Duggan came to his feet, listening for the sound of battle between Rusche and his captive. It came from his right, faintly. About ten feet distant, he judged it. And now the emergency vents were clearing the darkness from the travel strips. Twilight faded and vision replaced it. Rusche was sitting astride a prone body, and even as Duggan reached his side the struggling criminal's arms and legs went limp. Rusche grunted and started to stand. "A super mech!" he said. He rubbed thoughtfully at his disarranged nose and cheeks, smoothing them again into their normal contours. "What about yours?" "The same." "Here's their loot, anyhow," Rusche said, holding up a small gray plastine bag. "Drop it, Ted. We better fade out of here before the Squads arrive, too. They might think we're--" "Not on your life, Al. We should get a reward. Pics on the newswires and tapes." Duggan shrugged and smoothed at his own neck and face. Four red-uniformed men, their heads hidden by ovoid gas helmets, came hissing toward them along the travel strip. They rode single-wheeled cycles and their rapid-fire expoders were trained on them. "Careful now, Ted. Let me do the talking. They like to use paralysis needles and question later." "But--" "I've lived up here." The unicycles braked to a halt. "Step over here, slow," ordered one of the Squadmen. Duggan obeyed, careful to keep his arms rigid. Of course paralysis needles would cause this mech body no damage, but why make trouble? They _had_ more destructive weapons. "Ran into us," he said mildly. "We figured something wrong--honest men would be standing where they were. We stopped them." The four members of the Squad were inspecting the damage. "I guess you did," one of them said, admiringly. "You must be super mechs too?" "That's right. I'm Duggan, Al--Merle Duggan, and this is my friend, Ted Rusche. We work on the 80th Level--rockhounds." "Duggan?" The man's voice was suddenly strained. "Maybe you're not so clear as you pretend. A woman got in the way by accident, supposedly, of their getaway from the bank. Her name was Duggan too." Duggan started forward, remembered the ugly expoder muzzles and backed away. "Was her name Janith?" he demanded. "Radio report didn't say. Contact them, Joe," he told one of the other faceless men. "Couldn't be you hired these two to kill her and pretend the robbery?" he inquired. "Of course not." One of the Squad mumbled something. Duggan's interrogator dropped his weapon's muzzle. "Woman twisted her ankle trying to get out of the way, and fell. Received a cut on her temple and is being taken to the hospital. Accidental all right." "But her name." "Janith." Duggan felt a strange mingling of anger and of tenderness. The anger was directed toward the criminals. "Could I go to her now? Rusche can fill you in on details." "It's not--oh, all right. Regulations aren't too strict on these levels. She your sister?" "Wife." He turned to Rusche.