George frowned and nervously twirled the edges of his fine moustache: everything was quiet, yet he felt things stirring beneath it all. He stared at the rolltop desk in the corner—or rather, he stared at where he knew it was; for it was mostly invisible in the darkness. His journal was in the desk drawer. He wanted to make some notations and yet he didn’t want to move, lest he break the spell that he was trying to get himself into. It seemed that the soft air pulsated with urgency, as if there was something he was supposed to do. And he had no idea what it could be.

Patiently and stubbornly he tried another tactic, one that often worked. He’d largely given up sniffing laughing gas ever since he discovered that he could do things with his consciousness without it and control events better, besides. So now he tried to get out of his body using what he called Method One.

He lay down, relaxed himself completely, closed his eyes and felt around inside himself for what he called the invisible muscles of his astral body. Then, he tried to sit up—while his body lay still; to move inner arms while his physical ones lay crossed on his chest, to walk on astral legs while his physical ones lay flat against the bed.

“Uh, ug.” He groaned with the effort. The sound was like thunder. His body shuddered. “Thunderation,” he cried; realizing that he’d used too much effort, tried too hard. Now he’d have to start all over again! At the same time, he was growing sleepy. He yawned, annoyed with himself. Then another idea came to him. He’d use Method Five if he could remember it. He’d use his own sleepiness to advantage.

Usually George Brainbridge was all for the importance of will power, resolution and effort. He was learning, though, that sometimes these got in the way of his very special mental activities. So now, grudgingly, he gave in and tried a method of getting out of his body that took full advantage (or so it seemed to him) of the body’s slavish need for sleep. He let his sleepiness come on. Trickily, he courted it. He yawned deeply, as if to tempt sleep to come closer. His eyes were closed; his bony body heavy on the cot’s surface.

He let sleep come on, let sleep have its way. And this was the trick: at the same time he conjured up an image of himself in the hall outside his room. When he fell asleep—at that very precise moment—just before his consciousness “went under,” he’d transfer it (and himself) to that other waking image.