The elevator door opened on darkness. The elevator itself was still lit, so the power hadn’t gone off. I stepped out, holding the door open. It pinged furiously; I jumped and lost my grip. The door closed and left me in a perfect absence of light. I wish I’d thought to bring a candle. But how could I have expected that here, where electricity ran like water, there wouldn’t be enough light to see by?

I could find the office by touch; there weren’t that many doors. But I could probably find other things, too, if I was meant to. I took two steps, my fingers trailing along the wall. “Tom,” I said on a whim, “this is stupid. I can turn around and leave.”

In the ceiling, a speaker crackled. I’d been right. He’d seen too many movies. “That elevator ain’t comin’ back.”

“I know where the fire stairs are.”

“Sure, you do. But I’m awful sorry about the lights on those stairs. Seem to be on the blink. You sure you want to go down ’em in the dark, nice and slow?”

That might mean that he had put something in the stairwell. Or it might only mean that, once I headed for it, he would.

“And speakin’ of fire, what did you think of the one I lit for you last time? Huh?” He laughed, a high, scratching giggle overhead. How about a little fire, Scarecrow, I thought, but didn’t say. The horse you rode in on, and your little dog, too, Worecski.

I found a light switch under my fingers and flipped it, but nothing happened. Shut off at the breaker box, probably located in Ego’s heels; and I was in her hair. Either he’d just ordered it done, or the paging system was on a separate circuit.

I reached the door that opened on Albrecht’s office. Would Tom be in it? Or Albrecht, or both? If the lamp was on, I’d be blind. I opened the door a finger width at a time.

The office was dark. And unnaturally silent — of course. With the power off, any fans or air-conditioning exclusive to this floor would go off, too. From the perfect lack of noise, I figured Albrecht’s floor must have had its own independent everything. If Tom was in the room, I ought to be able to hear his breathing, if I could only keep my own quiet.

I bumped lightly into the desk, and let my hands drift in the area where the lamp ought to be. It was there. I tried the switch because it had to be tried, but nothing happened. I worked my way around the desk, stopping to listen every two or three steps, holding my breath until the pulse in my head deafened me. In time, I made it to the door in the paneling that led to the big, bright room that had been the stage for Tom’s last drama.

It was as dark as the office. And the cool, dry air had been replaced with suffocating heat and damp. No venting, no air-conditioning. I could feel sweat springing to my skin already, like condensation on a glass. I took a step into the void, another -