"I don't know myself, Mark. These weeks, I've been a prisoner here—a prisoner talking on a voco. They've never let me come or go."

On once more. On about the walls, and on, turn after turn.

On, while mankind's life-span ticked away.

The door came under my groping fingers. I clutched the knob; shook it.

It didn't give.

Something snapped inside me. Wildly, I flung myself at the heavy portal—kicking it, clawing it, beating on it with my fists.

No answer.

I yelled—a fierce, shrill cry to wake the dead. Again, again, again ... hammering and screaming, screaming and hammering.

Celeste: "Mark, stop it, stop it! stop it! They won't come. You'll only hurt yourself!"

Panting, I drew back, crouched, and then lunged for the slab that blocked our way, hurling myself against it with all my weight and strength.

"Mark, Mark—!"

Again I lunged. Again—again—again....

My shoulders were bruised now, my whole body aching. It was all I could do to stumble back for still another try.

Only then, suddenly, light spilled in upon us as the door swung open.

Unbelieving, I rocked back. Celeste Stelpa gave a choked, incoherent cry.

Wider the door swung, and still wider.

I held my breath and tensed my belly, waiting to see what form our foe would take.

Nothing happened.

I looked round at Celeste, and she at me.

Still nothing.

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