The Crypto bathrooms had no windows, and the darknesssurrounding Susan Fletcher was absolute. She stood dead still for amoment trying to get her bearings, acutely aware of the growingsense of panic gripping her body. The horrible cry from theventilation shaft seemed to hang all around her. Despite her effortto fight off a rising sense of dread, fear swept across her fleshand took control.

In a flurry of involuntary motion, Susan found herself gropingwildly across stall doors and sinks. Disoriented, she spun throughthe blackness with her hands out in front of her and tried topicture the room. She knocked over a garbage can and found herselfagainst a tiled wall. Following the wall with her hand, shescrambled toward the exit and fumbled for the door handle. Shepulled it open and stumbled out onto the Crypto floor.

There she froze for a second time.

The Crypto floor looked nothing like it had just moments ago.TRANSLTR was a gray silhouette against the faint twilight coming inthrough the dome. All of the overhead lighting was dead. Not eventhe electronic keypads on the doors were glowing.

As Susan's eyes became accustomed to the dark, she saw thatthe only light in Crypto was coming through the opentrapdoor—a faint red glow from the utility lighting below. Shemoved toward it. There was the faint smell of ozone in the air.

When she made it to the trapdoor, she peered into the hole. Thefreon vents were still belching swirling mist through the redness,and from the higher-pitched drone of the generators, Susan knewCrypto was running on backup power. Through the mist she could makeout Strathmore standing on the platform below. He was leaning overthe railing and staring into the depths of TRANSLTR's rumblingshaft.

"Commander!"

There was no response.

Susan eased onto the ladder. The hot air from below rushed inunder her skirt. The rungs were slippery with condensation. She setherself down on the grated landing.

"Commander?"

Strathmore did not turn. He continued staring down with a blanklook of shock, as if in a trance. Susan followed his gaze over thebanister. For a moment she could see nothing except wisps of steam.Then suddenly she saw it. A figure. Six stories below. It appearedbriefly in the billows of steam. There it was again. A tangled massof twisted limbs. Lying ninety feet below them, Phil Chartrukianwas sprawled across the sharp iron fins of the main generator. Hisbody was darkened and burned. His fall had shorted outCrypto's main power supply.

But the most chilling image of all was not of Chartrukian but ofsomeone else, another body, halfway down the long staircase,crouched, hiding in the shadows. The muscular frame wasunmistakable. It was Greg Hale.