The Radiant Shell | Page 3

atoms into straight lines, you might say. With
that straight-line, least-resistance arrangement comes invisibility."
"I don't quite see--" began the Secretary.
"Refraction of light," said Thorn hurriedly. "The light rays strike this
film, hurtle around the object, it coats--at increased speed, probably,
but there are no instruments accurate enough to check that--and emerge
on the other side. Thus, you can look at a body so filmed, and not see it:
your gaze travels around it and rests on objects in a straight line behind
it. But you'll see for yourself in a moment. Pull that switch, there, will
you? And leave it on for two full minutes after you have ceased to see
me."
Straight and tall, a figure encased in shimmering crystal, the scientist
stood on the metal plate. Hesitant, with the superstitious dread growing
in his heart, the Secretary stood with his hand on the switch. That hand
pulled the switch down....
Soundlessly the overhead metal ring began to whirl, gathering speed
with every second. And then, though he had known in advance
something of what was coming, the Secretary could not suppress a
shout of surprise.
The man before him on the metal plate was vanishing.
* * * * *
Slowly he disappeared from view--slowly, as an object sinking deeper
and deeper into clear water disappears. Now the face was but a white
blob. Now the entire body was but a misty blur. And now a shade, a
wavering shadow, alone marked Winter's presence.

The Secretary could not have told the exact instant when that last faint
blur oozed from sight. He only knew that at one second he was gazing
at it--and at the next second his eyes rested on a rack of test-tubes on
the wall beyond the plate.
He looked at his watch. Sweat glistened in tiny points on the hand that
held the switch. It was all so like death, this disappearance--as if he had
thrown the switch that electrocuted a man.
The specified two minutes passed. He cut off the power. The great ring
lost speed, stopped whirling. And on the plate was--nothing.
At least it seemed there was nothing. But a moment later a deep voice
sounded out: "I guess I'm invisible, all right, according to the
expression on your face."
"You are," said the Secretary, mopping his forehead, "except when you
speak. Then I have the bizarre experience of seeing glimpses of teeth,
tongue and throat hanging in mid-air. I'd never have believed it if I
hadn't witnessed it myself! That paint of yours is miraculous!"
"A little complicated, but hardly miraculous. It has a cellulose base, and
there is in it a small per cent of powdered crystal--but the rest I'll keep
locked in my brain alone till my country has need of it."
The glimpses of teeth and tongue and throat ceased. In spite of himself,
the Secretary started as an unseen hand touched his shoulder.
"Now,"--there was ringing resolution in the deep voice--"for the
Arvanian Embassy. Please drive me there--and be as quick as you can
about it. I can't last very long with this film sealing most of the pores of
my body."
* * * * *
The Secretary started for the laboratory door. Beside him sounded the
patter of bare feet. He opened the door and walked into the hallway.
Behind him, apparently of itself, the door clicked shut; and the

footsteps again sounded beside him.
The Secretary walked to the curb where his limousine waited. His
chauffeur jumped out and opened the door. The Secretary paused a
moment, one foot on the running board, to draw a cigar from his pocket
and light it. During that moment the car pressed down on that side, and
as suddenly rocked back up again.
The chauffeur stared wide-eyed at his employer.
"Did you do that, sir?" he asked.
"Do what?" said the Secretary.
"Push down on the running board with your foot."
"Of course not," said the Secretary, his eyebrows raising. "You could
have seen my leg move if I had. But why do you ask?"
"It felt like somebody got into this car," mumbled the man.
"Did you see anybody get in?" said the Secretary with a shrug. And,
shaking his head, with a fuddled look in his eyes, the chauffeur turned
away and got into the driver's seat.
The Secretary glanced at the rear seat. On the far side, the cushion was
heavily depressed. He sat on the near side, feeling his knee strike
another, unseen knee.
"Drive to the Bulgarian Embassy," he told his man.
Up Sixteenth Street the car swung, past the various embassies which
looked more like palatial private villas than offices of foreign nations.
Toward the end of the line, a smaller building than most of the others,
was the Arvanian