W. A. Cornish, Ghost Stories (1927-02)
“ After what seemed an eternity—it was exactly eleven minutes—the inert, rubber-swathed Slim was hauled over the side. The moment that we let go our hold, the suit, crumpling like an empty grain sack, sloughed to the deck in a heap. The visor was hurriedly unclamped. A pallid face, drained of blood and with wide-open staring eyes, lay beneath. The eyes seemed all white; the pupils had shrunk to mere pin pricks of jet. An expression of rigid terror was frozen on the man’s countenance. There was no need for a pulmotor. Death—ghastly, stark, horrible—leered from beneath the copper helmet. ”
