“Exactly. Phenomena! Watson was right. I just wonder--but the bell? Remember the doctor? 'The greatest day since Columbus.' No, don't cross the room, Harry, I'm a bit leery: A great discovery! I should say it was. How do you account for it?” “Supernatural.” Fenton shook his head. “By no means! It's the gateway to the universe--into Cosmos.” His eyes sparkled. “My Lord, Harry! Don't you see! Once we control it. The Blind Spot! What is beyond? We saw Chick Watson go. Before our eyes. Where did he go to? It beats death itself.” I started across the room, but Hobart caught me with both arms: “No, no, no, Harry. My Lord! I don't want to lose you. No! You foolhardly little cuss--stand back!” He threw me violently against the wall. The impact quite took my breath. On the instant the old rush of temper surged up in me. From boyhood we had these moments. Hobart settled himself and awaited the rush that he knew was coming. In his great, calm, brute strength there was still a greatness of love. “Harry,” he was saying, “for the love of Heaven, listen to reason! Have we got to have a knock-down and drag-out on this of all nights? Have I got to lick you again? Do you want to roll into the Blind Spot?” Why did God curse me with such a temper? On such moments as this I could feel something within me snapping. It was fury and unreason. How I loved him! And yet we had fought a thousand times over just such provocation. Over his shoulders I could see the still open door that led into the street. A heavy form was looming through the opening; out of the corner of my eye I caught the lines of the form stepping out of the shadows--it crossed the room and stood beside Hobart Fenton. It was Rhamda Avec! I leaped. The fury of a thousand conflicts--and the exultation. For the glory of such moments it is well worth dying. One minute flying through the air--the old catapult tackle--and the next a crashing of bone and sinew. We rolled over, head on, and across the floor. Curses and execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart: “Hold him, Harry! Hold him! That's the way! Hold him! Hold him!” We went crashing about the room. He was the slipperiest thing I had ever laid hold of. But he was bone--bone and sinew; he was a man! I remember the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery. It was battle! And death! The table went over, we went spinning against the wall, a crash of falling bookcases, books and broken glass, a scurry and a flying heap of legs and arms. He was wonderfully strong and active, like a panther. Each time I held him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and throw me out of hold. I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working for the throat. He was a man--a man! I remembered that he must never get away. He must account for Watson.