"Point oh-oh-oh-five, friend. Or thereabout—"
And the light changed. Slid swiftly down the wavelengths again to that hue most favorable. The figure appeared, this time firm, unwavering. It was the face and figure of a man remarkably like Hank Cleaver himself; a young man, serious-eyed, hopeful of voice.
"Cleaver?" he cried. "You Cleaver?"
Hank nodded. "Mmm-hmm. I'm him."
"Come!" said the young man. "Come, Hank Cleaver."
He held out his hand. And Hank stepped forward into the blaze of pallid, green-blue light.
Which was just one too many for Helen MacDowell. A tiny groan escaped her lips. She tottered, pitched forward to Hank's shoulder. Hank turned worried eyes to me.
"Grab her, Jim! Get her back before—"
And I, too, leaped forward. I got my hands on Helen, started to pull her from that color-field. I was aware of the distant throbbing of some unknown machine, then of a swift, sudden shock. Great forces wrenched at my body. I felt as if I were being racked in a titanic tug-o'-war. There was an instant of frightful cold, another of giddy nausea, a sensation of wild, hurtling motion.
Then blackness, soft, warm and impenetrable....