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George stammered.
    A smile flickered across Charles’s face for a moment.
    â€œGilliam Murray.”
    â€œYou mean the Master of Imagination? Did he lend you all this money?”
    Charles nodded, and Wells raised his hands to his head in disbelief. This was more incredible than the magic hole itself. Gilliam Murray . . . By the whiskers of Kepler, what had Charles got himself into? Everyone knew that Murray was one of the richest men on the planet, and the last person anyone should do business with.
    â€œAre you out of your mind, Charles?” he cried. “You know what a reputation that crook has! I doubt very much he actually believes in your theory. And even if he does, do you really think he would use your magic hole for the common good? My God, Charles, your naïveté outweighs even your ingenuity!”
    â€œWhat did you expect me to do?” Dodgson protested. “After the Church turned its back on me—thanks to you, my dear friend —Murray was the only hope I had of being able to continue my research.”
    â€œBut at what price, Charles, at what price?” Wells said reprovingly. Dodgson pursed his lips in resignation. It was plain he, too, was unhappy about the action he had been forced to take. Wells felt sorry for the old man before him, who was shaking his head as he looked down at his shoes, like a child ashamed of its latest act of disobedience. Wells gave a sigh and inquired in a calmer voice: “When do you have to pay him back?”
    â€œWell . . .” Charles hesitated. “A couple of weeks ago.”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œBut that doesn’t matter now, George!” Charles hastened to reassure him. “What matters is that I did it. I created a magic hole! Look, there it is. I was right, George, not you! Still,” he added, contemplating Wells with a serious expression, “I didn’t invite you here to crow over you but to ask you to put in a good word for me with the Church. The hole needs perfecting. It is stable enough to send simple objects, but I don’t know what would happen with something as complex in information and energy as a man.”
    Wells looked at Dodgson, who was clasping his arm with a frail hand and gazing at him beseechingly. Then he glanced suspiciously at the hole.
    â€œWhat do you suppose might happen?”
    â€œI have no idea,” Charles confessed. “I expect anyone who tried to pass through it would be crushed to death. But if you could convince the Church to back me, I’d be able to finish perfecting it, and I wouldn’t need to worry about finding the money to pay Murray back, because I’d have more than enough to last the rest of my life. Will you do that, George? Will you help me? You can’t deny my theory was the correct one.”
    Wells cast a weary eye around Dodgson’s laboratory. Gathering dust in a corner, like a symbol of his ancient hopes, was the discarded model of the colony Charles planned to establish on Mars, east of Mount Olympus. Then he contemplated the hole, and Newton, still slumped on the rug, symbols of the ominous present.
    â€œYou’re right, Charles,” said Wells, nodding dolefully. “Your theory was correct, not mine. Have no fear. I’ll talk to the cardinals.”
    â€œThank you, my friend,” Charles replied. “I’m confident that in three or four months the hole will be ready. I only need to make a few slight adjustments.”
    â€œA few slight adjustments? You don’t know how glad I am to hear it,” a voice behind them said.
    Surprised to find they were not alone in the room, Wells, Charles, Jane, and even Newton turned their heads as one. Three men were standing in the doorway. Only the one in the middle was unarmed, yet he seemed the most threatening of them all. His splendid, bullish physique was hidden under a luxurious overcoat that almost swept the floor, and a self-satisfied smile