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once, threw him against the wall.
"Do as you're told!" he snarled. "Haven't you heard there's an enemy of the Order at large in the club?"
"S-s-sir," the man mumbled, pressing an electrokey against the slot. The door slid back. Bailey stepped
through and was in a dark passage. Dim lights went up at his first step. He tried doors; the third opened
on a white-walled room where half a dozen stewards lounged around a long table.
"As you were," Bailey barked as the startled servants scrambled to their feet. "Remain in this room until
told to leave. You " He stabbed with his finger at a thick-shouldered, frowning fellow with red pips on
his collar who appeared to be about to speak. "Lead the way to the prefect's office!"
"Me?" the man gaped, taken aback.
"You!" Bailey strode across to the door, flicked it open. The big man lumbered past him. Bailey stepped
out behind him, looked both ways; the corridor was empty. He struck once with the edge of his hand,
caught the man as he collapsed. Swiftly, he checked the man's pockets, turned up a flat card to which
half a dozen keys were attached. He covered the distance to the next intersection at a run, slowed to a
walk rounding the corner. Two men came toward him, one an indignant-looking chap with the
waxed-and-polished look Bailey had come to expect of Crusters past their first youth. The other was a
small, quick-eyed man, in plain dark clothes, as out of place here in Blue Level territory as a cockroach
on a silver tray. As he started past, the latter turned and put out a restraining hand. Bailey spoke first:
"What the hell are you doing standing here gossiping?" he snapped. "We're here on business, remember?
What are you doing about the dead man in the cross-corridor?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in
the direction from which he had come, turned his attention to the other man, who gaped; his mouth open.
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"Sir, I'll have to insist that you go along now to the lift foyer," Bailey said briskly. "If you please, sir." He
made an impatient motion. The man made a gobbling noise and set off at a rapid walk. Bailey followed
without looking back.
They passed half a dozen grim-faced plainclothes Peacemen; none gave them more than a glance. As
they came into the circular silver-and-rose chamber where Bailey had first arrived, he halted his
companion with a word. Clusters of uniformed Peacemen were grouped here and there throughout the
room. Bailey pointed to a shoulder-tabbed officer.
"Tell the adjutant the snarfitar is bonfrect," he ordered. As the Cruster stiffened and opened his mouth to
protest, Bailey forestalled him: "We're counting on you, sir. You and I between us will make this pinch.
And whatever you do, don't look at me."
"The . . . snarfitar is bonfrect?" the man queried.
"Exactly; and the doolfroon have taken over the ignort."
"Doolfroon's taken over the ignort." The man hurried away, mumbling. Bailey watched the officer turn as
the messenger came up; he waited until the sound of raised voices told him the message had been
delivered. Then he strolled behind a group of Peacemen as they stared toward the disturbance, tried keys
until one opened the lift doors, stepped into a silver-filigree decorated, white leather upholstered car, and
punched the top key.
26
Bailey changed cars three times at intermediate levels, each time under the eyes of guards alert for a man
descending, before he reached the tower suite. He stepped out into a mirror-walled ante-room rugged in
soft gray. A wide white and silver door stood at one side. It opened at a touch. Across the room a
square-faced man with carelessly combed black hair looked up with a faintly puzzled expression.
"Are you Micael Drans?" Bailey heard himself ask.
"Yes . . ."
Bailey made a smooth motion and the gun he had bought in another lifetime, six hours earlier, was in his
hand. He raised it to point squarely at the forehead of the man behind the desk. His finger moved to the
firing stud
A side door burst open. A girl stood there, wide-eyed, white-gowned, elegant. In a single step she was
between them, shielding the victim with her slim body. A gun in her jeweled hand was aimed at Bailey's
chest.
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"No, William Bailey!" she cried. "Drans mustn't die!"
27
"I remember you," Bailey said. His voice sounded blurred in his ears; the room, the girl, the man sitting
rigid behind the desk had taken on a dream-like quality. "You're the girl who helped me. I never learned
your name."
"Throw the gun away, William," she said urgently.
Bailey trembled, sick with the hunger of his need to shoot, restrained by the impossibility of killing the
girl. "I can't," he groaned. "I have to kill him!"
"Why?" the girl demanded.
"The voice," he said, remembering. "In the Euthanasia Center, it told me how to control my circulation to
keep the drug from paralyzing my heart, how to make my legs work enough to carry me out through the
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