The other man pointed his weapon at Holmer. Holmer, without a look at Kara or Birrel, started up the old stairway in the hall, with the Irrian close behind him. Vannevan followed them. Birrel looked at Kara. Her face was a stony mask. He looked at the Irrian across the room. In the yellow light of the lamp, the man's face was wrong. It was wrong because it was just a dark, average face. It didn't belong to an enemy from the stars. But the cylinder in his hand pointed levelly at Birrel and the girl. The dusty cuckoo-clock ticked toward midnight. Strange, that it was running, Birrel thought. One of them--Kara or Holmer--must have started it out of curiosity. He knew he was only thinking these thoughts so that his brain wouldn't crack from the insane unreality of the situation. Birrel suddenly felt sweat on his forehead. Sounds were coming from upstairs, not loud sounds, but thumping, gasping noises. There was a voice, and then more of the gasping sounds. Kara started to get to her feet and the man with the fluted metal cylinder said, "Sit down." Birrel looked at the clock. Two minutes to midnight. A cuckoo-clock and a spy from the stars. Unreal. But a wild notion began to grow in his mind.... * * * * * A shriek, a fading, choking death-cry, came down the stairs. And then Vannevan's voice came down, loud with anger. "Damn him, he's dead." "_Sit down_," said the armed Irrian, again. A half-minute to midnight. He'd have to try it, there'd never be another chance, not after Vannevan came down those stairs for another of them, for Kara first, and then for Birrel-- The cuckoo-clock said, "_Cuckoo_." At the sharp sound, at the little flirt of movement by the out-popping bird, the Irrian with the weapon looked up, startled. Birrel had thought he would. He thought it unlikely that they had cuckoo-clocks out in the stars. He had waited for the moment, and as the Irrian's head turned, he sprang. He didn't try to reach the Irrian himself. He was too far off. He went for the table with the kerosene lamp on it, which was quite near. He hooked his fingers under the edge of the table and heaved it over as hard as he could. The lamp went flying. It hit the floor, splashing hot oil and flame, and the Irrian screamed. The carpet was suddenly burning around his feet and little flames blossomed like magic where the oil spattered his clothes. There was no need for Birrel to tackle him. He fled screaming into the hall, tearing off his coat and beating in panic at his legs. The room was in darkness now except for the splashes of fire that ran over the floor and up the window curtains and in erratic streaks on the wallpaper. Birrel grabbed Kara's hand and lunged for the outer door. "Holmer!" she cried frantically, dragging back. "He's dead, you heard--come _on_!" He pulled her, with rough determination.