Momentarily there was very little movement to the room. Only the rhythmic sway of Polter's breathing and an occasional jolt as he shifted his position. The floor was tilted at a sharp angle. Babs came toward the couch, pulling herself along the wall railing.
I called softly, "Babs! Babs, dear!"
She stopped. I called again, "Babs! Don't cry out! It's George! Here—stand still!"
She gave a little cry. "George—where are you? I don't—"
I slid out from my concealment and stood up, holding to the railing.
"Babs, dear."
Blessed normality of size! She cried again, "George! You! George, dear—"
She edged along the railing, a step or two down the tilting floor, then released her hold and flung herself into my waiting arms.
