"Isn't it chilly?" "I made spiced hot cider for us. We can sip it and think." He let her draw him out onto the terrace. He leaned on the parapet, his arm around her pulsing waist, his cape drawn around both their shoulders. "Bess, I won't ask if you'd stay with me no matter what the circumstances. But it might be a time will come when I couldn't bear to live in this city. What about that?" "I don't know," she answered honestly. And Cortwright Burr put his hand up over the edge of the parapet, between them. * * * * * Sollenar stared down at the straining knuckles, holding the entire weight of the man dangling against the sheer face of the building. There was a sliding, rustling noise, and the other hand came up, searched blindly for a hold and found it, hooked over the stone. The fingers tensed and rose, their tips flattening at the pressure as Burr tried to pull his head and shoulders up to the level of the parapet. Bess breathed: "Oh, look at them! He must have torn them terribly climbing up!" Then she pulled away from Sollenar and stood staring at him, her hand to her mouth. "But he _couldn't_ have climbed! We're so high!" Sollenar beat at the hands with the heels of his palms, using the direct, trained blows he had learned at his athletic club. Bone splintered against the stone. When the knuckles were broken the hands instantaneously disappeared, leaving only streaks behind them. Sollenar looked over the parapet. A bundle shrank from sight, silhouetted against the lights of the pedestrian level and the Avenue. It contracted to a pinpoint. Then, when it reached the brook and water flew in all directions, it disappeared in a final sunburst, endowed with glory by the many lights which found momentary reflection down there. "Bess, leave me! Leave me, please!" Rufus Sollenar cried out. III Rufus Sollenar paced his office, his hands held safely still in front of him, their fingers spread and rigid. The telephone sounded, and his secretary said to him: "Mr. Sollenar, you are ten minutes from being late at the TTV Executives' Ball. This is a First Class obligation." Sollenar laughed. "I thought it was, when I originally classified it." "Are you now planning to renege, Mr. Sollenar?" the secretary inquired politely. Certainly, Sollenar thought. He could as easily renege on the Ball as a king could on his coronation. "Burr, you scum, what have you done to me?" he asked the air, and the telephone said: "Beg pardon?" "Tell my valet," Sollenar said. "I'm going." He dismissed the phone. His hands cupped in front of his chest. A firm grip on emptiness might be stronger than any prize in a broken hand. Carrying in his chest something he refused to admit was terror, Sollenar made ready for the Ball. But only a few moments after the first dance set had ended, Malcolm Levier of the local TTV station executive staff looked over Sollenar's shoulder and remarked: