Maybe. Luther Bayswater wished he had been listening more attentively. A door slamming in a building--that might be just the wind, of course. But if it wasn't the wind, it was one of the hazy mythological figures called looters that he was supposed to be on the lookout for. He swore a tepid oath, ground out his cigarette and opened the door. It made a frightful racket; he hadn't noticed anything of the kind when he came into the building. The noise scared him. He unslung the rifle and gripped it in the approved port-arms position, crosswise over his chest, one hand comfortingly near the trigger guard; and he stepped out into the inimical street. Somebody was moving, not near the radio truck but in the other direction; someone who seemed to be trying to stay out of sight, moving in and out of the shelter of the buildings. Luther Bayswater pulled the bolt of the rifle back. It made a tiny, unmenacing sound--he'd hoped it would crash through the streets like a thunderbolt and send the terrified criminal fleeing. He raised it to his shoulder and called waveringly: "Halt! Who's there?" Perfectly safe; there was no chance the gun would go off and make him appear an idiot, not as long as he didn't close the bolt. The figure stumbled and ducked out of sight. Baffled, Luther lowered the rifle, which was wearingly heavy. Almost absent-mindedly he shoved the bolt home--still perfectly safe, still nothing that would make him look ridiculous, for he knew enough to keep his finger off the trigger. He cleared his throat and called again: "Come out of there! I see you!" Fantastic cowboys-and-Indians scene! Luther couldn't help feeling embarrassed at how badly he was doing his part of it. Suppose the man did come out? Suppose he came running at him, with a knife or a pistol, and Luther was standing there flatfooted and gapmouthed, trailing the gun? He brought the butt up to his shoulder, snapped up the range leaf, curled his finger lightly through the trigger guard--perfectly, perfectly safe; these Springfields took a good heavy tug to go off--and as meticulously as on any qualifying range laid the bead of the front sight between the V-edges of the rear, just at knee level, just where the man had been. He waited. * * * * * Good-humoredly, Artie Chesbro shrugged and parked the car. He got out and started to walk down the rubbly street; there was no sense trying to drive down here, where the river had swept beams and bottles and cinder-blocks helter-skelter across the pavement; he had decided that the third time he had spotted something in his way and wildly swerved the wheel, and hit something else instead. He thought detachedly that perhaps his reflexes were a touch overstimulated by the benzedrine. Amusing. But it didn't in the least matter, not when he could see everything in the clear luminous light the benzedrine gave.