"Damn it, Jonathan. What the hell's the matter with me? I'm jealous, boy. If I were in your boots, I'd kick the ribs out of any old codger that tried to talk me out of the greatest experience in the history of mankind!"
Jonathan put his big hand on the other's shoulder and squeezed it, hard. The Chief took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
"Let's go," he said hoarsely. "There's no sense in hanging around here any longer. Not when you can go—where you're going."
It was a Saturday afternoon. There was no one in the great quadrangle between the buildings. They walked along a path, smoking their farewells together; headed toward the quad.
Jonathan stepped onto the lawn. He bent and undressed, and handed his clothes and shoes to Dr. Wooden.
"I left a letter for you," he said. "And a power of attorney. I don't know when I'll be back. Or—whether."
Jonathan turned, stood erect; sunlight glinted on the white tones of his flesh, shading the ribs and the ridges of muscle on arms and legs, on shoulder and belly. He lifted his arms, and his face grew hard with his effort at concentration.
Watching, Dr. Wooden smothered a curse. Before his eyes the form of Jonathan Morgan was expanding, growing. Its substance swelled and rippled outward in a vast cloud of tiny motes of matter shimmering and glittering with opalescent hues.
"He's turned his structure into gas," he muttered.
The gas that was a man swept upward and onward with the speed of thought itself.