The Swami seemed to become aware that somehow he was not holding his audience spellbound.
"Wait!" he commanded urgently; then he announced in awe-stricken tones, "I feel a presence!"
There was a tentative, half-hearted rattle of some castanets—which could have been managed by the Swami wiggling one knee, if he happened to have them concealed there. This was followed by the thin squawk of a bugle—which could have been accomplished by sitting over toward one side and squashing the air out of a rubber bulb attached to a ten-cent party horn taped to his thigh.
Then there was nothing. Apparently his guides had made a tentative appearance and were, understandably, completely intimidated by Old Stone Face. We sat for another five minutes.
"Harrumph!" Henry cleared his throat again, this time louder and more commanding.
"That is all," the Swami said in a faint, exhausted voice. "I have returned to you on your material plane."
The handholding broke up in the way bits of metal, suddenly charged positive and negative, would fly apart. I leaned back again and snapped on the white lights. We all sat there a few seconds, blinking in what seemed a sudden glare.
The Swami sat with his chin dropped down to his chest. Then he raised stricken, liquid eyes.
"Oh, now I remember where I am," he said. "What happened? I never know."