adually widening circle. Dalgard held to
the walled edge of the roof. Something within him suggested that it
would be wiser to seek some less open space, that there was danger in
that flying box. He released his hold and went to the trap door. It
took only a minute to fit his fingers into round holes and tug. Its
stubborn resistance gave, and stale air whooshed out in his face as it
opened.

In his battle with the door Dalgard had ignored the box, so he was
startled when, with a piercing whistle, almost too high on the scale
for his ears to catch, the thing suddenly swooped into a screaming
dive, apparently heading straight for him. Dalgard flung himself
through the trap door, luckily landing on one of the steep, curved
ramps. He lost his balance and slid down into the dark, trying to
brake his descent with his hands, the eerie screech of the box
trumpeting in his ears.

There was little light in this section of the cone building, and he
was brought up with bruising force against a blank wall two floors
below where he had so unceremoniously entered. As he lay in the dark
trying to gasp some breath back into his lungs, he could still hear
the squeal. Was it summoning? There was no time to be lost in getting
away.

On his hands and knees the scout crept along what must have been a
short hall until he found a second descending ramp, this one less
steep than the first, so that he was able to keep to his feet while
using it. And the gloom of the next floor was broken by odd scraps of
light which showed through pierced portions of the decorative bands.
The door was there, a locking bar across it.

Dalgard did not try to shift that at once, although he laid his hands
upon it. If the box was a hound for hunters, had it already drawn its
masters to this building? Would he open the door only to be faced by
the danger he wished most to avoid? Desperately he tried to probe with
the mind touch. But he could not find the alien band. Was that because
the hunters could control their minds as they crept up? His kind knew
so little of Those Others, and the merpeople's hatred of their ancient
masters was so great that they tended to avoid rather than study them.

The scout's sixth sense told him that nothing waited outside. But the
longer he lingered with that beacon overhead the slimmer his chances
would be. He must move and quickly. Sliding back the bar, he opened
the door a crack and looked out into a deserted street. There was