"Maybe I am," Bryan grunted. And he grinned wryly at the element of truth in his retort.
Joyce was solemn, probing. "Terry, I heard what happened in the park last night. One of our fellow wage slaves is posted at Headquarters, you know. And from what he told me, I gather you were mixed up in something with a spook angle. But, Terry, it seems the police have the quaint idea you didn't give them the whole story."
He shook his head. "I'm not ready for the booby-hatch just yet."
"Then you didn't tell the whole story." She leaned forward, her face eager. "I'm dying with curiosity over what really happened, Terry. Want to tell me—or are you saving it for your memoirs?"
He lighted a fresh cigarette, considering. Joyce was an understanding person, he knew. And she had imagination. She could be trusted not to misinterpret the fantastic nature of his experience.
Speaking low-voiced, he told her of Leeta's arrival at the park, of the attack on the other man and himself by the grotesque and somehow unsubstantial mosquito-men, of the complete paralysis that had resulted.
Joyce broke in, "But, Terry, if the things weren't solid, how could they possibly have affected you?"
"I've been trying to figure out that angle," he said. "I think they were energy projections of some kind and were able to use this energy to stun their victims. It should work both ways—that is, some forms of energy from our end should be able to affect them, too."
He went on to describe the crystal globe and the use Leeta had made of it. Finally he mentioned his dream and his telephone call to the hospital.
Joyce looked shaken. "It ... it's gruesome, Terry. If anyone else had told me those things, I'd have said they were plain crazy." She hesitated. "This girl with the strange way of making men friends, what was she like?"