y in his arms. He knew that
the Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedly
picked up two objects dropping from the craft--the door and one other.
Candron had caught the pilot's mental signal--anything that powerful
could hardly be missed--and had opened the door and leaped.

But those things didn't matter now. Without a parachute, he had flung
himself from the plane toward the earth below, and his only thought was
his loathing, his repugnance, for that too, too solid ground beneath.

He didn't hate it. That would be deadly, for hate implies as much
attraction as love--the attraction of destruction. Fear, too, was out of
the question; there must be no such relationship as that between the
threatened and the threatener. Only loathing could save him. The earth
beneath was utterly repulsive to him.

And he slowed.

His mind would not accept contact with the ground, and his body was
forced to follow suit. He slowed.

Minutes later, he was drifting fifty feet above the surface, his
altitude held steady by the emotional force of his mind. Not until then
did he release the big suitcase he had been holding. He heard it thump
as it hit, breaking open and scattering clothing around it.

In the distance, he could hear the faint moan of a siren. The Chinese
radar had picked up two falling objects. And they would find two: one
door and one suitcase, both of which could be accounted for by the
"accident." They would know that no parachute had opened; hence, if they
found no body, they would be certain that no human being could have
dropped from the plane.

The only thing remaining now was to get into the city itself. In the
darkness, it was a little difficult to tell exactly where he was, but
the lights of Peiping weren't far away, and a breeze was carrying him
toward it. He wanted to be in just the right place before he set foot on
the ground.

By morning, he would be just another one of the city's millions.

* * * * *

Morning came three hours later. The sun came up quietly, as if its sole
purpose in life were to make a liar out of Kipling. The venerable old
Chinese gentleman who strolled quietly down Dragon Street looked as
though he were merely out for a placid walk for his morning
constitutional. His clothing was that of a middle-class office worker,
but his dignified manner, his wrinkled brown face, his calm brown eyes,
and his white hair brought respectful loo