It would be more difficult to get downstairs than he had supposed. The main staircase looked long and formidable--he looked at it and wondered. Then he remembered the other, easier staircase, at the bottom of the corridor, that led directly to Dr. Gentian's high-ceiled study. He found it and started going down--it was dark and winding, but the steps were shorter. He went gingerly and quietly, for fear of falling. At the landing he paused, remembering, with a smile, Dr. Gentian's disquisition on the proposed planetary map for the ceiling. The panel that slid back behind the moon, must be about here--yes. His fingers found the catch. Mechanically, he slid it open and peered through the little round opening into the room below. What he saw made his fingers shake on the latch of the panel. Sparta Gentian and Mr. Cave were seated in the study, talking. On the table between them was a pair of candles that burnt with a still flame, glasses, and a half-emptied bottle of wine. "There's no heat in this liquor, Sparta," Cave was complaining in his grunting accents, "Why can't we have rum, you white doll?--you know well enough I'd rather have rum." His coat was pushed back, his shirt open at the throat--his whole face looked stupid and savage as the mask of a boar. Andrew saw them both very plainly, in spite of the gloom in the room. A taste like the taste of bitter aloes came into his mouth, and he felt his heart turn slowly to a dull, hard, gleaming stone. "You can't have rum because I choose to talk to you, Charles--not watch you fall asleep with your head in your arms," Sparta's lyric voice had never been more flawed with crystal. "If the wine doesn't suit you--spill it on the floor--I'll wipe it up with my kerchief and wear it for a favor." "By God, I believe you would," grumbled Mr. Cave, reaching out for her hand, "You're a brave wench, Sparta. Come kiss me for a brave wench." "Not now," said Sparta steadily. "You smell too much of your wine. You've had enough kisses from me till you master the world and make me proud of you." "You lie, you golden slut!" said Mr. Cave, and thumped his fist on the table, "I've never had enough of your kisses yet--nor likely--unless you've grown so finicky-fine this last month you'd rather have that sick cat in yellow breeches squeeze you because he sets up for a gentleman--the shopkeeping little snotty-nose! Come kiss me, I say--I want to get the taste of him out of my mind."