Suiting action to his words, the slender scientist dashed to the gleaming plastic conveyor that imitated in all its sapphirine perfection the blue glory of lapiz-lazuli. In an instant Guerlan was beside the scientist in a leap. He grasped the fragile shoulder with fingers that dug into rounded flesh. "If this is a trap, you die with me," he said briefly. "Your fingers," the scientist remarked impassively, "are like columbium steel. Suppose you await developments before indulging in atavistic impulses--besides, a real man offers no violence to a woman!" "A woman ... you?" Guerlan's dazed expression was ludicrous. "I thought you were one of those repugnantly beautiful 'Intermediates' the Inner Circle uses for intricate mental synthesis." "Am I repugnantly beautiful?" the scientist asked in cold detachment, luminous violet eyes gazing inscrutably into the reddening features of the young analyst. * * * * * Guerlan gazed at the exquisite face before him, and said laconically, "On the contrary." He was too confused for words just now. "My name is Perlac," the girl scientist said without preamble. "Listen carefully. This conveyor happens to be the only one that leads to the aero-dome. All the rest have no exit, for although you do not know it, every rest period you are directed to exit-conveyors by magnetic coordinators that act on impulses sent by Selectors. These selectors are attuned to the mental wave-length of the individual. No scientist, analyst or technician may leave a plastic center without being tested and their fitness for even limited temporary freedom established ... _not even to rest_! That is why the direction of the conveyors is changed for every allotment period and no one is permitted to know which is the exit conveyor! Had you remained in City of the Sphere and joined the Inner Circle, you would have learned all this." Guerlan stared at Perlac in incredulity. "But ... where are the Selectors? I've never seen them!" "Is that strange? They're in the walls, imbedded in the flooring beneath your feet ... oh, in a thousand places! But we've no time for involved explanations just now. We're nearing the Aero-dome. Prepare for the worst; but if we can get to my plane, we'll be beyond capture." "In a slow, propulsion type craft?" Guerlan asked unbelievingly. "We'll be captured in minutes, if not blasted out of the Second Level by Robot-Proctors!" * * * * * Perlac turned and gazed into the young analyst's eyes; a gentle, slow smile illumined her features like a tardy dawn. Suddenly they were at the vast platform that exited into the Aero-dome, but where the great section of wall should have slid aside, it remained blank and hermetically closed. It was a definite dead end.