Scanned by gojukai	
From Fritz Leiber’s 
The Mind Spider and Other Stories

MIDNIGHT IN THE
MIRROR WORLD

Fritz Leiber

As the dock downstairs began to clang out midnight's
twelve strokes, Giles Nefandor glanced into one of the
two big mirrors between which he was passing on his
nightly trip, regular as clockwork, from the telescopes on
the roof to the pianos and chessboards in the living room.
What he saw there made him stop and bunk and stare.
He was two steps above the mid-stair landing, where the
great wrought-iron chandelier with its freight of live and
dead electric bulbs swung m the dull fierce gusts of
wind coming through the broken, lead-webbed, dramond-
paned windows. It swung like a pendulum—a wilder yet
more ponderous pendulum than that in the tall clock
twanging relentlessly downstairs. He stayed aware of its
menace as he peered in the mirror.

Since there was a second mirror behind him, what he
saw in the one he faced was not a single reflection of him-
self, but many, each smaller and dimmer than the one in
front of it—a half-spread stack of reflections going off to-
ward infinity. Each reflection, except the eighth, showed
against a background of mirror-gloom only his dark lean
aquiline face, or at least the edge of it—from bucket-size
down to dime-size—peering back at him intently from un-
der its sleek crown of black, silver-shot hair.

But in the eighth reflection his hair was wildly dis-
ordered and his face was leaden-green, gape-jawed, and
bulging-eyed with horror.

Also, his eighth reflection was not alone. Beside it was
a thin black figure from which a ribbony black arm
reached out and lay on his reflected shoulder. He could
see only the edge of the black figure—most of it was hid-
den by the reflected gilt mirror frame—but he was sure it
was thin.

The look of horror on his face in that reflection was so
intense and so suggestive of strangulation that he clutched
at his throat with both hands.

All his reflections, from the nearly life-size giants to the
Lilliputians, copied this sudden gesture—except the eighth.

The eleventh stroke of midnight resounded brassily. An
especially fierce gust of wind blew the chandelier closer
to him so that one of its black hook-fingered arms ap-
proached his shoulder and he cringed away from it before
he recognized it for the familiar object it was. It-should
have been hung higher, he was such a tall man, and he
should have had the window repaired, but his head missed
the chandelier except when the wind blew hard and after
he'd been unable to find a craftsman who could work
leaded glass, he had not bothered about either chore.

The twelfth stroke clanged.

When he looked into the mirror the next instant, all
strangeness was gone. His eighth reflection was like the
rest. All his reflections were alike, even the dimmest most
distant ones that melted into mirror smoke. And there was
no sign of a black figure in any one of them, although he
peered until his vision blurred.

He continued downstairs, choosing a moment when the
chandelier was swinging away from him. He went immedi-
ately to his Steinway and played Scriabin preludes and
sonatas until dawn, fighting the wind with them until it
slunk away then analysed chess positions in the latest
Russian tournament until the oppressive daylight had-
wearied him enough for sleep. From time to time he
thought about what he had glimpsed in the mirror, and
each time it seemed to him more likely that the disordered
eighth reflection had been an optical illusion. His eyes had
been strained and weary with star-gazing when it had hap-
pened. There had been those rushing shadows from the
swinging chandelier, or even his narrow black necktie
blown by the wind, while the thin black figure might
have been simply a partial second reflection of his own
black clothes—imperfections in the mirror could explain
why these things had stood out only in the eighth reflec-
tion. For that matter the odd appearance of his face in
that reflection might have been due to no more than a tar-
nished spot in the mirror's silvering. Like this whole vast
house—and himself—the mirror was decaying.

He awoke when the first stars, winking on in the sky of
deepening blue, signaled his personal dawn. He had al-
most forgotten the incident of the mirror by the time he
went upstairs, donned stadium boots and hooded long
sheepskin coat in the cupola room, and went out on the
widow's walk to uncap his telescopes and take up his star-
gazing. He made, as he realized, a quite medieval figure,
except that the intruders in his heavens were not comets
mostly, but Earth satellites moving at their characteristic
crawl of twenty-some minutes from zenith to horizon.

He resolved a difficult double in Canis Major and was
almost certain he saw a pale gas front advancing across
the blackness of the Horsehead Nebula.

