Roger scowled, running his hand through his hair. "It was too dark to see. They wore hats and field jackets. The gun could be identified by ballistics. But they were _fast_, Morrel. They knew who they were looking for." Morrel rose suddenly, his face impatient. "Strang," he said. "You've been here at the Base for quite awhile. Ever since a month after the war, isn't that right? August, 2078? Somewhere around there, I know. But you've been working hard. I think maybe a rest would do you some good--" "Rest!" Roger exploded. "Look, man--I'm not joking. This isn't the first time. The boy had a monowheel accident three weeks ago, and he swore he was riding in a safe lane where he belonged. It looked like an accident then--now it looks like a murder attempt. The slugs from the gun _must_ be in the building--embedded in the plasterwork somewhere. Surely you could try to trace the gun." He glared at the man's impassive face bitterly, "Or maybe you don't want to trace the gun--" Morrel scowled. "I've already checked on it. The gun wasn't registered in the Base. Security has a check on every firearm within a fifty-mile range. The attackers must have been outsiders." Roger's face flushed. "That's not true, Morrel," he said softly, "and you know it's not true." Morrel shrugged. "Have it your own way," he said, indifferently. "Take a rest, Strang. Go home. Get some rest. And don't bother me with any more of your fairy tales." He turned suddenly on Roger. "And be careful what _you_ do with guns, Strang. The only thing about this that I _do_ know is that somebody shot a pistol off and scared hell out of your son. You were the only one around, as far as I know. I don't know your game, but you'd better be careful--" * * * * * Strang left Security Headquarters, and crossed across to the Labs, frustrated and angry. His mind spun over the accident--incredulous, but more incredulous that Morrel would practically laugh at him. He stopped by the Labs building to watch the workmen putting up a large electronic projector in one of the test yards. Work was going ahead. But so slowly. Roger was aware of the tall thin man who had joined him before he looked around. Martin Drengo put a hand on his shoulder. "Been avoiding me lately?" "Martin!" Roger Strang turned, his face lighting up. "No, not avoiding you--I've been so busy my own wife hasn't seen me in four days. How are things in Maintenance?" The thin man smiled sadly. "How are things ever in Maintenance? First a railroad breaks down, then there's a steel strike, then some paymaster doesn't make a payroll--the war knocked things for a loop, Roger. Even now things are still loopy. And how are things in Production?" Roger scowled. "Let's have some coffee," he said.