Short of ducking back up the stairs, there was only one hiding place that Blade could see in the long corridor. Behind the opening door itself. He plunged down the corridor and dove behind the foot-thick disk of metal just as it swung fully open. Peering out from behind it, Blade saw a girl step out into the corridor.

She wore the customary sandals and kilt, in a green so dark that it looked almost black in the dim light. Her hair was unbound and flowed down her back, like a black waterfall. She was carrying her tunic over her arm and wore nothing above the waist except a silver-glinting chain around her slim throat. As she turned to survey the corridor, Blade could not help admiring the high, firm, youthful breasts and the trim, flat stomach. But she was a living representative of the people who presumably had built the city. He had to talk to her. Carefully laying his weapons down on the floor, he stepped out into the open, hands spread wide in a conciliatory gesture.

She started and her eyes went wide as she saw him, but she made no sound or any move to run. In fact, as her eyes went over him, there was a probing, even admiring look in them.

Then she smiled and said, «It is your Waking time, too? Where are you from?»

«My name is Blade. I am not from this basement. .» he gestured around the corridor, wondering if he had hit on the right word «. . but from elsewhere.»

Even with his automatic command of the local language (a gift from the computer and its alterations to his brain), even with this woman's apparently civilized background, this was not the time to explain how he had come from another dimension. Changing the subject, he asked, «What is your name?»