Something whirred deep in the recesses of Chandler's mind. "A man," he said at last. But he knew he was not.
The tall man depressed a series of buttons on a master control panel. There was a rushing in Chandler's ears, a blurring before his eyes.
The voice of the shorter man floated across a gray void.
"Clench your fingers," it said. "Blink your eyes."
The odd sensation passed and Paul Chandler found himself looking into the eyes of Marta Neilson. She half stood at the far end of the conference table.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.
"Just a moment's dizziness," he said, "It's gone now."
Marta, partially reassured, sat down again.
As Chandler poured himself a glass of water, he studied her clean features as he would a mathematical problem in topology. Add in her blue eyes and white skin, subtract her hair pulled back in a severe bun and her lack of makeup, and she approached the Swedish ideal of beauty.