The officer ran up with a reversed spear. From the look in his big black eyes, Taranto realized that the Syssokan had also learned something during the melee. That explained, no doubt, why he was an officer. He swung the spear in a neat arc--at Taranto's head! It cracked against the Terran's skull. Even though he did his best to ride with it, he felt his knees buckle. He struck out with his right fist, but the punch was smothered by the soldier whom he had kneed. The spear came down again. The world of Taranto's existence was reduced to a narrow view of a straining, greenish-gray calf showing through a torn leg of a Syssokan uniform. Vaguely, he realized that he was on his hands and knees. A great number of hands seemed to be grabbing at him, and his own were very heavy as he groped out for the leg. He got some sort of fumbling grip, and started to haul himself up. The slowness of his motions alarmed him, in a foggy way. He tried to tuck his chin behind his left shoulder because he knew that there was something ... something ... coming.... It came. The Syssokan officer's big foot took him behind the ear with a brutal thump. Taranto, however, sinking into gray nothingness, did not really feel it.... ELEVEN Smith stood at the corner of the corridor, leaning back every half minute or so to peek around at the stretch leading toward the library and communications room. Westervelt had propped himself with folded arms against the opposite wall, facing the door to the stairs. Beryl hovered behind Parrish, who faced Smith impatiently between darting glares at Westervelt. "All right, I guess I have to tell you, Pete," said Smith in a low tone. "You might say we are temporarily inconvenienced." "By him?" asked Parrish, jerking a thumb in Westervelt's direction. "That I could understand. The kid's beginning to think he's a comedian. He started out just now playing Charley's Aunt." "Sssh!" said Smith softly. Westervelt turned his head toward the main entrance, wondering how far Parrish's voice had carried. Smith's dapper assistant looked from one to the other. Seeking some evidence of sanity, he turned with raised eyebrows to Beryl. The blonde rounded her blue eyes at him and shrugged. "Pete, this is no joke," insisted Smith. "I wish it hadn't gotten around so fast, but there it is." "There _what_ is?" demanded Parrish, in a tone bordering on the querulous. "Well ... there's been some kind of power failure throughout the business district. There aren't any elevators running, and we don't know how long it will be until the power company copes with the trouble." "No elevators?" repeated Parrish. He stared at the sliding doors of the elevator shaft as if unable to comprehend the lack of such service. The idea seemed to sink in. "_No elevators?_ And ninety-nine stories _up_?" "Sssh!" said Smith, glancing down the corridor. "What's the matter with you, Castor?" asked Parrish. "Are you watching for someone ... someone ... oh!"