He toiled up the stair painfully, as if he were old and tired with much
work. But how could he afford to loiter, with all the work he had to do?
Every minute, every second, he must be in demand to hook his cold, hard
finger about a soul struggling to escape from its putrefying tenement.
But probably he had his emissaries, his minions: for only those worthy
of the honor did he come in person.

He reached the first landing and crept like a cat down the hall to the
next stair, then crawled slowly up as before. Light as the footfalls
were, they were squarely planted, unfaltering; slow, they never halted.

Mechanically she pressed her jerking hand closer against the heart; its
beats were almost done. They would finish, she calculated, just as those
footfalls paused beside the bed.

She was no longer a human being; she was an Intelligence and an EAR. Not
a sound came from without, even the Elevated appeared to be temporarily
off duty; but inside the big quiet house that footfall was waxing
louder, louder, until iron feet crashed on iron stairs and echo
thundered.

She had counted the steps--one--two--three--irritated beyond endurance
at the long deliberate pauses between. As they climbed and clanged with
slow precision she continued to count, audibly and with equal precision,
noting their hollow reverberation. How many steps had the stair? She
wished she knew. No need! The colossal trampling announced the lessening
distance in an increasing volume of sound not to be misunderstood. It
turned the curve; it reached the landing; it advanced--slowly--down the
hall; it paused before her door. Then knuckles of iron shook the frail
panels. Her nerveless tongue gave no invitation. The knocking became