But the truth was that most of humanity didn't want to get involved, never realizing that that involved them more than anything else could. It was at approximately this time, so far as I can determine, that Big Jake Claggett and one of his henchmen walked up to a service station where a Porsche speedster was getting gas. They clubbed the station attendant unconscious, hauled the driver out of the little sports car and took off in it. Dr. Whitney left me with a problem. What could be done to keep people alert? It is this one thing that will determine the Cooling gun's effect on the world--whether as an instrument of crime or protection for the weak, the innocent. Where people are complacent, it will be a boon to thieves and revolutionaries. Where people are alert-- But what could keep us alert? * * * * * Driving back, I was preoccupied, hardly conscious of the little car's deft progress over the slick roads. It was almost with a feeling of detached interest that I saw the black skid-marks at the bottom of the hill--then, with chill shock, the dark bulk of the sedan on its side in the ditch. I was slowing when a flashlight beam raked outward from the car, showing crumpled metal and broken headlights. One figure, perhaps two, were standing behind it. Another one, a man in a trenchcoat, mud-splattered almost to his hips, was walking onto the road in front of me, flagging me down. "Get out of that car!" There were exasperation and rage in his voice, an expression of utter fury on his face. He stood just at the edge of my headlights' glare, not directly in it, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. There was that. There was the speed of the sedan, as evidenced by its skid-marks. My mind leaped instantly to one nerve-shattering conclusion-- And I felt absolutely calm. I can't explain that. It may have been that the night's events had already drained me of tense emotion. _They're armed_, I thought, _but so am I! And I have a weapon that can get them all with one sweep--_ This, while I opened the door and climbed out. While I thrust my hand into my own pocket. I whipped out the little pistol. One instant, he was standing still, hands thrust in the wet trenchcoat. The next, a heavy revolver exploded at his hip. A sledgehammer caught me in the right side, knocked me reeling. It occurred to me then, lying there on the road, cold rain pelting my face, a warm wetness spreading along my side. I had met the one pitfall we shall never escape in a pistol-packing society: the man who's faster with a gun than you are! Bending over me, Sgt. Nicolas Falasca picked up the little plastic Cooling gun and straightened up, peering at it, scowling. "What the hell!" he muttered. I was rather inclined to agree. * * * * *