"Rob, I'm ready. Bee knows exactly what we are to do. I want you to know also, for upon the actions of you two, in a measure depends my life. I shall sit here on the mattress. Perhaps, if I am more distressed than I anticipate, I shall lie down. Bee will have charge of the current. There will come a point in my departure when you must turn off the current, disconnect the wires from me. If I am able, I will tell you, or sign to you when that point is reached. If not--well then, you must use your own judgment." "But I--I have no idea--" I stammered. Suddenly I was trembling. The responsibility thrust thus upon me seemed at that moment unbearable. "Bee has," he interrupted quietly. "In general I should say you must disconnect when I have reached the point where I am--" He halted as though in doubt how to phrase it--"the point where I am half substance, half shadow." To my mind came a mental picture which then seemed very horrible; but resolutely I put it from me. "You're ready, Bee?" he asked. "Quite ready, Will." She was counting out a number of the tiny pellets with hands untrembling. The woman in Bee was put aside; she stood there a scientist's assistant, cool, precise, efficient. "I think I should like less light," he said; and he turned off all the globes but one. It left the room in a flat, dull illumination. He took a last glance around. The window sashes were up, but the shades were lowered. A gentle breeze from outside fluttered one of them a trifle. Across the room the spectre, brighter now, stood immobile. The clock marked one minute of ten. "Good," said Will. He seated himself cross-legged in the center of the mattress. In an agony of confusion and helplessness I stood watching while Bee attached the four wires to the garment he wore. One on each of his upper arms, and about his thighs where the short trunks ended. Again I stammered, "Will, is this--is this all you're going to tell us?" He nodded. "All there is of importance.... A little tighter, Bee. That's it--we must have a good contact." "I mean," I persisted, "when you are--are shadow, will we be able to see you?" He gestured. "As you can see that thing over there, yes." His very words seemed unavoidably horrid. Soon he would be--a thing, no more. "Shall you stay here, Will, where we can see you?" He answered very soberly, "I do not know. That, and many other things, I do not know. I will do my best to meet what comes." "But you'll come back here--here to this room, I mean?" "Yes--that is my intention. You are to wait here, in those chairs. One of you always awake, you understand--for I will need you, in the coming back." * * * * *