Starkman hugged the smelly blanket around him. Shivering, he thought querulously: What's the matter with Bess? I want my cocoa. He shook his head to clear it, and got up to look at the rain outside. He shouldn't be here at all, of course; what had the people made him burgess for, at that fat and sought-after salary of two hundred dollars a year, if not to be on hand when the community was in trouble? And if a flood wasn't trouble-- A sort of choking sound from Mrs. Goudeket made him turn around. The Chesbro woman was standing in the doorway to the storeroom. In the light from the candles she had no eyes, the ragged blankets she wore were robes, she was blindly staring marble. She had swept the blankets spirally around her body and over her wet hair; a hobble skirt at one end and a turban at the other. She was striking, and she stood for a moment posed as though she knew it. Mrs. Goudeket made a tongue-smacking sound. Artie Chesbro looked around vaguely. "Oh, hello, honey," he said. "Now, this thunderstorm we had in Summit in forty-six a couple of cellars were flooded all right, but--" Dick McCue nodded mechanically, his eyes fixed on the woman. She came over to Starkman and sat down next to him. At close range, the costume didn't seem as extreme as half-lit by the candles, but the burgess felt uneasy. She was too close to him, that was it; she was sitting on the floor, looking up at him. "I'd better get you something to sit on," he said, and escaped. * * * * * They managed to build a fire in the storeroom--there were a couple of sheet-metal soft-drink signs; they raised one, punctured for draft, on a row of bottles and placed another one underneath to catch the hot ashes. It worked. Mickey Groff had placed his bet on the normal air leakage around the window frames carrying off the worst of the smoke, and so it did. It didn't pay to sit too close to it. You had to watch it minute by minute to keep it fed and keep it from setting fire to the shack. But it served to dry out their clothes, and besides it felt more cheerful. The men settled among themselves a plan for rotating guard duty--guarding against fire and flood. Sam Zehedi and Dick McCue took the first shift, one to keep the other awake; they sat and looked at each other. They had nothing to say; and besides, it was hard enough for the others to sleep without their talking. Artie Chesbro, sharing a double pad of newspapers with his wife, schemed feverishly: He hasn't said a word, he's waiting for me to make the first move. How much should I cut him in for? Or for that matter, do I have to--?