insidious; it is concrete. Out of the unknown comes terror.
Through the love for the great professor I have pitted myself
against it. From the beginning it has been almost hopeless. I
remember that last digression in ethics. "The mystery of the
occult may be solved. We are five-sensed. When we bring the thing
down to the concrete we may understand."

Sometimes I wonder at the Rhamda. Is he a man or a phantom? Does
he control the Blind Spot? Is he the substance and the proof that
was promised by Dr. Holcomb? Through what process and what laws
did the professor acquire even his partial control over the
phenomena? Where did the Rhamda and his beautiful companion come
from? Who are they? And lastly--what was the idea that buzzed in
the head of Hobart Fenton?

When I look back now I wonder. I have never believed in fate. I do
not believe in it now. Man is the master of his own destiny. We
are cowards else. Whatever is to be known we should know it. One's
duty is ever to one's fellows. Heads up and onward. I am not a
brave man, perhaps, under close analysis; but once I have given my
word I shall keep it. I have done my bit; my simple duty. Perhaps
I have failed. In holding myself against the Blind Spot I have
done no more than would have been done by a million others. I have
only one regret. Failure is seldom rewarded. I had hoped that my
life would be the last; I have a dim hope still. If I fail in the
end, there must be still one more to follow.

Understand I do not expect to die. It is the unknown that I am
afraid of. I who thought that we knew so much have found it still
so little. There are so many laws in the weave of Cosmos that are