Again he gasped, and now in a voice of human-labored accents. "Put me—down. Now—try it, Bee."
We lowered him. The mattress held him. At once he sank back to full length, exhausted, distressed—but uninjured. Bee gave him a restorative to drink. He took it gratefully; and now, quite of human aspect once more, he lay quiet, resting.
Bee's arms went down to him. "Will, you must go to sleep now—then you can tell us—"
"Sleep!" He sat up so abruptly it was startling; more strength had already come to him than I had realized. "Sleep!" He mocked the word; his gaze with feverish intensity alternated between us.
"Bee—Rob, this is no time for talk.... No, I'm all right—quite recovered. Listen to me, both of you. What I have been through—seen, felt—you could never understand unless you experienced it. No time for talk—I must go back!"
A wildness had come to him, but I could see that he was wholly rational for all that; a wildness, born of the ordeal through which he had passed.
"I must go back, at once. The danger impending to our world here—is real—far worse than we had feared. Impending momentarily—I had feared it—but now I know. And I must go back. With you—I want you two with me. You'll go, Bee. Rob, will you go? Will you, Rob?"
A sudden calmness had fallen upon Bee. "I'll go of course," she said quietly.
"Yes, of course. And you, Rob? Will you go with us? We need you."
Would I go? Into the unnameable, the shadows of unthought, unseen realms, to encounter—what? A rush of human fear surged over me; a trembling; a revulsion; a desire to escape, to ward off this horror crowded thus upon me. Would I go? I heard my own voice say strangely: