I could sense a battle, but the young man turned the
jewel to the palm side of his fingers; he shook his head.
The Rhamda drew up. For a moment he waited. Was it for surrender?
Once he started to speak, but was cut short by the other. For all
of his weakness there was spirit to the young man. He even
laughed. The Rhamda drew out a watch. He held up two fingers. I
heard Hobart mumble.
"Two minutes. Well, I'm betting on the young one. Too much soul.
He's not dead; just weary."
He was right. At exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the Rhamda
closed his watch. He spoke something. Again the young man laughed.
He lit a cigarette; from the flicker and jerk of the flame he was
trembling. But he was still emphatic. The other rose from the
table, walked down the aisle and out of the building. The youth
spread out both arms and dropped his head upon the table.
It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I
exchanged glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us
both back to the Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the
young man with the life sapped out? I had a recollection of a face
strangely familiar. Hobart interrupted my thoughts.
"I'd give just about one leg for the gist of that conversation.
That was the Rhamda; but who is the other ghost?"
"Do you think it has to do with the Blind Spot?"
"I don't think," averred Hobart.
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