Finally he capped and shrouded his instruments and
went inside. Habit started him downstairs and put him
between the mirrors above the landing at the same minute
and second of the day as he had arrived at that spot
last night. There was no wind and the black chandelier
with -its- asymmatric constellation of bulbs hung motionless
on its black chain. No reeling shadows tonight. Otherwise
everything was exactly the same.        

And while the clock struck twelve, he saw in the mirror
exactly what he had seen last night: tiny pale horror-
struck Nefandor-face, black ribbon-arm touching its shoul-
der or neck, as if arresting him or summoning him to
some doom. Tonight perhaps a little more of the black
figure showed, as if it peered with one indistinguishable
eye around the tinied gold frame.

Only this time it was not the eighth reflection that
showed these abnormalities, but the seventh.

And this time when the glassy aberration vanished with
the twelfth brassy stroke, he found it less easy to keep
his thoughts from dwelling obsessively on the event. He
also found himself groping for an explanation in terms of
an hallucination rather than an optical illusion: an opti-
cal illusion that came so pat two nights running was
hardly credible. And yet an hallucination that confined
itself to only one in a stack of reflections was also most
odd.

Most of all, the elusive malignity of the thin black
figure struck him much more forcibly than it had the
previous night. An hallucination—or ghost or demon—
that met you face to face was one thing. You could strike
out at it, hysterically claw at it, try to drive your fist through
it. But a black ghost that lurked in a mirror, and not
only that but in the deepest depthy of a mirror, behind
many panes of thick glass (somehow the reflected panes
seemed as real as the actual ones), working its evil will
on your powerless shrunken image there—that implied a
craftiness and caution and horrid calculation which fitted
very well with the figure's cat-and-mousing advance from
the eighth reflection to the seventh. The implication was
that here was a being who hated Giles Nefandor with
demonic intensity.

This night and morning he avoided the eerie Scriabia
and played only dancimgly brisk pieces by Mozart, while
the chess games he analysed were frolicsome attacking
ones by Anderssen, Kieseritzky, and the youthful Steinitz.

He had decided to wait another twenty-four hours and
then if the figure appeared a third time, systematically
analyse the matter and decide on what steps to take.

Yet meanwhile he could not wholly keep himself from
searching his memory for people whom he had injured to
the degree that they would bear him a bitter and enduring
hatred. But although he searched quite conscientiously,
by snatches, through the five and a half decades over
which his memory stretched, he found no very likely can-
didates for the position of Arch-Hater or Hater to the
Death of Giles Nefandor. He was a gentle person and,
cushioned by inherited wealth, had never had to commit
a murder or steal a large sum of money. He had wived,
begat, divorced—or rather,, been divorced. His wife had
, remarried profitably, his children were successful in far
places, he had enough money to maintain his long body
and his tall house while both mouldered and to indulge his
mild passions for the most ethereal of the arts, the most
coolly aloof of the sciences,, and the most darkly profound
of the games.

Professional rivals? He no longer played in chess tour-
naments, confining his activities in that direction to a few
correspondence games. He gave no more piano recitals. .
While his contributions to astronomical journals were of
the fewest and involved no disputes.

Women? At the time of his divorce, he had hoped it
Would free him to find new relationships, but his lonely
habits had proved too comfortable and strong and he had
never taken up the search. Perhaps in his vanity he had
dreaded failure—or merely the effort.

At this point he became aware of a memory buried in
his mind, like a dark seed, but it refused to come clear.
Something about chess? ... no ...

Really, he had done nothing much to anyone, for good
or ill, he decided. Why should anyone hate him for doing
nothing?—hate him enough to .chase his image through
mirrors?—he asked himself fruitlessly as he watched Kie-
seritzky's black queen implacably pursue Anderssen's
•white king.

The next night he carefully timed his descent of the
stairs, using his precision clocks in the cupola—with the
result that (precision machinery proving less reliable than
habit) the downstairs clock had already struck five strokes
when he thrust himself breathlessly between the mirrors
above the landing. But his greenish horror-struck face was
there—in the sixth reflection this time, as he'd fatalistic-
ally assumed it would be—and the slender black figure
was there too with outstretched arm; this time he seemed
to detect that it was wearing a veil or stocking-mask: he
could distinguish none of its features, but there was a faint
shimmering in the face area, rather like the pale gas front
he had once again detected crossing the Horsehead Nebula.

