He tried the handle. It did not budge, except for a slight clicking. Feeling slightly uneasy, he leaned over to squint at the crack of the door. He spotted the latch, a sturdy bar, and saw that he was moving it. There was, however, another bar which did not move, and the door refused to slide open. "Of course," he breathed. "It's made to open automatically. How would they do that? By electricity. What haven't we got plenty of? The damn' thing's locked! Somebody designed a beautiful set-up!" He looked about the empty corridor, jittering indecisively. "I could call downstairs before I tell Smitty," he reminded himself. For the sake of having a handy shoulder to cry on, he went all the way back to the communications room to use a phone. He made a gesture of throwing up his hands as Joe looked around, then got Pauline on the phone. "See if you can get me the building manager's office," he requested. "Don't be surprised if it's busy for a couple of minutes." It was nearer fifteen minutes before his call went through. During that time, he learned that Rosenkrantz took a serious view of the inconvenience. "I guess you heard some of the talk about Bob Lydman," said the operator. "Well, some is imagination, but a lot of it's true. He spent a long time in a hellhole out among the stars; and if there's anything that might shove him off course, it's the idea that he can't get _out_. No matter where he is, he has to know he can leave when he feels like it!" "But if he doesn't know about it?" asked Westervelt. "How long can you keep it quiet? I bet you can see a blackout from the window. Watch the set--I'll take a look." "Aw, now, wait a minute, Joe!" Westervelt's consternation was diverted by the call that came through at that moment. A perspiring face with ruffled gray hair--which Westervelt could remember having seen occasionally about the lobby downstairs, looking extremely sleek and well-groomed--appeared on the phone screen. "If you're above the seventy-fifth, walk down that far. If you're lower, walk down as far as you can," said the man hoarsely. "If you can stay put, that's the best thing." "Tell me, what--?" "Power failure, not responsibility of the building management," said the sweating gentleman. "Please co-operate!" "But what--?" "We're doing all we can and this phone is busy, young man! Will you please--" "The stairs are locked!" shouted Westervelt. For a moment, he doubted that he had penetrated the official's panic. Then he saw new outrage in the man's eyes. "What did you say?" Westervelt explained about the door to the stairs. The gentleman downstairs clapped both hands to his moist cheeks. He had begun to look numb. After a long pause, he pulled himself together enough to promise that he would look into the matter. As he switched off, Westervelt heard him muttering that it was just too much. "You hear that, Joe?" he asked.