Flames wrapped themselves around his body, pouring sinuously around him. For a few seconds, as he stood in the center of the floor, he writhed; pure reflex; then he relaxed and gave himself up to the heady luxury of the roaring fire which clothed his body. He basked in flames.
His mind was afire, too. It feels like ... like satin ice! No, it's different. It's ... it was something new; his senses were still adjusting themselves to the new reality, and his mind contained no images with which to compare it. He didn't see or hear Fran open the door.
"MAX!"
He shook his flaming body and a few brief cinders fell away in sparks. Then, suddenly, he had snuffed out the aura of flames; he was standing nude on a smoking carpet, grinning tentatively at the girl. He swallowed and said "Hell of a time for you to show up, Fran."
She seemed to stare at him without seeing him, her face taut, without expression. He blinked, slowly coming down or up to reality again. Good God, yes, she thought he'd been burning up. The odor of the carpet—it smelled like scorching hair.
"I forgot about the carpet." He watched her glance down at it. Acrid smoke still curled away from two singed-bare patches where he'd been standing.
Slowly, Fran raised her eyes back to his. She said "Max—!"
She took one faltering step toward him; then she crumpled and swayed forward. He caught her in his arms as she fell, straining her close. The physical contact of their bodies brought him back to the level of reality again, to a complete realization of Fran's plight. He tried to make his grip as firm, as reassuring as he could—to bring her back to a world in which men were not, one minute, cloaked in streaming flame, and the next minute alive and human and—
"Max!" She straightened, "You don't have any clothes on!"
"I know. I lose more pajamas that way," he said, lightly, keeping his voice casual. "Sit down, Fran, and I'll put on a pair of pants, at least."