This night he completely altered his routine, neither
opening a piano nor setting out any of the chessmen. In-
stead he lay for an hour with eyes shut, to rest them, sad
then spent the rest of the night and morning investigating
reflections of reflections in the mirrors on the stairs and in
two somewhat smaller ones which he set up in the living
room and tilted by the fractional inch to get the best
effects. .

By the end of that time he had made a number of in-
teresting discoveries. He'd noted reflections of reflections
before, especially on the stairs, and been amused by their
oddity, but he'd never thought about them systematically
and certainly never experimented with them. They turned
out to be a fascinating little field of study—vest-pocket
optics—a science in miniature.

Vest-pocket wasn't such a bad designation, because you
had to stick your vest and yourself between the two mir-
rors in order to observe the phenomena. Though come to
think of it, you ought to be able to do the same thing with
a periscope held sideways, by that means introducing your
vision between the mirrors without introducing yourself.
It might be worth trying.

But getting back to basics, when you stood between
nearly parallel mirrors, looking at one, you saw first the
direct reflection of your face, next the reflection of the
back of your head is the mirror behind you; then, barely
visible around those two, you saw the second reflection of
your face, really Just an edge of hair and cheek and ear;

then the second reflection of the back of your head, and so
on. As the heads grew smaller, you saw more of each,
until the entire face became visible, quite tiny and dim.

This meant, for one thing, that the eighth reflection
he'd seen the first midnight had really been the fifteenth,
since he'd only counted reflections of his face, as far as
he could remember, and between every two of those there
was a reflection of the back of his head. Oh, this mirror
world, he decided, was fascinating! Or worlds, rather—
a series of shells around him, like the crystal globes of
Ptolemaic astronomy in which the stars and planets 'were
set, going out in theory to infinity, and in each shell
himself staring at himself in the next shell.

The way the heads got tinier intrigued him. He mea-
sured the distance between the two mirrors on the stairs
—eight feet almost to the inch—and calculated that the
eighth reflection of his face was therefore 116 feet away,
as if it were peering back at him from a little attic win-
dow down the street, He was almost tempted to go to the
roof and scan with his binoculars for such windows.

. But since it was himself he was seeing, the eighth re-
flection was sizewise 232 feet away. He would have to scan
for dwarfs. Most interesting!

It was delightful to think of all the different things his
reflections could be doing, if each had the power to move
around independently in the thin world of its crystal shell.
Why, with all those shell-selves industriously occupied,
Giles Nefandor could well become the world's most ac-
complished pianist, most knowledgeable field astronomer,
sad highest ranking of all chess grandmasters. The
thought almost revived his dead ambitions—hadn't Lasker
won the 1924 New York international tournament at 561—
while the charm of the speculation made him quite forget
the menace of the black figure he'd now glimpsed three
times.

Returning to reality somewhat reluctantly, he set him-
self to determine how many of his reflections he could see
in practice rather than theory. He discovered that even
with the best illumination, replacing all the dead bulbs
in the wrought-iron chandelier, he could recognize at most-
only the ninth or perhaps the tenth reflection of his face.
After that, his visage became a tiny indistinguishable ash-
grey blank in the glass. -

In reaching this conclusion, he also found that it was
Very difficult to count the reflections accurately. One or
more would tend to get lost, or he'd lose count somewhere
along the line. It was easiest to count the gilt mirror
frames, since these stood in a close-packed row, like
golden numeral ones—even though, for the tenth reflection
of his face, say, this involved counting nineteen gilt ones,
ten belonging to the mirror in front of him and nine. to
the mirror behind.

He wondered how he could have been so sure the first
midnight that it was his eighth reflection which had shown
the unpleasant alterations, and the seventh and sixth re-
flections on the two subsequent midnights. He decided that
his shocked mind must have made a stabbing guess and
that it very likely had been inaccurate—despite the instant
uncertainty he'd felt. Next night he'd watch more carefully

—and the fifth reflection would be easier to count.

He also discovered that although he could at most count
ten reflections of his face, he could distinguish thirteen
and perhaps fourteen reflections of a bright point of light
—a pencil flashlight or even a candle-flame held dose to
his cheek. Those tinied candle-flames looked strangely
like stars do in a cheap telescope. Odd.

He was eager to count more reflections than that—to
break his record, as it were—and he even fetched his best
pair of binoculars and stared into the mirror with them,
using for light-point an inch of brightly flaming candle
affixed to the top of the right-hand binocular tube. But
as he'd feared, this was no help at all, magnification fad-
ing out the more distant light-points to nothing, like using
too powerful an eyepiece on a small telescope.

