Dr. Wallace Fincher stood there by his bed. It was Fincher—the same stocky round-faced man with the steel-rimmed glasses he had always known. It was either Fincher or the darndest hallucination he had ever ...
"I'm sorry, Lyman," said Dr. Fincher in a kindly but impersonal voice. "You were getting a trifle too close. I'm afraid you have left me no choice."
He pointed a little silvery tube at Professor Dane and there was a soft buzzing and the smell of ozone and Professor Dane was no longer in the room—or anywhere else.
Dr. Fincher sighed, adjusted his glasses and faded into the dimension that would take him back to Los Angeles and his interrupted work.
Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe Aug-Sept 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.