Inwardly, Farris agreed. Whatever the lure of the unknown world that Berreau had entered by that change in life-tempo, it had caught him beyond all redemption.
A chill swept Farris when he thought of it — men out there, living at the same tempo as plants, stepping clear out of the plane of animal life to a strangely different kind of life and world.
The bungalow was oppressively silent that day — the servants gone, Berreau sulking in his laboratory, Lys moving about with misery in her eyes.
But Berreau didn’t try to go out, though Farris had been expecting that and had been prepared for a clash. And by evening, Berreau seemed to have got over his sulks. He helped prepare dinner.
He was almost gay, at the meal — a febrile good humor that Farris didn’t quite like. By common consent, none of the three spoke of what was uppermost in their minds.
Berreau retired, and Farris told Lys, “Go to bed — you’ve lost so much sleep lately you’re half asleep now I’ll keep watch.”
In his own room, Farris found drowsiness assailing him too. He sank back in a chair, fighting the heaviness that weighed down his eyelids.
Then, suddenly, he understood. “Drugged!” he exclaimed, and found his voice little more than a whisper. “Something in the dinner!”
“Yes,” said a remote voice. “Yes, Farris.”
Berreau had come in. He loomed gigantic to Farris’ blurred eyes. He came closer, and Farris saw in his hand a needle that dripped sticky green.