Both Winslow and Miguel would be hunting him, why, he could not say. But both his fealties stood revoked; his Dukes sought his life. Well enough, Kesley thought. He had no debts to either Miguel or Winslow. Once again he stood alone. Where to, now? He thought of Narella, in Buenos Aires. She would be waiting for him to come back--or was she, too, only part of Miguel's scheming. He didn't want to believe that. Van Alen had told him he belonged in Antarctica. Suddenly the image of the mysterious continent rose in his mind. He saw a vast wall. Nothing more was visible. It took only a moment to frame a resolution. Find Daveen. Find Narella. _And then_, he thought, _to Antarctica. To Antarctica!_ VIII The sleep-wrapped city was dark and silent. Kesley raced down the quiet streets, cutting laterally once to avoid the yellow glare of a wandering patrolman's swinging sodium lamp. He knew he had to move quickly. The city's gates would, of course, be barred, and he had no desire to try the lakefront way of leaving Chicago. He was no swimmer, and the lake, unguarded though it was, seemed endless. There was only one way out. Pulling his richly-brocaded cloak around him, he looked ahead for some sign of the night patrolman who had just passed. Finally he found him, far down the opposite street, swinging his lamp as he made his routine rounds. Cautiously, Kesley began to advance. The watchman's broad back was turned; a heavy truncheon hung at his side, and the butt of a pistol gleamed in a holster. His lamp cast long shadows down the empty street. Kesley sidled up behind him and clubbed downward efficiently with the side of his hand just as the watchman noticed the advancing shadow behind him. The man had half-turned when Kesley's hand cracked sharply into the column of his neck below his left ear and jawbone, and the watchman emitted a feeble gagging cry and fell. Kesley caught him neatly, grabbing the all-important lamp. Moving quickly and smoothly, he stripped the patrolman, donned his clothes, and bound the unconscious man with his ambassadorial robes. The guard stirred; Kesley stunned him with a blow of the truncheon and dragged him into the courtyard of a small, private dwelling. Stuffing him into a garbage bin that stood outside the door, he straightened his clothing and stepped back into the street, swinging the lantern nonchalantly. Moments later, horses' hooves thundered down from the Palace, breaking the quiet. Acting the part of a good watchman, Kesley ran out into the darkened street, holding his lamp up so its brightness would blur his face. "What's going on? Where are you coming from?" Two or three riders passed, ignoring him. "I say, stop!" A fourth rider leaned down from his horse. "Duke's guard, watchman. We're chasing an assassin!" "Assassin? The Duke dead?" "Heaven forbid. No; it's one of those South Americans. The Duke ordered him executed, but he escaped!"