Then the bolt was snicking back, the block door opening. Quickly, Boone twisted his head to an appropriate angle. Closing his eyes, he let himself swing limp and motionless as he could. The fraction of a second later one of the visitors choked, "Krobis! Look--" "Damn him--!" This in tight fury from Krobis. "He can't cheat me this way! I won't let him!" Shoes slithered on the flooring. "Quick! Help me!" Hands lifted Boone. A knife hacked at the cloth noose. The fabric ripped through at last. Still limp of limb, head lolling, Boone let himself be lowered to the bunk. Then Krobis' voice rang close beside him: "This noose--! There's something funny--" Stubby fingers tugged apart the double loops. Boone slumped sidewise, away from Krobis, so that the other was strained far forward and off balance. Then, in one swift, convulsive movement, he drove his elbow deep into his enemy's unprotected midriff. The wind went out of the base director's lungs in a gust. He bent double ... hung tottering, face shock-contorted. Twisting, Boone whipped his hand up ... chopped down with all his might on the back of Krobis' neck. Krobis slammed forward on his face on the floor. As he landed, the spell of startlement that had held the others broke. With an incoherent roar, the man at the left lunged forward. Boone jerked back. Writhing, flat on the bunk, he jackknifed his legs up and lashed out with both feet, straight at his attacker's face. The man tried to dodge. Barely, in time, his head flicked aside. But it was too late for him to twist his shoulders. There was the brittle _Crack!_ of a collar-bone snapping. The man catapulted back, clear across the cell-block. But now the third man was upon Boone, swinging a nerve-gun. The guard crowded close behind him. Before Boone could move, the barrel gashed open his forehead. A fist hammered at his temple. The guard clawed at him ... crushed his flailing legs in a mighty bear-hug. Spasmodically, Boone clutched the nerve-gun; jammed it upward. A grunt of pain echoed as trigger-guard wrenched forefinger. The man who held the weapon reared back sharply and let go of it. Boone backhanded the butt, striking for the man's Adam's-apple. The blow hit home. Choking, Boone's assailant tried to break free, tripped, and pitched backwards to the floor. Boone spun the gun, reversed it, blazed a charge at the guard, dangerously close to his own legs. The burly jailer gave a single paroxysmic jerk, then crumpled. Blood from the barrel-gash spilling into his eyes, Boone lurched up and lunged for the open doorway. Someone clutched at his ankle. Kicking free, not even turning, he charged on into the corridor and broke for the building exit--half-running, half-staggering. Then the last door was swinging shut behind him. He plunged into the shadows along a warehouse.