Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (295 page)

Mr.
Strenberry
shut
his
eyes,
put
his
hands
up
to
them,
and
leaned forward
on
his
elbows.
In
the
quiet
that
followed,
I
could
hear
two fellows
laughing
in
the
bar
outside.
They
were
shouting
something about
a
litter
of
pigs.

"He
was
a
lightish
greeny-blue
in
colour,
this
man,"
Mr.
Strenberry continued,
"and
the
same
all
over.
He'd
no
clothes
on,
but
I
got
the idea
that
he'd
a
very
tough
skin,
leathery,
y'know.
It
shone
a
bit
too. He'd
no
hair
on
him
at
all,
and
didn't
look
as
if
he'd
shaved
it
all
off but
as
if
he'd
never
had
any.
He
was
bigger
than
me,
bigger
than
you, but
no
giant.
I
should
say
he
was
about
the
size
and
figure
of
one
of your
big
heavyweight
boxers—except
for
his
head.
He'd
a
tremendous head—and
of
course
as
bald
as
an
egg—and
a
wonderful
face.
I
can
see it
now.
It
was
flatfish,
like
some
of
the
faces
of
the
Egyptian
statues in
the
British
Museum,
but
what
you
noticed
the
minute
you
saw
it, were
the
eyes.
They
were
more
like
a
beautiful
woman's
eyes
than
a man's,
very
big
and
soft,
y'know,
but
bigger
and
softer
than
any
woman's
eyes—and
such
a
colour,
a
kind
of
dark
purple.
Full
of
intelligence
too.
Blazing
with
it,
I
knew
that
at
once.
In
fact,
I
could
see that
this
man
was
as
far
above
me
as
I
am
above
a
Hottentot.
More highly
developed,
y'know.
I'm
not
saying
this
because
of
what
I learned
afterwards.
I
saw
it
at
once.
You
couldn't
mistake
it.
This greeny-blue
hairless
man
knew
a
million
things
we'd
never
heard
of, and
you
could
see
it
in
his
eyes.
Well,
there
he
was,
and
he
stared
at me
and
I
stared
at
him."

"Go
on,"
I
said,
for
Mr.
Strenberry
had
stopped
and
was
now
busy staring
at
me.

"This
is
the
part
you've
got
to
try
and
understand,"
he
cried,
excitedly.
"You
see,
this
queer
revolving
cylinder
of
air
was
between
us, and
if
it
had
been
glass
two
feet
thick
it
couldn't
have
separated
us any
better.
I
couldn't
get
at
him.
I
don't
say
I
tried
very
hard
at
first; I
was
too
surprised
and
frightened.
But
I
did
try
to
get
nearer
after
a minute
or
two,
but
I
couldn't,
and
I
can't
possibly
explain
to
you—no, not
if
I
tried
for
a
week—how
I
was
stopped.
Call
it
a
transparent wall,
if
you
like,
but
that
doesn't
give
you
the
idea
of
it.
Anyhow,
it doesn't
matter
about
me.
The
point
is,
he
couldn't
get
out,
and
he obviously
knew
more
about
it
than
I
did
and
he
was
trying
desperately
hard.
He'd
got
some
sort
of
little
instrument
in
each
hand—I could
see
them
flash—and
he
kept
bringing
these
together.
He
was terribly
agitated.
But
he
couldn't
get
out.
He'd
stopped
the
inside
of this
column
revolving,
as
I
said,
but
apparently
he
couldn't
stop
the outside,
which
was
whirling
and
whirling
just
as
fast
as
ever.