Stumbling to my feet, I groped for him, but the Gifford who stood before me, palms outstretched, was no more than a ripple in the atmosphere, a mirage in a gray suit and striped silk tie. His perplexed smile glimmered in the darkness because his face, his arms, even his suit had turned transparent, and in moonlight I could see the purple sheen of his lungs and the pink, pulsing thing I had mistaken for a rose.