Then the scene changed to an overhead shot of Cincinnati. Taken by helicopter, the scene was an angle shot down across Fountain Square towards the river. In the cinema such shots do not seem bizarre, but in solid, the street with its teeming cars and pedestrians was tilted at an angle: the angle between street and camera remained as it was, and the camera, of course, became the projector which was in the back of the theater. The "eye" zoomed down and the street grew in size until the fountain that gave the Square its name was in plain view. It seemed incongruous that the water in the fountain came out at an odd angle to gravity and fell back at another odd angle, yet this was not a running reproduction of Fountain Square but a swift series of instantaneous reproductions and the droplets of water like everything else was replaced in whatever relative position it was, regardless of the facts of true gravity. The scene tilted flat, finally, and traveled along the street on the level until the principal character was approached, whereupon the action began. The camera followed Jack Vanders into a bar where he met Martha Evers and ordered the Manhattan that was to become Gargantuan in size-- * * * * * Jenny Foster put her face up for a good night kiss, and then shoved her apartment door open as Tim turned to leave. Inside, the living room light was on, and Jenny instantly called Tim back. "Someone," she said, pointing to the lights. "O.K." he said, entering before her. Sprawled in Jenny's easy-chair was-- "Foster!" "Who--me?" asked Foster in surprise. "Foster's dead." "Can it," snapped Woodart. "And talk!" "Or else?" drawled Foster indolently. "Or else," snarled Woodart. "Or else what?" Tim went to the telephone and dialed the number of the police force. "Don't bother," said Harry Foster. "I'm ... Foster, that is, is dead." Tim replaced the telephone. "What's the gag?" he demanded. "I," said Foster hollowly, "am a ghost returned to plague mine unfaithful wife." "The hereafter is going to have a moaning ghost with a shanty on its eye," said Woodart ominously. "Unfaithful wife my foot. If ever she--" "Now that's been the big bone of contention," smiled Foster. "Foster gave her no grounds, and she was too good to give me any. And Foster gave her none because it is still impossible to have a wife testify against her husband." "Very sly of you." "Of Foster." "You're Foster!" "Me? No. Foster's dead." Jenny gave a weak cry of despair. "What do you want?" she asked. "How much have you got?" asked Foster pointedly. "Blackmail," snarled Woodart. "Why no. Not at all." "You name it." "It need have no name. You see, Woodart, I've learned that I no longer need the protection of the legality that prevents a wife from testifying against her husband. Her husband is dead." "So?" "Well, it isn't blackmail to perform a service for someone." "Meaning?" "Divorce comes high," explained Foster pointedly.