No answer. Only the humming.
The door at the end of the room opened. A strange man came through it. He wore a short toga-like garment of gray, metallic cloth belted at the waist by something that glittered and shimmered through every color of the spectrum. An aura of coldness and power emanated from him—a sense of untouchable hauteur.
He glanced around the room, spoke in the same tongue the Rushes had used.
Ted Graham said, "I don't understand you, mister."
The man put a hand to his flickering belt. Both Ted and Martha Graham felt themselves rooted to the floor, a tingling sensation vibrating along every nerve.
Again the strange language rolled from the man's tongue, but now the words were understood.
"Who are you?"
"My name's Graham. This is my wife. What's going—"
"How did you get here?"