The lift slowed. Jerking my sash from Gaylord's throat, I snapped it back in place about my waist and, as we halted, shoved my unwilling accomplice out of the cage ahead of me.

There were two guards in the anteroom instead of one. The first, beetle-browed and heavy-jawed, slumped dozing in a chair. His companion, slimmer and trimmer, sat straighter than was necessary but without a coat, playing a miniature sokkol wheel against himself.

"Visitor for Controller Kruze," Gaylord croaked as the non-sleeping guard looked up. He made as if to stride past the pair to the door beyond.

But as he did so, his head went forward just a fraction, and his left shoulder dropped.

The next item on the agenda would be a simultaneous yell of warning and spin to one side, out of my reach. He might as well have put it on a placard.

I leaped first, by a split second. When the yell came, and the spin, I was already in position to catch Gaylord's arm as he whirled by.

It changed his course a bit. He crashed bodily into the dozing, bull-necked guard, and they went down together.

But the other guard was rising. Ducking, I snatched up his fallen comrade's chair and hurled it at him.

The man threw up his arms to ward it off. Lunging at him full-tilt, head lowered, I butted him in the stomach.

The wind went out of him in a gust. He tottered backward, his mouth opening and closing in agonized, fish-like contortions as he fought to catch his breath.

I stomped on his foot and gave him a violent reverse shove past me. Lurching wildly, he tumbled into the heavy-set guard—now arising—just as had Gaylord. Together, they went down atop the controller in a comic-opera slap-stick tangle.

Then a hand came clear of the threshing clutter of arms and legs. It held a paragun.

I kicked for—connected with—the wrist. The weapon flew wide. I dived after it, arm outstretched.

But before I could claw it up, a voice lashed out, harsh and heavy, from the doorway to Kruze's quarters:

"Don't touch it, Traynor!"

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