Gately, the wraith, and the figurants — "The wraith on the monitor now…"
The wraith on the monitor now bends sharply at the waist, way over forward so his face is upside-down only cm. from Gately’s face—the wraith’s face is only about half the size of Gately’s face, and has no odor—and responds vehemently that No! No! Any conversation or interchange is better than none at all, to trust him on this, that the worst kind of gut-wrenching intergenerational interface is better than withdrawal or hiddenness on either side.
Context
The dead man's one imperative, delivered upside-down and centimeters from Gately's face: any interface beats hiddenness, on either side. The half-sized, odorless face is wraith-physics as intimacy-horror, and the vehemence carries the full weight of someone who found out too late — saying it to the wrong man's face because the right one couldn't survive the sight of him.