He thought of making and testing out a periscope—•
candle attachment—but that seemed a touch over-elabo-
rate. And in any case it was high time he got to bed—
almost noon. He felt in remarkably good spirits—for the
first time in years he had discovered a new thing in which
to be interested. Reflectology mightn't be quite up to as-
fronomy, musicology, or chess, but it was an elegant little
sdence all the same. And the Mirror World was fascinat-
ing!—he looked forward excitedly to what he'd next see
in it. If only the phenomena didn't stop!

It was perhaps his eagerness which got him between the
Stairway mirrors next night several seconds before the
clock began to strike twelve. His early- arrival, however,
didn't inhibit the phenomena, as he suddenly feared might
happen. They began on the clock's first twanging stroke
and whatever may have happened on previous evenings,
it was certainly the fifth reflection which was altered to-
night The figures were only about 70 feet away now, as
he'd earlier calculated, and so considerably larger. His
fifth reflected face was pale as ever, yet he fancied its
expression was changing—but because it had gone more
than halfway into eclipse behind the massed heads in front
of it, he couldn't be sure.

And the black figure definitely was wearing a veil, al-
though he still couldn't make out the features behind it.
Yes, a veil . . . and long black gloves, one of which
sleekly cased the slender arm outstretched to his shoulder
—for he suddenly realized that despite its height almost
equal to his own, the figure was feminine.

A gust of fey hard to understand went through him at

that discovery. As on the second night he wanted to strike
out at the figure to prove its insubstantiality—smash the
glass! But could that effect a figure 70 feet away? Would   
smashing the single glass in front of him smash all the
nine panes he calculated still separated him from the fig-
ures in the Mirror World?

Perhaps it would—and then (he black figure m the
Mirror World could come straight out at him . . . now,
, In any case the veiled figure, if she continued her ap-
proach, would be with him in five more nights.

Perhaps smashing the glass now would simply end the
horrifying, fascinating phenomena—foil the figure for
good. But did he want to do that?

As he asked himself that last question, the twelfth stroke
came and the Black Lady in the fifth reflection vanished.

The rest of the night, while he played Tchaikovsky and
studied the chess games of Vera Menchik, Lisa Lane,
and Mrs. Piatigorsky, searching for hidden depths ifl.
them, he reviewed the Lives and Loves of Giles Nefandor.
He discovered that the women in his life had been few,
and those with whom he had become seriously entangled,
or to whom he had done possible injury, fewer still. The
half dozen candidates were all, so far as he knew, happily
married and/or otherwise successful. This of course in-
cluded his divorced wife, although she had often com-
plained of him and his "hobbies."

On the whole, though romanticizing women, he had
tended to run away from them, he concluded wryly. Per-
haps the Dark Lady was a generalized woman, emble-
matic of the entire sex, come to be revenged on him for
has faint-heartedness. His smile grew wryer. Perhaps her
funeral costume was, anticipatorily, for him.

-He thought, oh the human infatuation with guilt and
retribution! The dread of and perhaps the desire for pun-
ishment! How ready we are to think others hate 'us!

During this search of his memory, the dark seed stirred
several times—he seemed to be forgetting some one
woman. But the seed refused to come clear of its burial
until the clock struck its twelfth stroke next midnight,
when. Just as the now clearly feminine figure in the fourth
reflection vanished, he spoke the name, "Nina Fasinera."

That brought the buried incident—or rather all of it but
one crucial part—back to him at once. It came back with
that tigerish rush with which memory-lost small .incidents
and encounters will—one moment nonexistent, the next re-
called with almost dizzying suddenness.

It had happened all of ten years ago,, six years at least
before his divorce, and he had only once met Miss Fasi-
aera—a tall slender woman with black hair, bold hawklike
features, slightly protruberant eyes, and rather narrow
long mobile lips which the slim tip of her tongue was for-
ever wetting. Her voice had been husky yet rapid and she
had moved with a nervous, pantherine grace, so that her
heavy silk dress had hissed on her gaunt yet challenging
figure.

