"Madam Favre?" Her secretary appeared, a young, well-made girl with a thick tress of golden hair draped over one shoulder. "You asked for a report on the latest enrollments."

"Bring it in."

The resume was as she had expected-high enrollments in the usual courses, less on the non-industrial, a few hopeless subjects which must be pruned or compromises made. Pursing her lips she studied the details. Professor Koko would have to face reality or subsidize his classes from his own pocket, and knowing the man, she could guess at the reaction her ultimatum would bring. Another argument she could do without and there would be more if she agreed to Altman's suggestion and switched students from Clyne to Schrier. Yet the books had to be balanced and no dead weight could be tolerated.

Had she failed?

The fear was always present and each time after a new intake came the moment of truth. If student enrollment was low in certain subjects then she was wrong to have agreed they should be included in the curriculum. If tutors proved unpopular, the same. Too many mistakes and she would have demonstrated her failure to make valid judgments. One too many and her career would be in ruins. And she was too old to start again.

Unconsciously her hands rose to her face, fingers searching for the telltale signs of flaccidity she knew must soon become obvious. As yet she looked as she had ten years ago but the years were passing and each worked its measure of destruction. In another ten years visitors would cease to regard her as a woman almost too young to hold her responsible position. In another twenty they might regard her as too old.

"Madam?" The secretary again and Myra almost snapped her irritation before she remembered to smile. The girl meant well and it wasn't her fault that she owned such an attractive face and figure. Not her fault that she was young. "Doctor Boyce asks you to call."

"Make the connection." Myra waited, fuming at the ridiculous protocol which demanded that she, the inferior, contact the Dean, the superior, even though his secretary had made the initial contact. Why the hell couldn't he have just rung direct? She arranged her face as he looked from the screen, her smile a blend of pleasure and deference. "Dean! This is a pleasure!"

His smile was as mechanical as her own. "One shared, Myra. We don't talk often enough but you know how it is. At times I wish we could find some method of extending the day. To be brief I've been checking the enrollments and I'm not too happy. You have the matter in hand, of course?"

"Of course, Dean." Inwardly she wondered who had been carrying tales. The secretary? It was possible-that baby smile could mask a scheming brain. "It is merely a matter of simple adjustment. In a few days, I assure you, the stockholders will have no possible grounds for complaint."

She saw by his expression she had hit the target, but he was quick to refute such mundane considerations. "My concern is for the academic side, Myra. The standards of Clyne must be maintained. We want no stupid nonsense such as other establishments indulge in simply to attract large enrollments. Reuben, for example, with their one-semester guaranteed-degree course in anatomical manipulation. Or Professor Pell who-" He broke off, remembering, fearful of saying too much. Higham was of the Tripart and Pell taught in Higham. "I won't go into detail, my dear, but you can appreciate my concern. I just thought I'd let you know the atmosphere, so to speak."

"Thank you, Dean."

She was still being formal despite his attempt to get on a more friendly footing and he was old and wise enough in his craft to sense that he could have pressed too hard too soon, yielded too quickly to the promptings of those who had no interest in the university but the profits it brought them.

"I knew you'd understand, my dear." His smile was one of fatherly concern. "The pressure of work-how well I know it! Perhaps you should take a short rest. A few days away from the grind if you can manage it. Sometimes a break enables one to obtain a fresh point of view."

"Yes," she agreed. "I guess you're right. Thank you for the advice." Her smile told him all was forgiven. "And thank you, Kevork, for your concern and interest."

He could shove that right where it would hurt the most, she thought as the screen died. The interfering old bastard! Had it been her secretary? Cleo was ambitious but had she the ability to be so guileful? Had it been Jussara of Higham?

A possibility, the bitch was jealous and had made a bad mistake giving Pell the go-ahead. Or was it simply someone hungry for her position, in which case the field was too wide to investigate.

Again she studied the resume, finding the facts and figures as depressing as before. The profit was there-the usual courses insured that, but to the stockholders each tutor and every inch of space should show a return. Greed, she thought, the prime motive of the universe. The lust after money which represented power. And yet who was she to criticize or blame?

Leaning back she looked at the prison which held her and which she had willingly accepted for the sake of the comfort it gave. The cell which paid off in her apartment, her salary, the power she wielded. Now the green-tinted walls seemed to be closing in, the air to carry a stale taint, the light itself a bleaching quality. Was it day outside? Night? Twilight or dawn? Only her clock could tell.

She stretched, suddenly thinking of the Kusevitsky Heights, the snow and the sharp, crisp air. The thermals would be good at this time of the year and the sky would be thick with gliding wings. Distance would take the cramp from her eyes and the wind clear the cobwebs from her brain. A break, the dean had said, well, why not? A short vacation and a respite from never-ending problems. Within hours she could be changed and at the Heights. The decision made, she acted with impulsive directness.

"Cleo? Order me a raft. Have it on the roof at my apartment building in an hour. Me? I'm off to the Kusevitsky Heights."

Where Dumarest found her.

The sky was alive with wings, blazes of defiant color which wheeled and soared to glide and sweep upward like giant, soundless birds. These were constructions of struts and plastic beneath which were suspended the fragile bodies of men and women, muffled against the cold, helmeted, their eyes shielded by goggles, gloved hands and booted feet making the wings extensions of their bodies. Adventurers mastering an alien environment, risking injury and death for the thrill of flight.

Myra thrilled with them, remembering the cold rush of air, the near-panic as the ground had rushed up toward her, the surge of adrenalin coursing through her body as it had fallen away to leave only the vast and beckoning sky. That had been yesterday and, tomorrow, perhaps, she would glide again, but for today the sky was reserved for students under instruction and for post-graduates hoping to become instructors in turn.

From behind Dumarest said, "An engrossing sight, my lady. And a fascinating one. How can those who fly ever be content to walk?" As she turned he added, "If I am mistaken I crave your forgiveness but you are Madam Myra Favre?"

"I am. And you?" She nodded as he introduced himself. "How did you find me?"

"Your secretary was most helpful."

And unduly impressionable, but Myra couldn't blame her for that. Dumarest had shed the student's robe and now wore a military-style outer garment of maroon edged with gold. Fabric which replaced the robe's thermal protection and which did not brand him as a social inferior. A garb which enhanced his height and build, matching the hard planes and contours of his face, the cold directness of his eyes.

He said, "My apologies for having disturbed you but the matter is of some urgency."

"To me?"