"No," Fleetwood said with a wry smile. "I'm out of your mind. Besides, you dwell too much on insanity. That's morbid in a fellow your age." Dermitt said something under his breath, but Fleetwood didn't hear it. "Now just sit down and write the next line as it comes to you. And watch me, too, while you do it. I think we may both learn something interesting."
Dermitt sighed deeply and seated himself before the typewriter. "Oh, well," he sighed, "what have I got to lose now?" His face however held the expression of a man who was on the verge of losing everything; he was whistling in the dark. He turned to the typewriter and pressed a trembling hand to his left temple.
"Just one line, though," Fleetwood cautioned him. "No more than that."
"The way I'm feeling," Dermitt muttered, "I'll be lucky to do that much." He lowered his uncertain fingers to the keys and began to type:
Through the cushiony darkness that engulfed him, a voice called out to Fleetwood with metallic shrillness ... (At the very first tap of the keys, Fleetwood felt himself falling into black unconsciousness. He smiled with satisfaction and let it happen.) ... like a silver cord plucked by a skeletal hand.
Fleetwood awoke slowly as the keys stopped tapping and the room grew still. He was still seated in the chair. He stretched himself and glanced across at Dermitt, whose eyes were now even larger than his glasses. The little man, lost in sputtering inarticulation, merely pointed at Fleetwood.
"You ... you ... you!" he managed finally. "You faded! Right in front of my eyes, you vanished!" He quivered emotionally. "Oh, my God!" He boosted himself unsteadily away from the desk and out of the chair. He came tottering across the room toward Fleetwood. "Wha ... what happened?"
Fleetwood shrugged. "It's perfectly plain, isn't it? You transferred me to paper."
"Then you are!"