"See what I'm thinking?" asked Smith. They faced each other for a moment in silence. "Well, it ought to be all right, as long as he can get down the stairs if he wants to," said Parrish. "I'm sorry, Beryl. We'll have to make it some other time." "But how are we going to get home?" asked the blonde. "Oh, they'll probably have it fixed by the time we're finished here," said Parrish. "Then what's all the trouble about. Why is Willie looking so sour?" Westervelt braced himself against the impact of three glances and tried not to sneer. The other two men cleared their throats and looked back at Beryl. "I'm going to have to ask your co-operation, Beryl," said Smith. "First, Pete, I'd like to point out to you a little gem of modern design. This door here is powered to slide open automatically for a fire or other emergency." "Of course," said Parrish curiously. "But there isn't any power," Smith pointed out. Parrish reached out impatiently and tried the door. He wrenched at it two or three times, then bent to peer for the latch. "No use, Pete," said Smith, glancing down the hall again. "Willie already went through that whole routine. I've been on the phone to the building manager, and there isn't anything he can do except send a party up from the seventy-fifth floor to burn open the door from the stair side." "Is he doing it?" "Well, frankly ... I told him it wasn't necessary," said Smith, getting a stubborn look on his long face. "But you know Bob!" expostulated Parrish. "If he gets the idea that he's penned in here--" "I know, I know," said Smith. "On the other hand, we can always get something from the lab and break out from this side, provided we take care not to let him know what is going on until later." Westervelt eyed Beryl sardonically. He had seldom seen an expression so blended of impatience and vague worry. He wondered if anyone would explain to her. Parrish shook his head. "I think it might be better to call downstairs again, and have them come up," he said. "I don't want to do that," said Smith. "Why not?" "It would get around. Pretty soon, the story would be all over the D.I.R." Parrish actually leaned forward slightly to study his chief's face. He found no words, but his very expression was plaintive. Smith sighed. "We're in the business of springing spacers from jails all over the explored galaxy," he said. "We're supposed to be loaded to the jets with high-potency brainwaves and have a gadget for every purpose! How is it going to look if we're locked in our own office and can't get out without help?" Parrish threw up his hands. Pivoting, he walked loosely a few feet along the corridor and back, squeezing his chin in the palm of one hand. He clasped his hands behind his back, then, and peered around Smith at the empty wing of the corridor. "Maybe we could dope him," he suggested, without much feeling. "I should have thought of that," admitted Smith, "but he's finished eating."