"All right, Raymond." She gestured to the light-loop's glowing, door-like frame. "Go through."
"Go through—?"
"Yes. Ahead of me. I'll follow."
"No." Horning put flat finality into his voice. "You don't understand what that frame is for, Myrtle—what lies on the other side—"
"Don't tell me what I don't understand!" For an instant the old stridency rang in Myrtle's words. "I've read those things you wrote—remember? Your notes, too. I know what I'm doing!" She thrust the pistol forward. "Go on! Go through!"
Once again, Horning studied his wife's face, to no avail. He made a wry mouth. Then, turning, he walked up the ramp, and stepped through the light-loop's pulsating, tube-laden frame.
The silver plain stretched endlessly before him ... infinitely vast, infinitely lonely.
Horning shivered a little and swung about.
A bulky figure loomed close at hand, framed in the light-loop's glow. A moment later, Myrtle was beside him, staring across the shimmering wastes wide-eyed. She cringed before the immensity and desolation of it, knuckles white, face slack and waxy grey. Horning could almost taste her fear.
He prodded her: "What now?"