Half-a-mile from where his new house was situated, he turned off the lights, and covered the remainder of the distance without their assistance. Drawing his car up close to a hedge, he gathered the limp figure on his shoulder, and tramped across the muddy ground until he came to the uprights that supported the cement vats. There was a flicker of lightning on the horizon. Yeh Ling could see in that flash (even if he had not known), that no progress had been made in the construction of his Pillar of Grateful Memories: the tub-like molds stood in place, the steel core, like an attenuated tree-trunk, leaned and swayed in the gale drunkenly. After much seeking, he found the end of a rope fastened to one of the cross pieces of the platform, and this he tied about the Thing’s waist, and went to the windlass. A growl of thunder, a more prolonged quiver and splash of blue light. Looking up, Yeh Ling saw a bundle suspended in mid-air, and took another turn of the wheel. The wind was blowing fiercely, sending that limp weight at the rope’s end swaying to and fro, and Yeh Ling peered up, striving to follow its every movement. Presently came another flash and another, and yet another. The body had swung over the edge of the mould. Yeh Ling released the primitive brake, and the body dropped. From his breast pocket he took the torch that he had found on the settee and flashed a light up at the wooden mould. Yes. The Thing had disappeared. There was a ladder against the wooden casing, and he climbed up, found another ladder inside, and descended the eight feet which intervened between the mould and the top of the hardening concrete beneath. Without loosening the rope, he dragged the body to its feet, and with quick, strong hands, lashed it to the steel core, winding the rope round and round. Presently he cut and knotted the binding, and climbed up again to the top of the wood-work, looking down in an effort to see the sagging figure. The lightning was now incessant, the thunder growing in intensity. He saw, and was satisfied. Pulling up the inside ladder, he dropped over, and in a few moments was himself back on ground level. And now he made a search. He had to find the rope which controlled the shoot, and he discovered it at last. Pulling it gingerly, he heard the rush of the viscid concrete as it flowed down the shoot into the mould. He pulled the sluice gate wider yet, and heard the “swish, swish” of the flood as it gained in volume. After a while he released the rope, found a shovel, and climbed up the ladder again. The concrete had nearly reached the top of the mould. There was no sign of Rex Lander. Plying the tool, he levelled down the uneven surface of the cement, and descended for the last time.