It was the kind of thought to put a man upon his mettle. Floundering, Burke tried to break his bonds. It was useless. The cords wouldn't give a fraction. That meant he had to find some other way out. Twisting, he made an effort to check his pockets' contents. Small change, a comb, two keys, his lighter. _His lighter--!_ Involuntarily, Burke breathed faster. Squirming, writhing, he strained to bring his bound hands to where one could reach into the proper pocket, instead of just feeling what was there through fabric. Now tingling fingers told him the cords had cut off circulation. Let his hands get too numb, and he wouldn't even be able to hold the lighter. A final effort. One thumb slipped into the pocket. Burke hooked it into the opening and heaved. A seam ripped, noisy in the stillness. The pocket's contents rattled on the stone floor. Rolling over again, Burke groped till his trembling fingers found the lighter. Flicking back the lid, he spun the wheel. Flame licked at the palm of his other hand. For a moment it was all he could do to keep from crying out, dropping the lighter. But he gritted his teeth instead and, sweat streaming down his face, forced himself to lower the lighter carefully so that it stood upright on the floor. Now, once again, speed became the issue. It went without saying that the lighter's fluid must be almost exhausted. If it burned out too soon--! Burke bit down harder. Heedless of the pain and sweat and knotting muscles, he forced himself to thrust his wrists down so the flame could play upon the cords. In seconds, the stench of searing flesh and burned cloth blotted out the chamber's odor. Eyes squeezed tight shut as if to shut out the agony, cursing beneath his breath, Burke strained to keep his bonds taut and in the right position. Then, when it seemed that he could stand the pain no longer, a cord snapped like a clipped wire. Another followed. The next instant, Burke's wrists were free. Sobbing soundlessly, he batted out the lighter, to save what fuel remained. After that, the job became routine--a matter of stripping loose ends of cord from his wrists; working his fingers till circulation was restored; untying his ankles. The burns still hurt; and, he knew the pain would be even worse later on. What to do about it, though--that was something else again. In any case, he needed light. Rising, once more he flicked on the lighter. Mostly, it revealed emptiness and shadow. But there was a lamp-stand over to one side, so Burke made his way to it and lighted the lamp. Now, for the first time, he checked his watch. Eleven thirty five. Less than half an hour till Knossos met its doom. It raised a new problem: what was his own best course now? To stay here? To go seek out the Minotaur as first planned? Or to drop back through the open manhole he now spotted over in one corner, and put his trust in flight?