Now, from the office area, a hand torch flicked this way and that, its hard, bright cone of light lancing through the murk. Ross held his breath. When the beam passed over him and moved on, he wormed his way swiftly along the cases and into the first cross-aisle. More lights. More wary shuffling. Hastily, Ross made his way to the next longitudinal aisle, then doubled back in the direction of the offices once more. Almost in the same instant, Pike Mawson's voice cut through the stillness: "Stop! Both of you!" His words were clipped, incisive. Ross froze in his tracks. His palms were slick with sweat as they pressed flat against the transit cases. Mawson again: "Get back here, you fools! Don't you understand? That chitza's trying to feint us away from the entrance so he can blast out!" From beyond Mawson, a second voice mumbled unclear syllables. "Let him hide!" Mawson cut in sharply. "He'll soon tire of it. The thing to remember is that there's no way out of this place except through the office area; I made sure of that before we took it over. So as long as we stay at this end, our fine friend can't escape." A burst of guttural elation. Ross' pursuers drew back into the brightly-lighted offices. For a long moment Ross stood unmoving. Then, as the last echo of the others' clumping footsteps died and the darkness closed in on taut, vibrant silence, he turned. His face was pale and drawn, his breathing shallow, his mouth a thin, grim line. Moving down the aisle cat-silent, he groped his way to the place his earlier foe had died beside the stacked plastidrums of steron. Steron, with its deadly methane fumes, and high combustibility, and flaring, 4000-degree heat. Ross' lips twisted. Dragging out one of the drums, he jerked savagely at the opener tab. The cap tore away. With a momentary faint hiss of gas escaping, steron fumes spurted forth in a choking, all-enveloping rush. Ross grinned mirthlessly. With swift efficiency, he dragged out a second drum and opened it also. Then a third ... a fourth.... Turning this last tank on its side, he rolled it full-tilt down the aisle towards the offices, a trail of fumes and liquid spilling out in its wake. Now, drawing back into a cross-aisle, Ross flicked his flamer and tossed it out onto the snake-like steron trail. The fumes caught even before the flamer struck the floor. With a roar like the gush of a power hose, fire leaped back to the three open drums. The explosion as they ignited sprayed flame in a mad starburst that illumined the whole central section of the warehouse. In seconds a thunderous holocaust swirled roof-high. Ross sprinted for the office area. Scrambling up a ladder to the first catwalk, he peered down into the rooms below. Already Mawson's men were running for the door to the street. But of Mawson himself, and of Veta Hall, there was no sign. Breathing hard, Ross moved on along the catwalk.