The streets here were _not_ all dark and dead. He saw the glimmer of flashlights, the movement of dark figures, and heard calling voices. "I thought you said these cities were all closed out?" Wales said. The driver nodded. "Yeah. But there's still people around some of them. Looters." He stopped. "We'd better detour around here." "Looters?" Wales was astounded. "You mean, you don't stop them?" "Listen," said the driver. "What difference does it make what they take, when the place is closed out?" Wales had forgotten. What difference did it make, indeed? The nearly-deserted Earth was any man's property now, when inevitable catastrophe was rushing toward it. A thought struck him. These folk couldn't expect to take loot with them when they were evacuated. So they didn't plan to _be_ evacuated. He said, "Wait here. I'm going to have a look at them." "I wouldn't," said the driver hastily. "These people--" "Just wait," said Wales crisply. He walked away from the car, toward the flashlights and the shadows and the shouting voices. The voices had a raw edge of excitement in them, and a few were thick with alcohol. They were mixed men and women, and a few yelping youngsters. They weren't breaking windows. They simply used crowbars to force open doors. Many doors weren't even locked. Eager hands passed out a motley collection of objects, small appliances, liquor bottles, canned synthefood, clothing. No wonder Evacuation was going off schedule, thought Wales! Letting people play the fool like this-- A flashlight beam flared beside him, a man's face peered at his uniform, and a loud voice bellowed close to his ears, "Look, everybody! It's an Evacuation Officer!" There was a dead silence, and then the flashlights converged on him. Somewhere in the group, a woman screamed. "They're after us! They're going to put us on the ships and take us away!" "Kill the bastard, knock him down!" yelled a raging voice. Wales, too astounded to defend himself, felt a sudden shower of clumsy blows that sent him to his knees. CHAPTER II It was the very number of Wales' attackers that saved him. There were too many of them, they were too eager to get at him. As he hit the pavement, they dropped their flashlights and crowded around in the dark, getting in each other's way, like frantic dogs chivvying a small animal. A foot trampled his shoulder and he rolled away from it. All around him in the dark were trousered legs, stumbling over him. Voices yelled, "Where is he?" They yelled, "Bring the lights!" The lights, if they came, would mean his death. A mob, even a small mob like this one, was a mindless animal. Wales, floundering amid the dark legs, kept his head. He shouted loudly, "Here come the Evacuation trucks--here they come! We'd better beat it!" He didn't think it would work, but it did. In that noisy, scuffling darkness, no one could tell who had shouted. And these people were already alarmed.