Leroy Davis blinked at her. "There's nothing they can do, honey," he said in a kindly voice. "I've got the gun. They'd be crazy to try anything." Nora's laugh was like the rattle of dry peas. She sat down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling and laughed. "It's crazy. It's all so crazy! We're sitting here in a doomed city with some kind of alien invaders all around us and we don't know what they look like. They haven't hurt us at all. We don't even know what they look like. We don't worry a bit about them because we're too busy trying to kill each other." Frank Brooks took Nora by the arm. "Stop it! Quit laughing like that!" Nora shook him off. "Maybe we need someone to take us over. It's all pretty crazy!" "Stop it." Nora's eyes dulled down as she looked at Frank. She dropped her head and seemed a little ashamed of herself. "I'm sorry. I'll be quiet." Jim Wilson had been standing by the wall looking first at the newcomer, then back at Frank Brooks. Wilson seemed confused as to who his true enemy really was. Finally he took a step toward Leroy Davis. Frank Brooks stopped him with a motion, but kept his eyes on Davis. "Have you seen anybody else?" Davis regarded Frank with long, careful consideration. His eyes were bright and birdlike. They reminded Frank of a squirrel's eyes. Davis said, "I bumped into an old man out on Halstead Street. He wanted to know where everybody had gone. He asked me, but I didn't know." "What happened to the old man?" Nora asked. She asked the question as though dreading to do it; but as though some compulsion forced her to speak. "I shot him," Davis said cheerfully. "It was a favor, really. Here was this old man staggering down the street with nothing but a lot of wasted years to show for his efforts. He was no good alive, and he didn't have the courage to die." Davis stopped and cocked his head brightly. "You know--I think that's what's been wrong with the world. Too many people without the guts to die, and a law against killing them." It had now dawned upon Jim Wilson that they were faced by a maniac. His eyes met those of Frank Brooks and they were--on this point at least--in complete agreement. A working procedure sprang up, unworded, between them. Jim Wilson took a slow, casual step toward the homicidal maniac. "You didn't see anyone else?" Frank asked. Davis ignored the question. "Look at it this way," he said. "In the old days they had Texas long horns. Thin stringy cattle that gave up meat as tough as leather. Do we have cattle like that today? No. Because we bred out the weak line." Frank said, "There are some cigarettes on that table if you want one." Jim Wilson took another slow step toward Davis. Davis said, "We bred with intelligence, with a thought to what a steer was for and we produced a walking chunk of meat as wide as it is long." "Uh-huh," Frank said.