There he was! The shadowy outline of a man etched itself on the detector screen. And at the same time, Massan heard a muffled roar, then a rumbling, crashing noise, growing quickly louder and more menacing. He looked up the face of the ice cliff and saw a small avalanche of ice tumbling, sliding, growling toward him. _That devil set off a bomb at the top of the cliff!_ Massan tried to back out of the way, but it was too late. The first chunk of ice bounced harmlessly off his helmet, but the others knocked him off-balance so repeatedly that the servos had no chance to recover. He staggered blindly for a few moments, as more and more ice cascaded down on him, and then toppled off the ledge into the boiling sea. _Relax!_ he ordered himself. _Do not panic! The suit will float you. The servos will keep you right-side-up. You cannot be killed accidentally; Odal must perform the_ coup-de-grace _himself._ Then he remembered the emergency rocket units in the back of the suit. If he could orient himself properly, a touch of a control stud on his belt would set them off, and he would be boosted back onto the iceberg. He turned slightly inside the suit and tried to judge the iceberg’s distance through the infrared detector. It was difficult, especially since he was bobbing madly in the churning currents. Finally he decided to fire the rocket and make final adjustments of distance and landing site after he was safely out of the sea. But he could not move his hand. He tried, but his entire right arm was locked fast. He could not budge it an inch. And the same for the left. Something, or someone, was clamping his arms tight. He could not even pull them out of their sleeves. Massan thrashed about, trying to shake off whatever it was. No use. Then his detector screen was lifted slowly from the viewplate. He felt something vibrating on his helmet. The oxygen tubes! They were being disconnected. He screamed and tried to fight free. No use. With a hiss, the oxygen tubes pulled free of his helmet. Massan could feel the blood pounding through his veins as he fought desperately to free himself. Now he was being pushed down into the sea. He screamed again and tried to wrench his body away. The frothing sea filled his viewplate. He was under. He was being held under. And now ... now the viewplate itself was being loosened. _No! Don’t!_ The scalding cold methane ammonia sea seeped in through the opening viewplate. “It’s only a dream!” Massan shouted to himself. “Only a dream. A dream. A—” XI Dr. Leoh stared at the dinner table without really seeing it. Coming to this restaurant had been Hector’s idea. Three hours earlier, Massan had been removed from the dueling machine—dead.