At last, he rested against the wall, then gently slid to a seated position. He tested his bonds again, ceased the futile struggle almost immediately.
He sat for a time, then lay back and stared at the ceiling. He thought of many things in those passing moments, thoughts of his dreams of giving scientific miracles to the world, of having his bust in the Hall of Fame, of people he had known, and things he had done.
Regret shadowed his memories, when he remembered things that he had left undone and unforgiven. Then he shrugged a bit, lay breathing quietly, waiting for the machine to return.
He felt the sensation of released forces a few seconds before the machine reappeared. He sat, drew his legs to his chest, scooted back a few feet. He waited, content, wondering just what would happen. He was smiling when the machine and its unhuman occupants whisked out of nothing into shadowy being. One glance they had of the smile on his tired face—then the very air seemed to explode with gigantic twistings and loopings of unleashed forces.
For Scientist Kelvin Martin had remembered one scientific fact from his college days. He had recalled that two material objects may not occupy the same period of space.
And sitting, bound, on the machine's platform, he had awaited the coming of the Frankensteinian monster he had created.