And then, as the officer's eyes grew wider and more frightened, she slowly faded away....
Back at the old house, Cecil watched with satisfaction as Marc sagged limply in his chair. He withdrew the hypodermic from Marc's arm and turned to Gerald.
"Okay," he said, "let's go to work on him."
CHAPTER XII
Within the old house there was little evidence of the morning outside. Mr. Adams had boarded over the windows and now the daylight shone through only at the openings of the turrets where the tracks of the catapults reached for the sky. Even these openings, however, had heavy metal shutters which could be closed against bad weather.
For the moment everything was quiet. The Blemishes were settled at a small table, poring over several sheets of paper. George slumbered loudly on his scaffolding, while below him Marc drooped limply in his chair, held there only by virtue of the chains about his shoulders.
Then, as the patches of day at the turret openings grew lighter, Marc stirred. As he sat up, the chains made a small rattling sound. The Blemishes glanced up sharply from their studies.
Painfully, Marc lifted his head and looked out at the world around him with dulled eyes. A blurred vision of Toffee instantly swam into view. She seemed to be holding a newspaper in her hand.
"There, you see!" Cecil told Gerald. "I was right. She's a thought creation."