Radcliffe nodded. "I can sense everything except colors. Everything seems black, white and gray to me." He paused wearily. "Otherwise, there's no difference. No one else knew about it. Not even my wife." Keller nodded. "Now, let's try it again. Concentrate on the moment when you entered here and saw me for the first time." He flashed a thought to Sally. **Those Creatures were his fear of the unknown. He's got a lot of fright in there. Probably afraid that the killer would jump out at him from some shadowy corner. I don't quite see how he could visualize different colors, having never seen them before--but that's probably my interpretation of them. Here goes.** The image: Heat. Light. The teddy bear rising up again. Fear. THE MAN WHO FLEW. The snake again--coiling--striking--missing. Fleeing. Dying. Melting walls. Voices around him--laughing--shrieking. Colors of the rainbow. The creature dying--dead--dissolving. No more.... Voices again. Talking to him. Telling him--what? His life flashing before him--stopping. His brain--_undressing_? Hole in the air at--the desk? Fear. THE MAN WHO FLEW. Fear-terror-hate-revenge ... determination.... **Sally? Did you catch all that mess?** **Unfortunately.** **Something's wrong, Sally. I should be seeing something akin to the actual events through his eyes. Instead all I get is this meaningless stuff--unless--oh, God, now I see!** Pause. **I wonder who the Man Who Flew is?** **You've got me. And how about the dissolving creature?** **That shows his confidence in having someone to tell his story to. All his unknown fear is vanishing.** **And then there's the hole in the air.** **Yeah. I think I'll surface again, and try some straight questions on him.** * * * * * "Radcliffe," began Keller, "you haven't reported this to the police, have you?" Radcliffe grinned. "Hardly. That would start the biggest scandal in years. I want it kept quiet until we found out who killed her." "Well, we've ruled out accidental murder. You found no handgun in the room when you searched it?" "No firearm of any kind." Keller nodded. He let his mind drift back over four years-- To a time when he was in love with Mildred Simmons and had proposed to her ... and she had rejected him, saying she loved Harold Radcliffe. He had walked away, a bitter man. She had had many enemies, he mused, and almost as many friends. He did not know of anyone who knew her who was not either violently for or violently against her and all that she stood for. He looked up. "How old was your wife when she died?" "Thirty-one. Two years younger than I am." "Do you know of anyone who would want to kill her?" It was a routine question, but to Keller it was very important. "No. I knew many people who disliked her intensely--I'm not denying that--but not to the point of murder. Of course, she wasn't around me half the time. I might not know."