Nevertheless, thus clad, I trod interstellar space, exalted by the knowledge that I was bound on vast adventure, where, at the end, I would find all the cosmic formulae and have made clear to me the ultimate secret of the universe.  In my hand I carried a long glass wand.  It was borne in upon me that with the tip of this wand I must touch each star in passing.  And I knew, in all absoluteness, that did I but miss one star I should be precipitated into some unplummeted abyss of unthinkable and eternal punishment and guilt.

Long I pursued my starry quest.  When I say “long,” you must bear in mind the enormous extension of time that had occurred in my brain.  For centuries I trod space, with the tip of my wand and with unerring eye and hand tapping each star I passed.  Ever the way grew brighter.  Ever the ineffable goal of infinite wisdom grew nearer.  And yet I made no mistake.  This was no other self of mine.  This was no experience that had once been mine.  I was aware all the time that it was I, Darrell Standing, who walked among the stars and tapped them with a wand of glass.  In short, I knew that here was nothing real, nothing that had ever been nor could ever be.  I knew that it was nothing else than a ridiculous orgy of the imagination, such as men enjoy in drug dreams, in delirium, or in mere ordinary slumber.

And then, as all went merry and well with me on my celestial quest, the tip of my wand missed a star, and on the instant I knew I had been guilty of a great crime.  And on the instant a knock, vast and compulsive, inexorable and mandatory as the stamp of the iron hoof of doom, smote me and reverberated across the universe.  The whole sidereal system coruscated, reeled and fell in flame.

I was torn by an exquisite and disruptive agony.  And on the instant I was Darrell Standing, the life-convict, lying in his strait-jacket in solitary.  And I knew the immediate cause of that summons.  It was a rap of the knuckle by Ed Morrell, in Cell Five, beginning the spelling of some message.

And now, to give some comprehension of the extension of time and space that I was experiencing.  Many days afterwards I asked Morrell what he had tried to convey to me.  It was a simple message, namely:  “Standing, are you there?” He had tapped it rapidly, while the guard was at the far end of the corridor into which the solitary cells opened.  As I say, he had tapped the message very rapidly.  And now behold!  Between the first tap and the second I was off and away among the stars, clad in fleecy garments, touching each star as I passed in my pursuit of the formulae that would explain the last mystery of life.  And, as before, I pursued the quest for centuries.  Then came the summons, the stamp of the hoof of doom, the exquisite disruptive agony, and again I was back in my cell in San Quentin.  It was the second tap of Ed Morrell’s knuckle.  The interval between it and the first tap could have been no more than a fifth of a second.  And yet, so unthinkably enormous was the extension of time to me, that in the course of that fifth of a second I had been away star-roving for long ages.