“Welcome to the Interior,” Nebogipfel announced, comical with his parasol.

Our quarter-mile-wide pillar of glass ascended through its last few yards quite soundlessly. I felt as if I were rising like some illusionist’s assistant on a stage. I took off my goggles, and shaded my eyes with my hands.

The platform slowed to a halt, and its edge merged with the meadow of short, wiry grass which ringed it, as seamless as if it were some foundation of concrete which had been laid there. My shadow was a sharp dark patch, directly beneath me. It was noon here, of course; everywhere in the Interior, it was noon, all day and every day! The blinding sun beat down on my head and neck — I suspected I should soon get burned — but the pleasurable feel of this captive sunlight was worth the cost, at that moment.

I turned, studying the landscape.

Grass — a featureless plain of it — grass grew everywhere, all the way to the horizon — except that there was no horizon, here on this flattened-out world. I looked up, expecting to see the world curve upwards: for I was, after all, no longer glued to the outer surface of a little ball of rock like the earth, but standing on the inside of an immense, hollow shell. But there was no such optical effect; I saw only more grass, and perhaps some clumps of trees or bushes, far in the distance. The sky was a blue-tinged plain of high, light cloud, which merged with the land at a flat seam of mist and dust.

“I feel as if I’m standing on some immense table-top,” I said to Nebogipfel. “I thought it would be like some huge bowl of landscape. What a paradox it is that I cannot tell if I am inside a great Sphere, or on the outside of a gigantic planet!”

“There are ways to tell,” Nebogipfel replied from beneath his parasol. “Look up.”

I craned my neck backwards. At first I could see only the sky and the sun — it could have been any sky of earth. Then, gradually, I began to make out something beyond the clouds. It was that blotchiness of texture about the sky which I had observed as we ascended, and attributed to some defect of the goggles. The blotches were something like a distant water-coloring, done in blue and gray and green, but finely detailed, so that the largest of the patches was dwarfed by the tiniest scrap of cloud. It looked rather like a map — or several maps, jammed up together and viewed from a great distance.

And it was that analogy which led me to the truth.

“It is the far side of the Sphere, beyond the sun… I suppose the colors I can see are oceans, and continents, and mountain ranges and prairies — perhaps even cities!” It was a remarkable sight — as if the rocky coats of thousands of flayed earths had been hung up like so many rabbit furs. There was no sense of curvature, such was the immense scale of the Sphere. Rather, it was as if I was sandwiched between layers, between this flattened prairie of grass and the lid of textured sky, with the sun suspended like a lantern in between — and with the depths of space a mere mile or two beneath my feet!

“Remember that when you look at the Interior’s far side you are looking across the width of the orbit of Venus,” Nebogipfel cautioned me. “From such a distance, the earth itself would be reduced to a mere point of light. Many of the topographic features here are built on a much larger scale than the earth itself.”

“There must be oceans that could swallow the earth!” I mused. “I suppose that the geological forces in a structure like this are—”

“There is no geology here,” Nebogipfel cut in. “The Interior, and its landscapes, is artificial. Everything you see was, in essence, designed to be as it is — and it is maintained that way, quite consciously.” He seemed unusually reflective. “Much is different in this History, from that other you have described. But some things are constant: this is a world of perpetual day — in contrast to my own world, of night. We have indeed split into species of extremes, of Dark and Light, just as in that other History.”

Nebogipfel led me now to the edge of our glass disc. He stayed on the platform, his parasol cocked over his head; but I stepped boldly out onto the surrounding grass. The ground was hard under my feet, but I was pleased to have the sensation of a different surface beneath me, after days of that bland, yielding Floor. Though short, the grass was tough, wiry stuff, of the kind commonly encountered close to sea shores; and when I reached down and dug my fingers into the ground, I found that the soil was quite sandy and dry. I unearthed one small beetle, there in the row of little pits I had dug with my fingers; it scuttled out of sight, deeper into the sand.

A breeze hissed across the grass. There was no bird song, I noticed; I heard no animal’s call.

“The soil’s none too rich,” I called back to Nebogipfel.

“No,” he said. “But the” — a liquid word I could not recognize — “is recovering.”

“What did you say?”

“I mean the complex of plants and insects and animals which function together, interdependent. It is only forty thousand years since the war.”

“What war?”

Now Nebogipfel shrugged — his shoulders lurched, causing his body hair to rustle — a gesture he could only have copied from me! “Who knows? Its causes are forgotten, the combatants — the nations and their children — all dead.”

“You told me there was no warfare here,” I accused him.

“Not among the Morlocks,” he said. “But within the Interior… This one was very destructive. Great bombs fell. The land here was destroyed — all life obliterated.”

“But surely the plants, the smaller animals—”

“Everything. You do not understand. Everything died, save the grass and the insects, across a million square miles. And it is only now that the land has become safe.”

“Nebogipfel, what kind of people live here? Are they like me?”

He paused. “Some mimic your archaic variant. But there are even some older forms; I know of a colony of reconstructed Neandertalers, who have reinvented the religions of that vanished folk… And there are some who have developed beyond you: who diverge from you as much as I do, though in different ways. The Sphere is large. If you wish I will take you to a colony of those who approximate your own kind…”

“Oh — I’m not sure what I want!” I said. “I think I’m overwhelmed by this place, this world of worlds, Nebogipfel. I want to see what I can make of it all, before I choose where I will spend my life. Can you understand that?”

He did not debate the proposal; he seemed eager to get out of the sunlight. “Very well. When you wish to see me again, return to the platform and call my name.”

And so began my solitary sojourn in the Interior of the Sphere.

In that world of perpetual noon there was no cycle of days and nights to count the passage of time. However, I had my pocket watch: the time it displayed was, of course, meaningless, thanks to my transfers across time and space; but it served to map out twenty-four-hour periods.

Nebogipfel had evoked a shelter from the platform — a plain, square but with one small window and a door of the dilating kind I have described before. He left me a tray of food and water, and showed me how I could obtain more: I would push the tray back into the surface of the platform — this was an odd sensation — and after a few seconds a new tray would rise out of the surface, fully laden. This unnatural process made me queasy, but I had no other source of food, and I mastered my qualms. Nebogipfel also demonstrated how to push objects into the platform to have them cleaned, as he cleansed even his own fingers. I used this feature to clean my clothes and boots — although my trousers were returned without a crease! — but I could never bring myself to insert a part of my body in this way. The thought of pushing a hand or foot — or worse, my face — into that bland surface was more than I could bear, and I continued to wash in water.