He meant it. It showed in every line and corded, bulging muscle. Stark murder gleamed in his tiny, close-set pig-eyes ... glistened in the flecks of bloody foam at the mouth-corners and in the sweat-greased folds of the contorted face. Spasmodically, Dane dragged himself to his feet on the far side of the wrenched, warped table. Panting, Pfaff tried to reach him; then, failing, clawed for the heavy Kalquoi yat-stick that still lay on the slab between them. With all his might, Dane heaved at the already-sagging table. The yat-stick slid to the floor on his side. Pfaff hurled himself after it bodily. Jamming him aside, Dane snatched up the stick and swung it in a tight arc, straight for the base of the Security rep's skull. Pfaff twisted and it hit--snapped--a collarbone instead. In the same instant the chamber's door swung open. Two space-fleet guards gaped across the threshold. Face twisted with pain, clutching at his shattered clavicle, Pfaff roared, "Get this stabat!" * * * * * Dane lunged for the doorway, swinging the yat-stick. It clipped the first guard alongside the jaw; dropped him in his tracks. Dane stiff-armed the second and sprinted off down the passageway. But as he ran, alarm bells all about began to jangle. Ahead, a spaceman appeared as if from nowhere, paralyzer at the ready. Dane veered into the first cross-passage; dropped down a pneumolift to the next level. More green telonium walls. More bells and guards and paralyzers. Lurching now, staggering, Dane stumbled onward. It was as if his body were acting independently, without his mind's volition, for intelligence told him flatly that there would be, could be, no escape. Not in a closed unit like a spaceship. Yet here he was, still fleeing. Why? Why? Laughing, he downed another guard with the yat-stick; and even in his own ears his mirth rang a drunken note. Another pneumolift. Another. And after that, a long, dim-lighted passage. Dead end. So this was where they'd trap him. Only then, as he slumped to the floor, he stubbed his toe on a heavy screw-lock; saw at last the scarlet-lidded hatch on which he squatted. One more barrier to put behind him. Wearily, he wrenched the screw-locks open; pried up the spring catch; lifted the hatch-lid; peered down into the space beneath it. An unpleasant, faintly musty odor. A wall-ladder leading down into pale grey emptiness. Yat-stick still in hand, Dane lowered himself gingerly through the hatchway and let the heavy scarlet lid fall to above him, wondering as he did so why it was painted so bright a red. The spring catch clicked into place. No going back now. Down the ladder, a rung at a time. Ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty. Solid decking again. Solid ... yet strangely slippery. And the unpleasant musty smell was stronger now, too. Something brushed Dane's hand. Something gelatinous and clammy. Instinctively, he jerked back.