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"Come on."

They entered the subway car. It didn't help. You can die locked in a steam room, Corbell thought. He stretched out on the row of seats. "Mirelly-Lyra rigged the subway system to take anyone from the hot part of the world straight to her. We can hope she didn't skip this terminal. Lie still and don't try to exercise. Breathe shallow."

He lay on his back and waited. The sweat tickled as it ran down his ribs, but he didn't wipe at it.

Something ticked on. Air blew across him, too warm, and then cooling. Corbell sighed. "The CO2 must have triggered something," he told himself. The air grew cool, cool.

A long time later Gording said, "I left the fire starter."

"Damn."

Silence then, until the door went up.

There were the usual surges, then the ride straightened out. Corbell tried to sleep again, but something was holding him back. He didn't know what it was until Gording said, "My ears hurt."

That was it. "The car leaks," said Corbell. "Just a chance we had to take. Let's hope we've got enough air to get to the end."

"It hurts. Can I do anything?"

Hey, Gording had never been in an airplane! Corbell said, "Work your jaws." He demonstrated. His ears popped.

The car slowed. It had come sooner than Corbell had expected; but they were both panting, and Gording was uneasy. Corbell felt guilty satisfaction. It took a lot of unknown danger to disturb Gording.

He covered his ears with his hands and opened his jaws wide, and waited for Gording to do the same. His skin was clammy. He was unbearably tense.

The doors popped open. The air that slapped across them was only warm. Through the door he saw lights dim at the back, cloud-rug humping into couches. He reached for the loner's broad-bladed scimitar.

Motion flickered in the gate. Corbell's brain flashed: Mirelly-Lyra! Too soon! He pulled the car door shut as something darted through the gate. He had what she wanted-they could negotiate.

It was Krayhayft! The gray-haired Boy stopped short. He looked at them through the glass.

He raised the fire starter.

Gording threw himself back toward the inadequate protection of the toilet. Corbell sensed it; but he himself was frozen.

Krayhayft fired past him. Light blazed behind Corbel, and he smelled chemical smoke as part of the couch burned. Krayhayft shouted, "Come out. Or I'll burn off your feet."

Corbel's hand was still on the door. But... "I can't do it. You'd chop down the Tree of Life."

For an instant Krayhayft was puzzled. Then, "That's not what we want. We only want to know where it is. Corbel, suppose a disaster wiped out most of the dikta, and the only survivors were half a dozen old ones? We could keep them young and breeding."

"Meanwhile they never get a smell of it."

Flame burst from the rug beside Corbell's right foot. Krayhayft said, "We need your pressure-suit helmet too. Speaking of disasters-" Krayhayft stopped. His face changed.

Corbell had never seen that look on any Boy. It frightened him. Guilt and remorse and fear. Krayhayft moaned, the sound faint through the glass. His eyes darted left and right, seeking... escape?

He found it. Brighter than human, he found it at once, and used it. Krayhayft raised the fire starter to his head and fired. Flame burst from that side of his head, then from the other. Krayhayft fell, and kicked spasmodically, and lay still.

Corbell spared himself one flicking glance back. Gording was still hidden, crouched behind the toilet door.

Then Mirelly-Lyra Zeelashisthar stepped through the gate. Shapeless robe, white touched with iridescence, and a withered face within: The bright eyes fixed on him, and then the cane.

"Mirelly-Lyra! It's me!"

The shock almost killed her. He hoped she would faint. She recovered; she gestured peremptorily with the cane. Come out!

He reached for the scimitar. She gave him just a touch of what had killed Krayhayft. Moaning, he came through.

She spoke gibberish. An old man's voice translated: "You found it. Where is it?"

"Give me the cane and I'll tell you."

Her answer was a wave of guilt and mental agony. Corbell waded through it, hands outstretched for her throat. She backed away. Corbell moaned and came on. Suddenly she turned something on the cane's handle.

Sleep dragged him down toward the cloud-rug. Sleep and red rage warred in him. He was on his knees, but he waded toward her, two steps, three.

Musty smell.

Soft stuff cradling his cheek.

Mirely-Lyra was in one of the shapeless couches.

Corbell got his arms under him and lifted himself out of the cloud-rug. He pulled himself toward her. She tried to cringe back without moving. Terrified.

"I caught her from behind," said Gording. He was seated facing her, holding the silver cane.

The old woman spoke rapidly. An old man's voice translated, "You don't dare kill me. I have something you want."

Corbell got to his feet with some effort. "The pressure-suit helmet," he said. "Give it to me or I'll let you live... as you are."

Her mouth compressed. "Immortality first."

"How many settings are there on that cane?"

"Five. Two that kill. Others might kill me. Can you find the helmet then?"

"Probably." Corbell smiled; he saw by her face that he was right. "But so what? I'll make you young. Then I'll kill you if I don't get what I want." He changed to Boyish. "Hold the cane ready. But I think she won't try to escape now. We're going to get dikta immortality."

Gording looked dubious.

Corbell wasn't about to trust the Norn in a "phone booth." They wedged themselves into a tchiple with Mirelly-Lyra between, for a cramped ride through Four City. As the car swerved and darted through glass and concrete rubble, Corbell wondered. Should he have forced the helmet from her first?

Yes. But he couldn't wait that long. He had to know.

They unfolded themselves out of the car. Gording said, "I might have known it would be a hospital."

"Did your hospital have a... guarded place on the third floor?"

Mirelly-Lyra was looking up at the glass-mosaic face. "But I searched this place!"

"You were desperate, too," Corbell said smugly. "You just weren't desperate in the right way." He led the way up the stairs. Dust puffed beneath their feet. At the third floor he found two sets of footprints to remind him of his panic flight through these halls. He glanced back; but Mirelly-Lyra seemed docile enough, and Gording was behind her with the cane.

He turned into the hallway... and was lost. "Mirelly-Lyra, where are the 'phone booths'?"

"To your left at the next corner."

They found the line of prilatsil. A moment to orient himself: There was the corner where he'd been hiding when the Norn came to hunt him down. He led off... and here was the vault door, open.

Gording said, "They guarded their immortality well."

"Wouldn't you?" Corbell pointed to the skeletons and the hole smashed high up in the wall. "But not well enough. We're lucky they didn't use it and then wreck it. Maybe they thought they'd be back in fifty years."

Gording looked around at the guard emplacements, the empty shelves, the computer console, the pair of "phone booths." "Where is it, if they didn't destroy it? Not through the prilatsil, unless the destination was equally well guarded."

"Through the prilatsil. Give me the cane first."

Would Gording balk? He didn't; he handed Corbell the weapon, then stepped forward to study the pair of glass booths. Only one had a door. He stepped inside.