Part 2

"Just a minute," I say, "I must misunderstand you. I thought you said the year was Twenty-five O Seven."

"That is what I did say," says the doc.

"But that cannot be true," I tell him. "Why I was born in 1914 and it is not possible for me to be living at such a period in history."

He picks up my wrist again.

"You are a little excited," he says, "and I think you had better get a bit more rest. Then we can talk this thing over later."

I see him say something to the nurse who is standing in the doorway all this time, and she nods as he goes out. I start to call to him but I figure it is no use. So I go back to sleep.

The second time I wake up, the doc is back and he has four other men with him. They are sitting in chairs around the room watching me; as soon as they see I am awake they come over to my bed.

"These men are very much interested in your case," the doctor tells me. "I have been telling them about your statement and the strange circumstances attending your appearance on Fifty-Second Street today. Now I feel that you have had enough rest and I want you to tell them the entire story."

Well, I know they will figure I am off the beat, but I start at the beginning and relate the whole story anyway. They do not say a word until I have finished. Then they look at each other and have a whispered session on the other side of the room. Finally one of them speaks up.

"Mr. McRae," he says, "we want to question you a little further if you don't mind. Will you please put on your clothes and come with us?"

I do like they say since there is nothing else for me to do, and when I am dressed they take me down the hall to a big light room which is practically all glass, and they ask me to sit down at a large table.

"Now, Mr. McRae," the first doc says, "I want you to do something for me."

He hands me ten little blocks of different sizes and informs me that I am to place them in the proper holes in a board which he has ready for just that purpose. I do as he asks.

These seems to surprise him, but he is all set with another test, and I spend the rest of the afternoon playing these little games, until I am plenty weary of it and I say so to him.

"Well," he says, "as you likely know, we have been trying to determine your sanity. I will say that you have demonstrated yourself to be entirely normal."

"That is fine," I say, "but now that we have decided that will someone kindly tell me what is this business about Twenty-Five O Seven--and what has been happening to me anyhow."

Another of the doctors answers me.

"There seems to be only one other explanation," he says, "one which we are reluctant to accept but which we must consider if your story is true. You have been in a fourth dimension. The passage of time there is something that we know nothing of, and it is possible that the few months you spent in it were equivalent to the centuries which have passed in this dimension. You have apparently evolved a unique and purely personal method for entering and leaving the fourth dimension, and since it seems entirely dependent on your own physical skill together with a large element of chance, it is of little value for scientific exploitation. That is the pity."

While he is giving out this statement, the rest of the doctors grow very excited, and soon as he has finished they begin throwing questions at him about curvature of space and Neilson's theory and a lot of other stuff which is very confusing to me indeed.

Finally I stop them.

"If you will kindly return my trombone," I tell them, "I will be on my way, as I do not know anything of all this and I would like to get out and see what it is like in Twenty-Five O Seven A.D."

"Of course, of course," says the first doctor who is the one who brought me to the hospital. "It is very thoughtless of us. I shall get your instrument and you can come home with me until you are able to adjust yourself to our way of living. It will be a great pleasure to show you what we have accomplished in the time since you can remember, though I must say that none of us has done what you have."

He laughs a little at that, and I figure he is a nice guy, so I say I will be happy to accept his offer.

I go home with him and he introduces me to his wife who is a very nice appearing female. He tells her all about me and he keeps saying how remarkable it is all the time.

* * * * *

It is the next morning when I come down to breakfast that I meet the doctor's daughter, who is a very lovely little number of about twenty, and I see that my stay is going to be a very pleasant one indeed.

She says, "Dad has been telling me all about you, Mr. McRae, and I'm going to see to it that you really see the New York of Twenty-Five O Seven. He wants to drag you to a lot of stuffy old lectures and scientific conventions, and exhibits you like a freak, but I'm taking charge today."

I remark that that will be fine.

Well, we start right out, and it is amazing what has been done in my absence. Ann--that is the little number's name--tells me about the change in one thing and another; they are now taking vacations on Venus and Mars, and it is merely a matter of a couple of hours to get to San Francisco or London. Of course this is all very interesting, but I am interested in what they are doing in the musical line. I tell Ann this.

"We are in luck," she says, "for there is a concert tonight up in Albany and you will be able to hear all the finest music there."

"I do not wish to hear the long hairs play," I tell her. "Let us go down along Fifty-Second Street and listen to a little barrelhouse. That is my racket."

"There is no musical organization on Fifty-Second Street," Ann says. "We do all our listening and looking at concerts like this one in Albany, and it is the only sort of music we have."

By this time we are home, so I ask Ann if she would like to hear how we played it back in the Twentieth Century. She replies that she would, but not to let her father, the doc, know about it because he is something of a bug on the modern music and considers the old style quite degenerate.

I laugh at this. "What he means by the old style is probably something I have never heard," I say. "You must remember that I am almost six hundred years old, so my style is practically antique. Why, your father did not even know that my horn was a musical instrument until I told him my story, and it is indeed a shame that there are not a few old Beiderbecke platters around so you all could hear what you've been missing."

