Reinhart followed Sherikov out of the room, into the corridor. Police and guards were working rapidly, clearing the debris and ruins away, putting out the hydrogen fires that burned everywhere. "No tricks, Sherikov." "No tricks." Sherikov nodded resignedly. "Thomas Cole is by himself. In a wing lab off the main rooms." "Cole?" "The variable man. That's his name." The Pole turned his massive head a little. "He has a name." Reinhart waved his gun. "Hurry up. I don't want anything to go wrong. This is the part I came for." "You must remember something, Commissioner." "What is it?" Sherikov stopped walking. "Commissioner, nothing must happen to the globe. The control turret. Everything depends on it, the war, our whole--" "I know. Nothing will happen to the damn thing. Let's go." "If it should get damaged--" "I'm not after the globe. I'm interested only in--in Thomas Cole." They came to the end of the corridor and stopped before a metal door. Sherikov nodded at the door. "In there." Reinhart moved back. "Open the door." "Open it yourself. I don't want to have anything to do with it." Reinhart shrugged. He stepped up to the door. Holding his gun level he raised his hand, passing it in front of the eye circuit. Nothing happened. Reinhart frowned. He pushed the door with his hand. The door slid open. Reinhart was looking into a small laboratory. He glimpsed a workbench, tools, heaps of equipment, measuring devices, and in the center of the bench the transparent globe, the control turret. "Cole?" Reinhart advanced quickly into the room. He glanced around him, suddenly alarmed. "Where--" The room was empty. Thomas Cole was gone. When the first missile struck, Cole stopped work and sat listening. Far off, a distant rumble rolled through the earth, shaking the floor under him. On the bench, tools and equipment danced up and down. A pair of pliers fell crashing to the floor. A box of screws tipped over, spilling its minute contents out. Cole listened for a time. Presently he lifted the transparent globe from the bench. With carefully controlled hands he held the globe up, running his fingers gently over the surface, his faded blue eyes thoughtful. Then, after a time, he placed the globe back on the bench, in its mount. The globe was finished. A faint glow of pride moved through the variable man. The globe was the finest job he had ever done. The deep rumblings ceased. Cole became instantly alert. He jumped down from his stool, hurrying across the room to the door. For a moment he stood by the door listening intently. He could hear noise on the other side, shouts, guards rushing past, dragging heavy equipment, working frantically. A rolling crash echoed down the corridor and lapped against his door. The concussion spun him around. Again a tide of energy shook the walls and floor and sent him down on his knees. The lights flickered and winked out.