A stair-housing rose near one edge of the flat, parapeted roof. Crossing to it, he kicked out the door's translucent panel. Inside, now. The stairwell yawned like a black, bottomless pit. Silently, Craig crept down the steps. There was another locked door at the bottom--and this one had no panel. Craig kicked it. It held firm. He kicked it again--unrestrained, now--and again, and again, till the echoes rang round him in thunder-chorus. From beyond the portal came a beat of running feet. Someone fumbled with the door's handle. Craig drew his fire-gun ... waited.... The door opened, a bare inch. Craig kicked it with all his might. The door burst open. A guard reeled back, clutching his face where the swinging edge had struck him. Craig kicked him, too--first in the belly; then, when he doubled over, in the face. The guard crumpled; lay still. Craig strode down the hall, trying doors. But the rooms they sealed were empty, unfinished. Craig went back to the guard. The man was moaning now. His fingers dug spasmodically at the naked tiles of the floor. Dragging him erect, Craig shoved him back flat against the wall. Slowly, the other's sagging head lifted. The glazed eyes cleared a little. Craig held his voice cold and level: "Where's Zenaor?" "At ... this hour?" The swollen lips bubbled. "Down--seventh level." "And between?" "The guest chambers--Lady Vydys--her party." "Vydys...." Craig paused--frowning, searching his memory. Where had he heard that name before? From Tumek, or Narla? Or in a report, while he briefed for this mission? He scowled, probing. "Why are you here, then, when this level's empty?" "Why--? With Vydys in the tower?" The bloodshot eyes widened. "My lord Zenaor loves life. He knows better than to trust her." The memories came back with a rush, if not their source. Vydys the Cruel, chief of all Zenaor's rivals! Here, in this tower, tonight! Craig drew his lips thin. "Where's your post, scum?" "Below--force shaft." The guard gestured. "Heard you--kicking." Craig stepped aside. "Get back to it, then." He motioned with the fire-gun. The guard shot him a bleared, uncertain glance. Then, shuffling, not quite steady, one hand to the wall, the man moved ahead of Craig down the hall to an alcove backed with twin sliding panels. Clutching the grip of the one on the right, he pushed it back. Beyond lay a small, square room like a closet, but without floor or ceiling. The guard stepped across the threshold. It was as if he had moved out onto an invisible platform. Erect, motionless, he sank slowly down the shaft. Craig shot one breath-taking glance into the pit, and followed. * * * * * Instantly, a pulsing vibrance seemed to grip and hold him. Taut-nerved, he stood rigid, drifting slowly down against the lift of an upward flow of some strange current.