Roger shouted, pointing to the door, but the people were looking at the boy. Roger sank down beside his son, deft fingers loosening the blouse. The boy's small face was deathly white, fearful sobs choking his breath as he closed his eyes and shivered. Roger searched under his blouse, trying to find the bullet holes--and found to his chagrin that there weren't any bullet holes. "Where did you feel the gun?" David pointed vaguely at his lower ribs. "Right there," he said. "It hurt when they shoved the gun at me." "But they couldn't have pulled the trigger, if the gun was pointed there--" He examined the unbroken skin on the boy's chest, fear tearing through his mind. A Security man was there suddenly, asking about the accident, taking Roger's name, checking over the boy. Roger resented the tall man in the gray uniform, felt his temper rise at the slightly sarcastic tone of the questions. Finally the trooper stood up, shaking his head. "The boy must have been mistaken," he said. "Kids always have wild stories to tell. Whoever it was may have been after _somebody_, but they weren't aiming for the boy." Roger scowled. "This boy is no liar," he snapped. "I saw them shoot--" The trooper shrugged. "Well, he isn't hurt. Why don't you go on home?" Roger helped the boy up, angrily. "You're not going to do anything about this?" "What can I do? Nobody saw who the men were." Roger grabbed the boy's hand, helped him to his feet, and turned angrily to the door. In the failing light outside the improbability of the attack struck through him strongly. He turned to the boy, his face dark. "David," he said evenly, "you wouldn't be making up stories about feeling that gun in your ribs, would you?" David shook his head vigorously, eyes still wide with fear. "Honest, dad. I told you the truth." "But they _couldn't_ have shot you in the chest without breaking the skin--" He glanced down at the boy's blouse and jacket, and stopped suddenly, seeing the blackened holes in the ripped cloth. He stooped down and sniffed the holes suspiciously, and shivered suddenly in the cold evening air. The burned holes smelled like gunpowder. * * * * * "Strang, you must have been wrong." The large man settled back in his chair, his graying hair smoothed over a bald spot. "Someone trying to kill you I could see--there's plenty of espionage going on, and you're doing important work here. But your boy!" The chief of the Barrier Base Security shook his head. "You must have been mistaken." "But I _wasn't_ mistaken!" Roger Strang sat forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arms until his knuckles were white. "I told you exactly what happened. They got him as he came off the elevator, and shot at him. Not at me, Morrel, at my son. They just clubbed me in the face to get me out of the way--" "What sort of men?" Morrel's eyes were sharp.