Nina Fasinera had come to him, here at this house, on
the pretext of asking his advice about starting a school of
piano in a distant suburb across the city. She was an
actress too, she had told him, but he had gathered she
had not worked much in recent years—just as he had soon,
been guessing that her age was not much less than his
own, the Jet of her hair a dye, the taut smoothness of her
facial skin astringents and an ivory foundation make-up,
her youthful energy a product of will power—in short, that
she was something of a fake (her knowledge of piano rudi-
mentary, her acting a couple of seasons of summer stock
and a few bit parts on Broadway), but a brave and gallant
fake nonetheless.

Quite soon she had made it clean that she was somewhat
more interested in him than in his advice and that she
was ready—alert, on guard, dangerous, yet responsive—
for any encounter with him, whether at a luncheon date
a week in the future or here and now, on the instant

It had been, he recalled, as .if a duelist had lightly yet
briskly brushed his cheek and lips with a thin leather glove.
And yes, she had been wearing gloves, he remembered
now of a sudden!—dark green ones edged with yellow, the
same colours as her heavy silken dress.

He had been mightily attracted to her—strange how he
had forgotten that taut nervous hour!—but he had just
become re-reconciled with his wife for perhaps the dozenth
time and there was about Nina Fasinera an avidity and
a recklessness and especially an almost psychotic-seeming
desperation which had frightened him or at least put him
very much on guard. He recalled wondering if she took
drugs.

So he had courteously yet most coolly and with infinite
stubbornness refused all her challenges, which in the end
had grown quite mocking, and he had shown her to the
door and closed it on her.

And then the next day be had read in the paper of her
suicide.

That was why he had forgotten the incident, he decided
now—he had felt sharply guilty about it. Not that he
thought that he possessed any fatal glamour, so that a
woman would die at his rebuff, but that conceivably he
had represented Nina Fasinera's last cast of the dice with
destiny and he, not consciously knowing what was at stake,
had coldly told her, "You lose."

But there was something else he was forgetting—some-
thing about her death which his mind had suppressed even
more tightly—he was certain of that. Glancing about un-
easily, he stepped down onto the landing beneath the low-
dipping chandelier and hurried down the rest of the stairs.
He had Just recalled that he had torn out the story of her
death from a cheap tabloid and now he spent the rest
of the night hunting for it among his haphazardly-filed
papers. Toward dawn be discovered it, a ragged-edged
browning thing tucked inside one of his additional copies
,of the Chopin nocturnes.

	FORMER BROADWAY ACTRESS
	DRESSES FOR OWN FUNERAL

Last night the glamorous Nina Fasinera, who was play-
ing on Broadway as recently as three years ago, commit-
ted suicide by hanging, according to police Lieutenant Ben
Davidow, in the room she rented at 1738 Waverly Place,
Edgemont.

A purse with 87 cents in it lay on top of her dresser.
She left no note or diary, however, though police are still
searching. Despondency was the probable cause of Miss

Fasinera's act, according to her landlady Elvira Winters,.
Who discovered-the body at 3 A.M.

"She was a charming tenant, always the lady, and very
beautiful," Mrs. Winters said, "but lately she'd seemed
restless and unhappy. I'd let her get five weeks behind
on her rent. Now who'll pay it?"

Before taking her life, the 39-year-old Miss Fasinera
had dressed herself in a black silk cocktail gown with
black accessories including a veil and long gloves. She
had also pulled down the shades and turned on all the
lights in the room. It was the glare of these lights through
the transom which caused Mrs. Winters to enter the
actress' small, high-ceilinged room by a-duplicate key
when there was no answer to her knocking.

There she saw Miss Fasinera's body hanging by a short
length of clothesline from the ceiling light-fixture. A chair
lay overturned nearby. In its plastic seat-cover Lieutenant
Davidow later found impressions which matched the ac-
tress' spike heels. Dr. Leonard Belstrom estimated she
had been dead for four hours when he examined the body
at 4 A.M.

Mrs. Winters said, "She was hanging between the tall
mirror on the closet door and the wide one on her dresser.
She could almost have reached out and kicked them, if she
could have kicked. I could see her in both of them, over
and over, when I tried to lift her up, before I felt how
cold she was. And then all those bright lights. It was horri-
ble, but like the theatre."

When Giles Nefandor finished reading the clipping, he
nodded twice and stood frowning. Then he got put maps
of the city and suburbs and measured the straight-line
distance from the rooming house in Edgemont to his own
place across the city, then used the scales on the maps
to convert his measurements to miles.

