His voice was a bellow—there was no time for whispers. No time, and perhaps no need. If the dome had gone, Avalon might be a city of corpses, heat suits or none, before help could arrive with fresh oxygen tanks from far-away Aylette. Disguise would hardly matter then.
But he wasted no time in thought. He was out the door, down the hall and dropping into the cushioning grav-web of the descending shaft in seconds. Guests were waking in their rooms. The corridors were filling with shouting men and women. The shriek of emergency trucks filtered in from the street, and the hoarse bellow of the alarm sirens multiplied the havoc done to the peace of the night.
If he could get to a ship—?
But the slidewalks would be jammed with panicky humans, all with the same thought. A heat suit was his only chance. And the nearest ones he knew of were at South Lock, at the base of the dome itself!
He swung himself out of the shaft, raced across the lobby, which was already beginning to fill with people intent on escape. He was out the door with the van of them, racing across a still empty street toward South Lock.
A slim, pale figure darted across in front of him. He moved to dodge past, then slowed momentarily as he saw who it was.
"Steve!" Only one man knew that name—Petersen!
"Pete! What are you waiting for? Come on—get a suit!"
Petersen sighed, touched Nolan's shoulder to halt him. "There's no hurry, pal," he said mildly.
"No hurry! The dome alarm—"