h your own clumsy hammer. And I wish you joy of your
fortune. If you have as many friends rich as you had poor you won't have
any. There was an itch under his left arm. He pressed the suit in with
his right and wriggled his body against it. It didn't do any good. Damn
suits. Damn Titan. Lucky Elena, back on Earth with the kids. Making good
money, though. Won't be long before I can go back and live like a human
being. Now his nose itched, and MacDonald was still grumbling. There was
the faintest ghost of a sound and then _crack_, then nothing, dark,
cold, sinking, very weak, gone. Nothing, nothing. I come to in the cold
silence and look down the shaft at MacDonald and he is dead.

_Go back a bit. Slow. That's right. Easy. Back to Elena and the kids._

Lucky Elena, in the sun and the warm sweet air. Lucky kids. But I'm
lucky too. I can go back to them soon. My nose itches. Why does your
nose always itch when you've got a helmet on, or your hands all over
grease? Listen to MacDonald, damning the belt, damning the tools,
damning everything in sight. Is that a footstep? The air is thin and
poisonous, but it carries sound. Somebody coming behind me? Split
second, no time to look or think. _Crack._ Cold. Dark. Nothing.

_Let's go back again. Don't hurry. We've all the time in the world. Go
back to the footsteps you heard behind you._

Almost heard. And then I black and cold. Heavy. Flat. Face heavy against
helmet, cold. Lying down. Must get up, must get up, danger. Far away.
Can't. MacDonald is screaming. Let the lift alone, what are you doing,
Hyrst? Hyrst! Shut up, you greedy little man, and listen. You're not
Hyrst--who are you? That doesn't matter. I know, you're from Bellaver.
Bellaver sent you to steal the Titanite. Well, you won't get it. It's
where nobody will ever get it unless I show them how. Good. That's good,
MacDonald. That's what I wanted to know. You see, _we_ don't need the
Titanite.

MacDonald screams again and the lift goes down with a roar and a rattle
of severed chain.

Heavy footsteps, shaking the floor by my head. Someone turns me over,
speaks to me, bending close. Light is gray and strange. I try to rouse.
I can't. The man is satisfied. He drops me and goes away, but I have
seen his face inside his helmet. I hear him working on some metal thing
with a tool. He is whistling a little under his breath. MacDonald is not
screaming now. From time to time he whimpers. But I have seen the
killer's face.