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She was struggling madly now, but unavailingly. The grip around her was unyielding. Lyle had the other arm and together they were forcing her toward the adjoining bedroom.

"The hell with it," Dixon said. "Somebody grab her feet." The remaining boy took hold. She tried to kick, but all that happened was her high-heeled pumps came off. With a sense of unreality Marsha felt herself being carried through the bedroom doorway.

"This is the last time," Lyle warned. The veneer of good humor had vanished. "Are you going to co-operate or not?"

Her answer was to struggle more violently.

"Get her things off," someone said. And another voice - she thought it was from whoever was holding her feetasked hesitantly, "Do you think we should?"

"Quit worrying." It was Lyle Dumaire. "Nothing'll happen. Her old man's whoring it up in Rome."

There were twin beds in the room. Resisting wildly, Marsha was forced backward onto the nearest. A moment later she lay across it, her head pressed back cruelly until all she could see was the ceiling above, once painted white but now closer to gray, and ornamented in the center where a light fitting glowed. Dust had accumulated on the fitting and beside it was a yellowed water stain.

Abruptly the ceiling light went out, but there was a glow in the room from another lamp left on. Dixon had shifted his grip. Now he was half sitting on the bed, near her head, but the grasp on her body as well as across her mouth was inflexible as ever. She felt other hands, and hysteria swept over her. Contorting herself, she attempted to kick but her legs were pinned down. She tried to roll over and there was a rending sound as her Balenciaga gown tore.

"I'm first," Stanley Dixon said. "Somebody take over here." She could hear his heavy breathing.

Footsteps went softly on the rug around the bed. Her legs were still held firmly, but Dixon's hand on her face was moving, another taking its place. It was an opportunity. As the new hand came over, Marsha bit fiercely. She felt her teeth go into flesh, meeting bone.

There was an anguished cry, and the hand withdrawn.

Inflating her lungs, Marsha screamed. She screamed three times and ended with a desperate cry. "Help! Please help me!"

Only the last word was cut off as Stanley Dixon's hand slammed back into place with a force that made her senses swim. She heard him snarl, "You fool! You stupid goon!"

"She bit me!" The voice was sobbing with pain. "The bitch bit my hand."

Dixon said savagely, "What did you expect her to do, kiss it? Now we'll have the whole goddamned hotel on our necks."

Lyle Dumaire urged, "Let's get out of here."

"Shut up!" Dixon commanded. They stood listening.

Dixon said softly, "There's nothing stirring. I guess nobody heard."

It was true, Marsha thought despairingly. Tears clouded her vision. She seemed to have lost the power to struggle any more.

There was a knock on the outside door. Three taps, firm and assertive.

"Christ!" the third boy said. "Somebody did hear." He added with a moan,

"Oh God!-my hand!"

The fourth asked nervously, "What do we do?"

The knocking was repeated, this time more vigorously.

After a pause a voice from outside called, "Open the door, please. I heard someone shout for help." The caller's speech had a soft, southern accent.

Lyle Dumaire whispered, "There's only one; he's by himself. Maybe we can stall."

"It's worth a try," Dixon breathed. "I'll go." He murmured to one of the others, "Hold her down and this time don't make any mistake."

The hand on Marsha's mouth changed swiftly and another held her body.

A lock clicked, followed by a squeak as the door opened partially.

Stanley Dixon, as if surprised, said, "Oh."

"Excuse me, sir. I'm an employee of the hotel." It was the voice they had heard a moment earlier. "I happened to be passing and heard someone cry out."

"Just passing, eh?" Dixon's tone was oddly hostile. Then, as if deciding to be diplomatic, he added, "Well, thanks anyway. But it was only my wife having a nightmare. She went to bed before me. She's all right now."

"Well . . ." The other appeared to hesitate. "If you're sure there's nothing."

"Nothing at all," Dixon said. "It's just one of those things that happen once in a while." He was convincing, and in command of the situation. In a moment, Marsha knew, the door would close.

Since she had relaxed she had become aware that the pressure on her face had lessened also. Now she tensed herself for one final effort. Twisting her body sideways, momentarily she freed her mouth. "Help!" she called.

"Don't believe him! Please help!" Once more, roughly, she was stopped.

There was a sharp exchange outside. She heard the new voice say, "I'd like to come in, please."

"This is a private room. I told you my wife is having a nightmare."

"I'm sorry, sir; I don't believe you."

"All right," Dixon said. "Come in."