Horning pivoted, then stared.
His wife now wore the other transit unit, the one by means of which
Horning's counterpart had crossed the barrier between the parallel
worlds.
"All right, Raymond." She gestured to the light-loop's glowing,
door-like frame. "Go through."
"Go _through_--?"
"Yes. Ahead of me. I'll follow."
"No." Horning put flat finality into his voice. "You don't understand
what that frame is for, Myrtle--what lies on the other side--"
"Don't tell me what I don't understand!" For an instant the old
stridency rang in Myrtle's words. "I've read those things you
wrote--remember? Your notes, too. I know what I'm doing!" She thrust
the pistol forward. "Go on! Go through!"
Once again, Horning studied his wife's face, to no avail. He made a wry
mouth. Then, turning, he walked up the ramp, and stepped through the
light-loop's pulsating, tube-laden frame.
The silver plain stretched endlessly before him ... infinitely vast,
infinitely lonely.
Horning shivered a little and swung about.
A bulky figure loomed close at hand, framed in the light-loop's glow.
A moment later, Myrtle was beside him, staring across the shimmering
wastes wide-eyed. She cringed before the immensity and desolation of
it, knuckles white, face slack and waxy grey. Horning could almost
taste her fear.