, who didn’t realize that he was still in his dream body; then Seven said moodily, “I’ve got to think my way out of this because your grandson—he must be your grandson—needs me, and I don’t even know what trouble he’s in.”

“Ah,” said George, dreamily.

“Ah?” said Seven, a bit loudly. “A lot of help you are; sniffing gas and hallucinating demons and God knows what….”

“I heard William James talk about nitrous oxide and determined to try it myself,” Brainbridge said, huffily. “I consider my activities as explorations, pure and simple, into the nature of … of truth.”

“That sounds pretty pompous to me,” Oversoul Seven said. He didn’t mean to be unkind, but he was worried about returning to the proper time period, and at the same time he was growing more and more aware of his surroundings and the nineteenth-century summer twilight. Indeed, the scents rushing through the opened window grew clearer and more tantalizing. He wiggled his nose and breathed deeply.

“Those are lilacs you smell,” George Brainbridge said. “They’re planted on one side of the drive. French lilacs and white ones. You can still smell the apple blossoms, too. They’re planted by the barn—”