He fell heavily across the restless, coughing shape of Mickey Groff. Groff sat up slowly, choking. His head thudded as if with the hangover to end them all. _Gas._ "Get up!" he cried, swaying. "Get up!" Around him they stirred and coughed. "Gasoline fumes!" he yelled. "Get up! Up the stairs! Move!" He staggered through the dark room, kicking at them and yelling. The stairs were in back--back. And this was--a wall. He leaned against it. It would be good to slump down and rest for a moment, just a moment-- He lurched along the wall to the corner, to the open stairway that let to the upstairs room. "Over here!" he choked at them. "I'm standing by the stairs. Come on! Come on!" One by one they stumbled to the sound of his voice and began to drag themselves up the shaky stairs. One. Two. Three.... Four.... Five.... "Come on! I'm standing by the stairs. The stairs. This way. This." Two more to come. Two. More. Some fool was striking a light, a blue-green light to blow them to hell. But no; it was his eyes, glazed and burning, that made the light. Two more to come. His raw throat and bursting lungs silenced him. He lurched across the floor and stumbled over something soft. He knelt, took it under the armpits and dragged it to the wall, followed the wall to the corner, to the stairs. Feet on the stairs. A young voice in the darkness choked: "Mr. Groff. Come up. I'll get him. Can you make it?" Young McCue. Strong arms took his burden over and it bumped up the steps. That was seven. One to go. He headed back into the thick sweetness of the fumes and crashed to the floor. He never felt McCue come to his aid and heave him up the steps, but through it he was muttering: "One more." * * * * * They were a sick lot when he awoke an hour later. In the dark upstairs, cluttered with boxes and cans Mrs. Goudeket was saying: "The water, it seeped into the gas tanks underground, it must be. The gas floated up and all around us on top of the water. God be thanked, nobody lit a match and the fire was out. As it was we were almost poisoned in our sleep, thanks to that Arab." There was hatred in her voice, fifteen centuries of it. Burgess Starkman's voice emerged from an attack of coughing. "He's dead, Mrs. Goudeket. You shouldn't--" He broke into coughing again. Mickey Groff grunted, trying to talk. It was important to clear that up. His head was pounding, but Mrs. Goudeket didn't understand. "He was a Syrian," he croaked. "A civilized Christian people." "Mr. Groff!" said Mrs. Goudeket. "You're better! We were afraid--You're a hero, Mr. Groff. You saved our lives. Except--" "Zehedi?" he asked. He knew that she was nodding in the darkness, just as he knew that she was bitterly ashamed of her outburst. "Too late," she sighed. "Ai, too late. Dick went down with the handkerchief around his mouth and pulled him up the stairs. His heart was going, and then it wasn't. Maybe fifteen minutes. Too late."