We are in your debt, Mister Hood, said Norsgaard. Now these scum will pay theirs. Stay where you are, he commended Hood, and then his finger pressed a button on the black box. There came the faintest hissing sound, but Hood didn't hear it. His mouth had sagged open, and his eyes were straining with disbelief. The man at whom the instrument was aimed was dissolving! Not melting or burning or running into greased. His clothes were simply emptying, as if by some miracle he were shrinking himself out of them.

1969.