"Quite ready, Will." She was counting out a number of the tiny pellets with hands untrembling. The woman in Bee was put aside; she stood there a scientist's assistant, cool, precise, efficient.
"I think I should like less light," he said; and he turned off all the globes but one. It left the room in a flat, dull illumination. He took a last glance around. The window sashes were up, but the shades were lowered. A gentle breeze from outside fluttered one of them a trifle. Across the room the spectre, brighter now, stood immobile. The clock marked one minute of ten.
"Good," said Will. He seated himself cross-legged in the center of the mattress. In an agony of confusion and helplessness I stood watching while Bee attached the four wires to the garment he wore. One on each of his upper arms, and about his thighs where the short trunks ended.
Again I stammered, "Will, is this—is this all you're going to tell us?"
He nodded. "All there is of importance.... A little tighter, Bee. That's it—we must have a good contact."
"I mean," I persisted, "when you are—are shadow, will we be able to see you?"
He gestured. "As you can see that thing over there, yes."
His very words seemed unavoidably horrid. Soon he would be—a thing, no more.
"Shall you stay here, Will, where we can see you?"
He answered very soberly, "I do not know. That, and many other things, I do not know. I will do my best to meet what comes."