Smith fell to running his hands through his hair again. "Now, let's _think_!" he muttered. "There must be some logical explanation." _Logical explanations_, Westervelt thought, _are always the reasons other people think of, not me._ He found a space to sit on the edge of the empty desk. Simonetta leaned beside him, and Beryl wandered over to the window of the switchboard cubicle to listen as Pauline checked Rosenkrantz. She shook her head to Smith's inquiring look. Then Lydman strolled through the double doors. "What's the conference about?" he asked. Beryl let out a shriek. Her back had been to the corridor when she jumped, but she came down facing the other way. Everyone stiffened. Lydman stood quietly, regarding them with considerable calm. After a moment, Beryl tottered back to lean against the glass of Pauline's window. She pressed one hand to her solar plexus, looking as if she might fold up at any breath. "Oh," she gasped. "Oh, Mr. Lydman...." He examined her with a clinical detachment. "Doesn't someone have a tranquilizer for her?" he asked. "I don't usually scare pretty girls." "Oh, no, no, no ... it's just that ... I mean, everyone was worried about you," stammered Beryl. "Why?" asked Lydman. "Don't you think I can take care of myself?" For the first time, Westervelt noticed the curiously set expression on the ex-spacer's face. He had until then been too busy watching Beryl and trying to calm his own nerves. He could not be certain, but it seemed as if Lydman's forehead displayed a faint sheen of perspiration. "Of course you can, Bob," said Smith. "We were--" Beryl, nearly to the point of hysteria in her relief, got the ball away from him. "We were worried about the elevator being stopped," she babbled. "And the door--you'll never believe it, Mr. Lydman, but the door to the emergency stairs wouldn't open!" Westervelt thought he heard Parrish swear, then realized it had been his own voice. He started to step in front of Simonetta. Parrish was moving slowly in Lydman's direction, trying to look at ease but looking tense instead. "Dammit!" shouted Smith. "Beryl, you're _fired_!" It did not seem to register on anybody, Beryl least of all. Lydman was confounding them all by standing quietly. His face tightened a little more at the news, but it did not seem to be the expression of a man who had just taken a bad jolt. "I know," he said. "I looked at it a couple of times after I saw the blackout downstairs." Smith regarded him warily. "How do you feel, Bob?" he asked. "You know how I feel," said Lydman. He let his gaze wander from one to another of them. Westervelt felt a chill as the handsome eyes looked through him in turn, but accepted the comforting realization that the stare was about as usual. Beryl was the picture of a girl afraid to breathe out loud, but the others relaxed cautiously. Smith even planted one hip on the corner of Simonetta's desk and tried to look casual.