to light it again he could not. He set the book on his lap and began reading.
And then a draft of wind, small, almost imperceptible, fingered the pages. It turned them idly, thoughtfully, one by one. Over and over and over. Colt watched it work its will with the pages, stiffened and hypnotized. His fingers jerked. He seized the book and dashed it to the hearth, cursing.
The wind mocked him, tenderly stroking his brow with a slim finger.
Colt flung himself into the hall, tore down a huge drapery, jammed it against the door, under which the draft came hissing and laughing.
"I'll throttle you—I'll stop your tongue!"
And then, tired: "Go away, damn you." Weakly. "Go away. Let a mortal live."
A grinding noise. Something crackled like thick dry bones. A pause. A rustling, thumping terrific crash. The lights went out—the room plunged into a howling dark-pit. The power poles lay slaughtered by the wind. The electric grate, glowing faintly, died, too, in the black room. The words Colt babbled were meaningless, like an hysterical child.
Fumbling, Colt struck a match; light played over a face aged twenty years. The lonely flame threw light over something that gleamed dully. The phone! Maybe—The phone wires had been connected to other poles. If the line was still intact. . .
"Operator!" Colt waited. Response, "Yes, sir?"
"Thank God, thank God, thank God—operator, give me Trinity 9929."
"Trinity 9929?"
"Yes. And hurry, for Lord's—"
A pause. The phone on the other end was ringing. It was ringing. It was ringing! Click.
"Herb Thompson speaking."
"Herb? Herb!" Insane with relief.
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Herb—Herb, this is Colt—"
"John? Your voice, I didn't recognize—"
"I haven't time! Listen. I want you
to do something for me—"
"Anything. What's wrong? You sound—"
Click!
"Herb, there's a localized storm outside. A great wind. It wants me. It wants me! Alive! Are you listening?" A rapid rattle of the hook. "Herb." A rattle. "Herb?" Pause. Shouting, "Herb!"
Silence.
The wind moved outside. It had won again. Won again. First the lights—now the phone.
"Operator, I've been cut off! Operator, oper—it's no use. No damned use! God curse you, damn you, kill you—take this!" He ripped the phone from its wiring, heaved it at a window. He realized his error too late to stop it. The phone struck only partially, splintering glass into a crystal web, breaking a small hole.
The wind tongued in, taking advantage of the small egress. Colt damned the hole with a plug of wadded drapery. He stood raging, frightened, bitter. Alone. Alone. Eyes wide and every fiber in him aquiver.
"You want me alive, don't you? Alive. You don't dare knock the house down in one fell blow. No, that would kill me, and you want me alive—so you can rip me apart finger by finger and muscle by muscle. Or do you want what's inside me—my mind—my brain—my mind—"
He faltered to a stop, shocked by truth. He put a hand to his brow. "My mind. That's it. You want it, don't you?"
"You don't care for the husk that cradles the mind, but you want the intellect. You covet my thought, my life power, my ego. The psychic force, the power of thought
