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           Hehadseenitinthenastybrittleglobuleinthataërolitetwosummersago,hadseenitinthecrazyvegetationofthespringtime,andhadthoughthehadseenitforaninstantthatverymorningagainstthesmallbarredwindowofthatterribleatticroomwherenamelessthingshadhappened.Ithadflashedthereasecond,andaclammyandhatefulcurrentofvapourhadbrushedpasthim—andthenpoorNahumhadbeentakenbysomethingofthatcolour.Hehadsaidsoatthelast—saiditwastheglobuleandtheplants.Afterthathadcometherunawayintheyardandthesplashinthewell—andnowthatwellwasbelchingforthtothenightapaleinsidiousbeamofthesamedaemoniactint.

           ItdoescredittothealertnessofAmmi’smindthathepuzzledevenatthattensemomentoverapointwhichwasessentiallyscientific.Hecouldnotbutwonderathisgleaningofthesameimpressionfromavapourglimpsedinthedaytime,againstawindowopeningonthemorningsky,andfromanocturnalexhalationseenasaphosphorescentmistagainsttheblackandblastedlandscape.Itwasn’tright—itwasagainstNature—andhethoughtofthoseterriblelastwordsofhisstrickenfriend,“Itcomefromsomeplacewharthingsain’tastheyishere...oneo’themprofessorssaidso....”

           Allthreehorsesoutside,tiedtoapairofshrivelledsaplingsbytheroad,werenowneighingandpawingfrantically.Thewagondriverstartedforthedoortodosomething,butAmmilaidashakyhandonhisshoulder.“Dun’tgooutthar,”hewhispered.“They’smoretothisnorwhatweknow.