Curt Newton followed him, into the blue-green light. And all consciousness left him.
He found himself standing upright with Grag’s great arm around him. It was as though his body was encased in lead now, his senses muffled, the very life in him dimmed.
Otho was shouting at him. Grag’s voice boomed in his ear. “Curt, you got back! And you brought him —”
Simon Wright’s metallic cry cut across their excited babble. “Carlin Newton swung around. Philip Carlin had recovered consciousness. He stood, swaying, in the center of the chamber. He was not looking at them. He was looking down at his own body, slowly raising his own arms and staring at them.
And in his face was such white misery as Newton had seen on no man’s face before.
“I can’t”, whispered Carlin, his voice rusty, croaking. “I can’t be like this again, prisoned in leaden flesh. No!” With the word he moved with clumsy reeling swiftness toward the tall golden-shining coils of the other converter.
Newton sprang shakily to intercept him but his own legs buckled and he went to his knee.
“Carlin, wait!”
The scientist turned a face transfigured by agony of resolve. “You weren’t there as long as I, Curt. You don’t know why I have to go back to that other life, that real life.
“But you’ll understand at least. You’ll remember and maybe you too some day — crust. Curt Newton sat at the controls. He who had ridden the Beam before, free and unfettered, now maneuvered the man-made ship along that pathway. His face was harsh with strain and in his eyes was something strange and haunted.