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 'She wants to know if you will come and help too⁠—in a certain way only: not in the experiment itself precisely, but by watching merely and⁠—' He hesitated an instant, half lowering his eyes.

'Drawing the picture,' Henriot helped him deliberately.

'Drawing what you see, yes,' Vance replied, the voice turned graver in spite of himself. 'She wants⁠—she hopes to catch the outlines of anything that happens⁠'

'Comes.'

'Exactly. Determine the shape of anything that comes. You may remember your conversation of the other night with her. She is very certain of success.'

This was direct enough at any rate. It was as formal as an invitation to a dinner, and as guileless. The thing he thought he wanted lay within his reach. He had merely to say yes. He did say yes; but first he looked about him instinctively, as for guidance. He looked at the stars twinkling high above the distant Libyan Plateau; at the long arms of the Desert, gleaming weirdly white in the moonlight, and reaching towards him down every opening between the houses; at the heavy mass of the Mokattam Hills, guarding the Arabian Wilderness with strange, peaked barriers, their sand-carved ridges dark and still above the Wadi Hof.

These questionings attracted no response. The Desert watched him, but it did not answer. There was only the shrill whistling cry of the lizards, and the singsong of a white-robed Arab gliding down the sandy street. And through these sounds he heard his own voice answer: 'I will come⁠—yes. But how can I help? Tell me what you propose⁠—your plan?'