"That's right, Homer, but there are some things so important that friendship goes by the board. I could see as far back as that meeting something that hadn't occurred to either you or the others. You were a born El Hassan. I figured it was necessary to get you out of the way and put one of our own--perhaps me, even--in your place. No ill feelings, Homer. In fact, now I've just given you your chance. You could come in with us--" Even as he was speaking, his eyes moved in a way Homer Crawford recognized. He'd seen Abe Baker in action often enough. A gun flicked out of an under-the-arm holster, but Crawford moved in anticipation. The flat of his hand darted forward, chopped and the hand weapon was on the floor. As Isobel screamed, Abe countered the attack. He reached forward in a jujitsu maneuver, grabbed a coat sleeve and a handful of suit coat. He twisted quickly, threw the other man over one hip and to the floor. But Homer Crawford was already expertly rolling with the fall, rolling out to get a fresh start. Abe Baker knew that in the long go, in spite of his somewhat greater heft, he wouldn't be able to take his former chief in the other man's own field. Now he threw himself on the other, on the floor. Legs and arms tangled in half realized, quickly defeated holds and maneuvers. Abe called, "Quick, Isobel, the gun. Get the gun and cover him." She shook her head, desperately. "Oh no. No!" Abe bit out, his teeth grinding under the punishment he was taking, "That's an order, _Comrade Cunningham_! Get the gun!" "No. No, I can't!" She turned and fled the room. Abe muttered an obscenity, bridged and crabbed out of the desperate position he was in. And now his fingers were but a few inches from the weapon. He stretched. Homer Crawford, heavy veins in his own forehead from his exertions, panted, "Abe, I can't let you get that gun. Call it quits." "Can't, Homer," Abe gritted. His fingers were a few fractions of an inch from the weapon. Crawford panted, "Abe, there's just one thing I can do. A karate blow. _I_ can chop your windpipe with the side of my hand. Abe, if I do, only immediate surgery could save your--" Abe's fingers closed about the gun and Crawford, calling on his last resources, lashed out. He could feel the cartilage collapse, a sound of air, for a moment, almost like a shriek filled the room. The gun was meaningless now. Homer Crawford, his face agonized, was on his knees beside the other who was threshing on the floor. "Abe," he groaned. "You made me." Abe Baker's face was quickly going ashen in his impossible quest for oxygen. For a last second there was a gleam in his eyes and his lips moved. Crawford bent down. He wasn't sure, but he thought that somehow the other found enough air to get out a last, "Crazy man." When it was over, Homer Crawford stood again, and looked down at the body, his face expressionless. From behind him a voice said, "So I got here too late." Crawford turned. It was Elmer Allen, gun in hand.