He turned to the door. The locks were in plain sight, and yielded after a minute or two to his trained hands. The door swung open automatically.
Beyond was an empty, lighted tunnel, stretching bare and silent for perhaps fifty yards. At its end was another door.
Vanning held up his hand. "Wait a bit!" he called softly. "I'll open the other one. Then come running!"
"Right!" Sanderson's voice called back.
An eternity later the second door swung open. Vanning gave the signal, and heard the thud of racing feet. He didn't turn. He was staring out across the threshold, a sick hopelessness tugging at his stomach.
The door to freedom had opened—mockingly. Ahead of him was the floor of a canyon, widening as it ran on. But the solid ground existed for only a quarter of a mile beyond the threshold.
Beyond that was flame.
Red, crawling fire carpeted the valley from unscalable wall to granite scarp. Lava, restless, seething, boiled hotly down the slope, reddening the low-hanging fog into scarlet, twisting veils. Nothing alive could pass that terrible barrier. That was obvious.
Zeeth said softly, "It will be a quicker death than the Swamja will give us."