"About fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago," she replied. "We came in here and undressed and I used the bathroom first. When I came out, I found him like this."
"How's he been all the evening?"
"Fine, just as I told you when you rang. Tom and Betty Moreland came for dinner and we played canasta. Is he all right?"
"As far as I can see, yes. Heart, lungs, eyes all right, no fever. I guess we'll just have to wait till he wakes."
They went into the sitting room and Sandra left them to make coffee.
"He's living through something," Franstein said. "Pity you haven't got the recorder here."
"I thought the same. I'll get it."
Snow left and Franstein wandered back into the bedroom and leaned over Richardson. Now he was sure this was a language and that the sleeper was conversing with someone in his sleep. The expressions changed on Richardson's face rapidly as they do on the face of anyone during a conversation. At one moment he laughed as he said something, then became serious as he said something else.
Sandra came into the bedroom and joined Franstein at the bedside. "He's never been like this before," she said worriedly.
"Doesn't he ever talk in his sleep?"