Eleven and a half, it came out, as nearly as the limits
of accuracy would make it

Then he calculated the time that had elapsed since Nina
Fasinera's death: ten years and one hundred and one
days. From Mrs. Winters' statement, the distance between
the mirrors between which she'd hanged herself had been
about eight feet—the same distance as between the mir-
rors on his stairs. If she'd entered the Mirror World when
She died and been advancing toward this house as she'd
moved the last five nights—two reflections, or sixteen feet,
each time—then in ten years and one hundred and one
days she'd have traveled 60,058 feet.

  That figured out to eleven miles and 1,978 feet
  Eleven and a half miles, or close to it.              
He puzzled, almost idly, as to why a person could
travel only such a short distance in the Mirror World each
twenty-four hours. It must depend on the distance between
the two mirrors of your departure and also on the' two
mirrors of your arrival. Perhaps you travelled one reflec-
tion for each day and one for each night. Perhaps his
theory of shells like the Ptolemaic ones was true and in
any shell there was only one door and you had to search
to find it, as if you were traversing a maze, to find the
right two doors in the crystal maze in twenty-four hours
could be a most difficult task* And there roust be all sorts
of interlocking dimensions in the Mirror World—slow
paths and fast ones: if you travelled between mirrors set
on different stars, you might travel faster than light.

He wondered, again almost idly, why he had been
chosen for this visitation? and why of all women it should
have been Nina Fasinera who had had the strength and
the will to thread purposefully the glassy labyrinth for ten
years. He was not so much frightened as awed—that an
hour's meeting should lead to all these consequences.
Could undying love grow in an hour? Or was it undying
hate that had flowered? Had Nina Fasinera known about
the Mirror World when she'd hanged herself?—he re-
called now that one of the things she'd said lightly when
she'd tried to storm his interest had been that she was a
witch. And she would have known about the mirrors on
his stairs matching those in her room—she'd seen them.

Next midnight when he saw the black figure in the third
reflection, he instantly recognized Nina's pale gauntly
lovely race behind the veil and wondered why he had not
recognized it at least four nights before. Rather anxiously
he glanced down toward her black-stockinged ankles,
which were slender and unswollen, then quickly back to
her face again. She was gazing at him gravely, perhaps
with the ghost of a smile.

By now his own reflection was almost wholly eclipsed
behind the ones in front of it. He could not even guess at
his expression, nor did he want to. He had eyes only for
Nina Fasinera. The impact of his years of unfelt loneli-
ness shook him. He realized how desperately he had been
wishing someone would search him out. The clock twanged
on, swiftly marking time forever gone. Now he knew thiat
he loved Nina Fasinera, had loved her since the one only
hour they'd met. That was why he'd never stirred from
this rotting house, why he'd prepared his mind, for the
Mirror World with chess-squares and singing wires and
the stars. Since the hour they'd met . . . Except for colour
and the veil, her costume was the same she'd worn that
fateful sixty minutes. If she*d only move, he thought, be*d
faintly hear the hiss of the .heavy silk through the five
thick panes of glass remaining. If she'd only make-that
smile more certain ...

The twelfth stroke twanged. This time he felt a terrible
pang of loss as her figure vanished, but it was swiftly re-
placed with a feeling of surety and faith.

For the next three of his nocturnal .days, Giles Nef-
andor was happy and light-hearted. He played the piano
music he loved best: Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Scriabin,
Domenico Scarlatti, He played over the classic chess games
of Nimzowitch, Alekhine, Capablanca, Emaneui Lasker,
and Steinitz. He lovingly scanned his favourite celestial
objects: the Beehive in Cancer, the Pleiades and Hyades,
the Great Nebula in Orion's sword; he noticed new tele-
scopic constellations and thought he saw the faintest crys-
tal paths ...

-Occasionally his thoughts strayed eagerly yet guiltily,
as if to forbidden fruit, to the mazy crystal corridors of
the Mirror World, that secret diamond universe, and to his
thousand wonderings about it: endless rooms and halls
ceilinged and floored by transparency, and all the curious
mirror-lost folk who lived adrift in them; piercingly sweet
music; games of glass; revels and routs at a thousand
levels; the tinkling of a million glittering chandeliers;
diamond pathways to the farthest stars—

But he would always check these thoughts. There would
be time enough for them, he felt certain. Experienced re-
ality is always more satisfactory than imagination and
illusion.

