She could see him standing there, smiling, reaching for her hand, but there was an invisible barrier between them. Then, slowly, his room began to fade, the light dimmed, his figure grew watery, transparent, vanished. She was standing, staring at the riveted steel bulkhead of a compartment which was lit only by the dim light filtering through the thick glass over the transom. She stood there frozen, and the ice in the glasses tinkled nervously. Then the tray slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Icy liquid splashed the silver sandals. In the silent gloom she stood immobile, her eyes wide in her white face, her fist pressed to her mouth, stifling a scream. Something touched her gently at head and wrist and ankle--all over her body. The web clung, delicate as lace, strong as steel. Even if she had been able to move, she could not have broken free as the thing against the wall began to clamber down the strands on eight furred legs. "Hello, butterfly," he said again. --KENNETH HARMON Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ February 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Passenger, by Kenneth Harmon