They were waiting for him to speak. And Blaine wondered if insanity still retained its hereditary privileges. With ease he could slip over and find out.

But insanity is not granted to everyone. Blaine's self-control returned. He looked up at Marie Thorne.

“My feelings,” he said slowly, “are difficult to describe. I've died, and now I'm contemplating the fact. I don't suppose any man fully believes in his own death. Deep down he feels immortal. Death seems to await others, but never oneself. It's almost as though — ”

“Let's cut it right here. He's getting analytical,”

“I think you’re right,” Marie Thorne said. “Thank you very much, Mr. Blaine.”

The men, solid and mundane now, their vague menace disappeared, began rolling their equipment.

“Wait —” Blaine said.

“Don't worry,” she told him. “We'll get the rest of your reactions later. We just wanted to record the spontaneous part now.”

“Damn good while it lasted.”

“A collector's item.”

“Wait!” Blaine cried. “I don't understand. Where am I? What happened? How —”

Marie Thorne said. ”I'm terribly sorry, I must hurry now and edit this for Mr. Reilly.“

The men and equipment were gone. Marie Thorne smiled reassuringly, and hurried away.

Blaine felt ridiculously close to tears. He blinked rapidly when the fat and motherly nurse came back.

“Drink this,” said the nurse. “It'll make you sleep. That's it, take it all down like a good boy. Just relax, you had a big day, what with dying and being reborn and all.”

Two big tears rolled down Blaine's cheeks.

“Dear me,” said the nurse, “the cameras should be here now. Those are genuine spontaneous tears if I ever saw any. Many a tragic and spontaneous scene I've witnessed in this infirmary, believe me, and I could tell those snooty recording boys something about genuine emotion if I wanted to, and they thinking they know all the secrets of the human heart.”