epped outside, examined the wall. He kicked at
the grey surface. A great piece of wall, six feet high, broke into
fragments, fell on the sidewalk with a crash, driving out a puff of
dust. Another section fell. One piece of it skidded away, clattered down
into the depths. Brett heard a distant splash. He looked at the great
jagged opening in the wall--like a jigsaw picture with a piece missing.
He turned and started off at a trot, his mouth dry, his pulse thumping
painfully in his chest.

Two blocks from the hollow building, Brett slowed to a walk, his
footsteps echoing in the empty street. He looked into each store window
as he passed. There were artificial legs, bottles of colored water,
immense dolls, wigs, glass eyes--but no rope. Brett tried to think. What
kind of store would handle rope? A marine supply company, maybe. But
where would he find one?

Perhaps it would be easiest to look in a telephone book. Ahead he saw a
sign lettered HOTEL. Brett went up to the revolving door, pushed inside.
He was in a dim, marble-panelled lobby, with double doors leading into
a beige-carpeted bar on his right, the brass-painted cage of an elevator
directly before him, flanked by tall urns of sand and an ascending
staircase. On the left was a dark mahogany-finished reception desk.
Behind the desk a man stood silently, waiting. Brett felt a wild surge
of relief.

"Those things, those Gels!" he called, starting across the room. "My
friend--"

He broke off. The clerk stood, staring over Brett's shoulder, holding a
pen poised over a book. Brett reached out, took the pen. The man's
finger curled stiffly around nothing. A golem.

* * *

Brett turned away, went into the bar. Vacant stools were ranged before a
dark mirror. At the tables empty glasses stood before empty chairs.
Brett started as he heard the revolving door thump-thump. Suddenly soft
light bathed the lobby behind him. Somewhere a piano tinkled _More Than
You Know_. With a distant clatter of closing doors the elevator came to
life.

Brett hugged a shadowed corner, saw a fat man in a limp seersucker suit
cross to the reception desk. He had a red face, a bald scalp blotched
with large brown freckles. The clerk inclined his head blandly.

"Ah, yes, sir, a nice double with bath ..." Brett heard the unctuous
voice of the clerk as he offered the pen. The fat man took it, scrawled
something in the register. "... at fourteen dollars," the clerk
murmured.