After a moment, Beryl tottered back to lean against the glass of Pauline's window. She pressed one hand to her solar plexus, looking as if she might fold up at any breath.
"Oh," she gasped. "Oh, Mr. Lydman...."
He examined her with a clinical detachment.
"Doesn't someone have a tranquilizer for her?" he asked. "I don't usually scare pretty girls."
"Oh, no, no, no ... it's just that ... I mean, everyone was worried about you," stammered Beryl.
"Why?" asked Lydman. "Don't you think I can take care of myself?"
For the first time, Westervelt noticed the curiously set expression on the ex-spacer's face. He had until then been too busy watching Beryl and trying to calm his own nerves. He could not be certain, but it seemed as if Lydman's forehead displayed a faint sheen of perspiration.
"Of course you can, Bob," said Smith. "We were—"
Beryl, nearly to the point of hysteria in her relief, got the ball away from him.
"We were worried about the elevator being stopped," she babbled. "And the door—you'll never believe it, Mr. Lydman, but the door to the emergency stairs wouldn't open!"