He smashed his hand against the panel and the lights came up.

The room was not the same. The furniture was different and the screaming paintings on the wall-he had never had, he would never have paintings such as that!

Behind him the lock snicked again and he spun around. The door swung open and a saber-tooth stalked in.

At the sight of Maxwell, the big cat dropped into a crouch and snarled, exposing six-inch stabbing fangs.

Gingerly, Maxwell backed away. The cat crept closer by a foot, still snarling. Maxwell took another backward step, felt the sudden blow above the ankle, tried to twist away, but was unable to, and knew that he was falling. He had seen the hassock he should have remembered it was there-but he hadn't. He'd backed into it and tripped himself and now he was going over flat upon his back. He tried to force his body to relax against striking on the floor-but he didn't hit the floor. His back smashed down into a yielding softness and he knew he'd landed on the couch that stood behind the hassock.

The cat was sailing through the air in a graceful leap its ears laid back, its mouth half open, its massive paws outstretched to form a battering ram. Maxwell raised his arms in a swift defensive gesture, but they were brushed aside as if they'd not been there and the paws smashed down into his chest, pinning him against the couch. The great cat's head, with its gleaming fangs, hung just above his face. Slowly, almost gently, the cat lowered its head and a long pink tongue came out and slathered, raspingly, across Maxwell's face.