The killer spoke then, for the first time. His voice rang out in the darkness, harsh with contempt and rage. It was in some respects a surprising voice, the voice of an educated man. But it was also a voice that had in it an accent that Corriston had heard before in verbal documentaries and hundreds of newsreels; in clinical case histories, microfilm recorded, in penal institutions, on governing bodies, and wherever men were in a position to destroy others--or perhaps themselves. It was the voice of an unloved, unwanted man. The voice said: "You're done for, my friend. I don't know what the Ramsey girl told you, but you came looking for me, and it's too late now for any kind of compromise." "I wasn't looking for a deal," Corriston said. "If it's any satisfaction to you, Miss Ramsey told me nothing. But I saw a man killed; and I couldn't find her afterwards. I think you know what happened to her. Knife me, if you can. I'll go down fighting." "That's easy to say. Maybe you _didn't_ come looking for me. But you know too much now to go on living. Unless you--wait a minute! You mentioned a deal. If you're lying about the Ramsey girl and will tell me where she is, I might not kill you." "I wasn't lying," Corriston said. "Hell ... you're really asking for it." "I'm afraid I am." "It won't be a pleasant way to die." "Any way is unpleasant. But I'm not dead yet. Killing me may not be as easy as you think." "It will be easy enough. This time you won't get past me." Corriston knew that the conversation was about to end unless something unexpected happened. And he didn't think there was much chance of that. Had he been clasping a metal tool, he would have swung hard enough to kill with it. But he wasn't clasping anything. He was crouching low, and suddenly he leapt straight forward into the darkness. His head collided with a bony knee and his hands went swiftly out and around invisible ankles. He tightened his grip, half expecting the knife to descend and bury itself in his back. But it didn't. The other had been taken so completely by surprise that he simply went backwards, suddenly, and with a strangled oath. Instantly Corriston was on top of him. He shifted his grip, releasing both of the struggling man's ankles and remorselessly seizing his wrists. He raised his right knee and brought it savagely downward, again and again and again. A cry of pain echoed through the darkness. The killer, crying out in torment, tried to twist free. For an instant the outcome remained uncertain, a see-saw contest of strength. Then Corriston had the knife and the struggle was over. Corriston made a mistake then of relaxing a little. Instantly, the killer rolled sideways, broke Corriston's grip, and was on his feet. He did not attempt to retaliate in any way. He simply disappeared into the darkness, breathing so loudly that Corriston could tell when the distance between them had dwindled to the vanishing point.