Mason stopped ripping the flats apart, dropped the ski-pole, turned and ran wildly behind the master switchboard in the left wings. An instant later they heard the clatter of his feet ringing down iron steps. They pursued him down the spiral stairs to the huge dressing room under the stage where six naked ballet boys in half makeup were standing and staring in bewilderment.
"Excuse us, ladies," Lennox called. "Where's Mig?"
They pointed to a heavy bulkhead door just oozing shut.
"Jesus Almighty," Grabinett moaned. "He's down in the cellar."
"Find the electrician," Lennox told him. "Tooky, get a flashlight. Irma, you wait here."
Lennox went through the cellar door, stumbled down an endless zig-zag flight of concrete steps, clinging to the rail. He came to the bottom of the steps, lost his grasp on the rail and was lost in blackness.
"Mig!" he shouted.
There was no answer.
"Mig! Come back. It was St. Nicholas."
He fumbled in his pockets for matches, listening for the sound of footsteps. He heard faint echoes far ahead, and ran forward, meanwhile pulling a book of matches out and trying to light one. "What a Christmas," he muttered and blundered against a wall with a stunning impact. The matches flew from his hand. He clung to the wall, waiting for the crashing in his head to subside.