And often he would think of Nina and of the strange-
ness of their relationship: two atoms marked by one en-
counter and now drawn together among all the trillions of
trillions of like atoms in the universe. Did it take ten years
for love to grow, or only ten seconds? Both. But he checked
these thoughts too—and struck the keys, or moved the
men, or re-focused the 'scope.

There were moments of doubt and rear. Nina might be
the incarnation of hate, the jet-black spider in the crystal
web. Certainly she was the unknown, though he felt he
knew her so well. There had been those early intimations
of psychosis, of a pantherine restlessness. And there had
been that first glimpse of his face, sick with horror . . .
But they were moments only.

Before each of the three remaining midnights he dressed
with unusual care: the black suit newly brushed, the
white shirt fresh, the narrow black necktie carefully knot-
ted. It pleased him to think that he had not had to change
the colour of his suit to match that of her dress.

The first of the three midnights he was almost certain
of her smile.

The next midnight he was sure of it. Now both figures
were in the first reflection and he could see his own face
again, scarce four feet away. He too was smiling gravely
—the horror was gone.

Nina's black-gloved hand resting on his shoulder, the
black fingertips touching his white collar, now seemed a
lover's gesture.

The night after that the wind came back at last, blow-
ing with more-and more violence, although there were no
clouds, so that the stars flickered and streamed impossibly
in his 'scopes. The gale seemed to fasten on and shake
their beams like crystal stalks. The sky was granular with
wind. He could -not remember such a blow. By eleven it
had almost driven him from the roof, but he stuck it out
although the wind increased in frenzy.

Instead of daunting, it filled him with a terrific excite-
ment. He felt he could leap into the air and be blown light-
swift anywhere he willed in the diamond-dazzling cosmos
-except that he had another rendezvous.

When he finally went inside, shaking with the cold, and
took off his fleece-lined coat, he became aware of a
rhythmic crunching and crashing below, with rather long
intervals between.

When he went down the stairs, they were dark and the
crashes were louder. He realized that the great chandelier
above the landing must be swinging so far that it was
hitting the lead-webbed windows beyond, breaking their
remaining panes—and had long since burst all the electric
globes it carried.

He felt his way down by the wall, keeping close to it to
avoid the chandelier's murderous swings. His fingers
touched absolute smoothness—glass. Then the glass rip-
pled for an instant, tingling his fingers, and he heard
husky irregular breathing and the hissing of heavy silk.
Then slender arms were around him and a woman's slim
body was pressed against his and hungry lips met his
lips, first through a faintly astringent, dryish, tormenting
tantalizing veil, then flesh to flesh. He could feel under
his hands the ribbed smoothness of heavy silk and of
pliant, lightly fleshed ribs under that.

All in utter darkness and pandemonium. Almost drowned
in the latter, midnight's, last strokes were twanging.

A hand moved up his back and suede-cased fingers
lightly brushed his neck. As the last strokes twanged, one
of the fingers turned hard and stiff and cruel and dug
under his collar so that it caught him like a hook by the
collar and the tightly-knitted tie the collar covered. It
wrenched him into the air. A terrible pain stabbed at the
base of his skull, then filled it to bursting.

It was four days before the policeman who nightly pa-
trolled beyond the gate discovered by a stab of his flash-
light the body of Giles Nefandor—whom he knew by sight,
though never a sight like this!—hanging from the -wrought
chandelier above the landing strewn with glassy-
shards. It might have been longer than four days, except
;a chessplayer across the city, contesting a corres-
pondence game with the well-known recluse, spurred the
police into action when the move on his last postcard had
gone ten days unanswered. His first queries were ignored,
but an evening phone call got action.

The policeman reported back the unpleasant condition:
of the body, the black, booked, wrought-iron chandelier-
finger thrust under the noose of collar and tie, and the
glass shards, and several other matters.

He never did report what he saw in one of the two mir-
rors on the stairs when he looked at it closely, his power-
ful flash beside his chest as his wristwatch signalled mid-
night There was a stack of reflections of his own shocked,
sharply shadowed face. But in the fourth reflection there
were momentarily two figures, hand in hand, looking back
toward him over their shoulders—and smiling impishly at
him, he thought. The one figure was that of Giles Ne-
fandor, though looking more youthful than he recalled
seeing him .in recent years. The other was that of a lady
in black, the upper half of her face veiled.