"If we were riveting, now, we could slip in our rivet and pull the trigger. Follow?"
"I follow, but where's the missing piece? What holds it that way?"
"The missing piece is coming," said Ben, retrieving his instrument and sitting down.
"I ... ah—" started Joe Simpkins, and then taking Peter Wright's arm in a viselike grip, pointed dramatically to his office door. "The wind," he gasped.
Wright shook his head. It was far too much for him. He was strictly out of his element, and struggling madly to keep up. The door, he saw, was swinging shut, propelled by the wind. He recalled what they had said at the portal upon entry, something about the door should be open. With a shout and a leap, Peter raced for the door.
It slammed, and Peter grabbed for the knob.
Then the glass erupted in his face; in shards it fell to the floor, and a metal piece came soaring through the air, through the glass, and circled the room. Peter's jaw was slack as he watched it flying about with no apparent plan. It poised for a minute before his chair, where Ben had held up the blindy riveter for his inspection. In Peter's imagination, he saw himself sitting there, passing his ghostly fingers through the spot where that piece of steel now hung immobile. It headed for the closet, and Ben, watching, opened the door wide. The piece slid in, moved this way and that, rapped forward against nothing and then rapped backwards toward the room—against nothing, and then floated rapidly toward the riveter itself.
With precision it approached the riveter. It came to rest easily, slipping into place with no shock, and the cleavage lines disappeared. The blindy was complete again.
"See?" said Simpkins.