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staff. Your friends have been stunned and kidnapped under my own eyes. Come on!”

VII
    There was a time of roaring confusion as Chanthavar snapped orders into a visiphone, organizing a chase. Then he swung around to Langley. “I’ll have this warren searched, of course,” he said. “But I don’t imagine the kidnappers are still in it. The robots aren’t set to notice who goes out in what condition, so that’s no help. Nor do I expect to find the employee of this place who helped fix matters up for the snatch. But I’ve got the organization alerted. There’ll be a major investigation hereabouts inside half an hour. And Brannoch’s quarters are being watched already.”
    â€œBrannoch?” repeated Langley stupidly. His brain felt remote, like a stranger’s. He couldn’t throw off the airborne drugs as fast as the agent.
    â€œTo be sure! Who else? Never thought he had this efficient a gang on Earth. They won’t take your friends directly to him, of course. There’ll be a hideout somewhere in the lower levels. Not too much chance of finding it among fifteen million commoners, but well try. We’ll try!”
    A policeman hurried up with a small, metal-cased object which Chanthavar took. “Peel off that mask. This is an electronic scent-tracer. We’ll try to follow the trail of the pseudo-faces. Distinctive odor, so don’t you confuse it. I don’t think the kidnappers took the masks off in Dreamhouse; then someone might notice who they were carrying. Stick with us. We may need you. Let’s go!”
    A score of men, black-clad, armed and silent, surrounded them. Chanthavar cast about the main exit. There was something of the questing hound over him. The esthete, the hedonist, the casual philosopher were blotted up in the hunter of men. A light glowed on the machine. “A trail, all right,” he muttered. “If only it doesn’t get cold too fast. Damn it, why must they ventilate the lowers so well?” He set off at a rapid jog trot, his men keeping an easy pace. The milling crowds shrank away.
    Langley was too bewildered to think. This was happening faster than he could follow, and the drugs of Dreamhouse were still in his blood, making the world unreal. Bob, Jim … now the great darkness had snatched them too. Would he ever see them again?
    Down a drop-shaft, falling like autumn leaves, Chanthavar testing each exit as he passed it. The unceasing roar of machines grew louder, more frantic. Langley shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to master himself. It was like a dream. He was carried willlessly along between phantoms in black.
    He had to get away. He had to get off by himself, think in peace. It was an obsession now, driving everything else out of his head. He was in a nightmare and he wanted to wake up. Sweat was clammy on his skin.
    The light flashed, feebly. “This way!” Chanthavar swung out of a portal. “Trail’s weakening, but maybe—”
    The guards pressed after him. Langley hung back, dropped further, and stepped out at the next level down.
    It was an evil section, dim-lit and dingy. The streets were almost deserted. Closed doors lined the walls, litter blew about under his feet, the stamping and grinding of machines filled his universe. He walked fast, turning several corners and trying to hide.
    Slowly his brain cleared. An old man in dirty garments sat cross-legged beside a door and watched him out of filmy eyes. A sleazy woman slunk close to him, flashing bad teeth in a mechanical smile, and fell behind. A tall young man, ragged and unshaven, leaned against the wall and followed his movements with listless eyes. This was the slum, the oldest section, poor and neglected—the last refuge of failure. This was where those whom the fierce life of the upper tiers had broken fled, to drag out lives of no importance to the Technon.
    Langley stopped, breathing hard. A furtive hand