"Would you mind, sir," asked Mr. Chisholm, not knowing any better way to address a demon, "telling me what this is all about? And after this monkey business is over, when do I get my trial?" "Trial?" The demon laughed. "In one sense you have had your trial. This is the result. In another sense, this is your trial. In either case, the verdict is already found and the sentence fixed." "I don't get you," said Mr. Chisholm. "Who are all these ... er ... spooks? And what have they got to do with me? They look like a flock of comic Valentines." "They have plenty to do with you. They _are_ you." "Me! You're crazy. I'm me." He struck himself on the chest. "No. You are only one aspect of you," corrected the demon. "You are a ghost now, and nothing more. Ghosts are intangible, immaterial things--made of dream stuff, as your poets say. What you call you is your own estimate of you. These creatures flocking up onto the stage are other people's estimates of you. _You_--the you that we recognize--is the composite of them all. Stick around. You are going to learn something." * * * * * Chisholm turned his gaze back at the oncoming file of shades. They were ghastly cartoons of himself, and malicious ones at that. Many of them were unintelligible. "Hey," he said, "what's that thing coming up--that slender wisp of smoke with the lumpy feet? If that is a conception of me, the guy that thought it up has gone surrealistic." The demon looked. "Oh, that. Yes, it's weak. It is offered by a fellow named Percy Hilyer. He roomed with you at school and has almost forgotten you. He does remember that you were lean and lanky then and used to swipe his socks and wear holes in them." "That's a hell of a thing to hold against a guy," complained Chisholm. The demon shrugged. "That is the way reputations are made. How do you like this one?" "This one" was the rambunctious shade who had tried to take charge of the meeting at the outset. He was egregiously repulsive. "That," announced the demon blandly, "is the contribution of one Maizie Delmar. Judging from its robustness and solidity, she knew you recently and well." Chisholm's jaw had dropped and his eyes bulged. The thing was incredible. Not Maizie's. Maizie was regular; dumb, maybe, but they got along. "I take it Maizie was the tactful sort," remarked the demon with a sly drawl, noting the amazement on Chisholm's loose face. Then, "Here comes one that might suit you better." It was a fat, squally baby, drooling and flapping its pudgy arms. "One of your mother's contributions. Her favorite of many. You might admire some, but they are all on the helpless side--not at all in keeping with your hardboiled idea of the way to do things."