Well, I have not played the old slush pump since I escaped from the fourth dimension, so I am careful when I pick it up, but after I have tried a few runs I say I am all set. Ann is very curious, and she makes me tell her how it works, as it seems they use instruments altogether different in these concerts we are going to. I explain how the wind goes around and all, and then I move into _I'm Getting Sentimental Over You_. I am very mellow, and T. Dorsey couldn't have sounded any better in the little concert I give. Ann is very overcome.

"It is beautiful," she says when I have finished. "Are there words to it?"

I tell her there are, but that I do not know them, so she hums softly as I take another chorus. She has a lovely voice, and I say that tomorrow I will write down the words to some other numbers and let her practice them with me.

When the doctor hears we are going to the concert that evening, he says that he wishes to come along. We get to Albany in about five minutes, so fast that I see nothing in the journey once we have left the New York airport where the doc keeps his plane, and we enter the auditorium in perfect time. As we go in, I am very surprised to see everyone staring at me, since I have borrowed one of the doctor's suits for the occasion and look just like anyone else. And then everyone stands and begins cheering me until I am very embarrassed indeed. I look at Ann and the doctor. They are both smiling.

"You know now that you have become a celebrity," whispers Ann. "We didn't want to let you know right away, but the papers have been full of your story."

So I smile and bow to the crowd, which keeps on clapping. It is very pleasing.

Finally, however, the noise stops and the curtain raises. There on the stage are about thirty or forty musicians, and behind them is a large screen like in a moving picture house. Also there are a lot of electric cords in sight, and I cannot figure what they are for until I notice that each instrument is wired like an electric guitar.

When the conductor comes on, everybody claps a little more, and then he turns to the orchestra. What I hear after that is something I never expect to hear in my life. All those electric instruments begin to vibrate, and on the screen behind them all sorts of shapes and colors begin to flash and then disappear. This keeps up as long as the number lasts.

"You are now seeing music as well as hearing it," the doctor tells me.

"I never saw any like that before," I say. "All the music I've ever seen has been the regular dot variety; do the men play from those flashes?"

"Why no," the doc smiles. "Those symbols that you see are the result of the electric impulse as the musicians strike certain notes on their instruments. They are never the same, and to me they are vastly intriguing. Strictly, it was lousy."

"Oh," I say.

The following day Ann informs me that we are going on a picnic and asks me will I please bring my trombone along and teach her a few songs.

About eleven o'clock we get in Ann's plane, and in no time we are down in Virginia in a nice little spot by a small stream.

"I often come down here," Ann says. "It is one of the best places I know."

There is something that seems awfully strange to me, and I finally realize that it is the green grass of the meadow and the trees, after the icky purple I have been used to for the past few months. I tell Ann about this and about how beautiful the green looks, but I add that it is still not as lovely as she is.

She says that is very nice, and then as I stand up from spreading the picnic cloth, she is standing beside me, so I put my arms around her and then I am kissing her and she is kissing me and it is very pleasant indeed. I see that this is much better than any fourth dimension.

Finally we get around to eating the lunch Ann has brought, and I keep saying how lovely she is, which I also mean. And she is saying I am pretty fine too, and we pass some little time like this.

But after a while Ann says, "Mac, will you play for me now? I love to hear you."

So I say I will if she will sing and I give her the words to _The St. Louis Blues_, which I have written out. I hit it soft and easy for one chorus to give her the melody, and then she takes the beat. Well, I have not realized it before, but her voice is plenty schmalz and it is a shame she is not living in my time, for she would be a cinch to panic them anywhere.

After that she does _The Memphis Blues_ also, and she has me riding beautifully to keep her up there. She is wonderful.

"You are the one who is wonderful," she says. "I have never heard music like you can get out of that trombone. Play something else, darling, won't you?" I slip into _If I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate_, and as I play, Ann moves over beside me.

"Lovely," she whispers.

With that I am really carried away and I hear her humming softly as I modulate into _Tea for Two_. I am giving it a real ride, and then I feel it coming over me again. I am in a panic. I try to stop playing, but I can't, and my body is vibrating something terrible.

I dimly hear Ann crying, "Mac, Mac, ..." as I sink off.

That is the last I can remember....

* * * * *

When I come out of it this time, someone is pounding me on the back.

"Ann?" I say hopefully, but I know inside that it will be useless.

"Beautiful going, Mac. Beautiful," someone is saying.

"What?" I ask blankly.

"That _Stardust_. Boy, you were really out of the world on that one."

Then I open my eyes and look up. It is Ernie Martin, our sax player, who has the chair next to me in Benny's.

I look around. I am back in Benny's. As I put down my slip-horn there is a scattering of applause from the tables.

Someone shouts at me. I close my eyes, but the noise is still there. I keep my eyes closed, and then I hear music.

Ernie is hitting me with his elbow.

"Get in," he says.

I hear the boys beating out _Rosetta_.

"Take it up," say Ernie. "Get hep, kid."

"Me?" I says sort of foggy like. "Oh, no--not me. Leastways not tonight."

I pick up old Susie and walk to the door. I wonder if maybe there's such a thing as being too hep.