The screen lighted and on its surface formed the deadly trinity of the starships. It was a long shot from a sound truck, and the camera panned an expanse of desert beyond to focus briefly on the Arizona sunrise. An announcer was commenting on the riot of color that was quite obvious to the viewer: the flame of dawn in the sky and the blood red of the prairie flowers that covered the desert. Herb watched and listened. The starships were in place. Their cutting beams lanced out, there were puffs of destruction, and the tubings struck into the ground. The camera near one of the ships observed the operation intently. A scientist was commenting on the technology of the starmen. "The information inherent in one of these ships alone," he said (characteristically underestimating the pace of advancement), "would be enough to thrust Earth a hundred years--in terms of scientific knowledge--into the future." A shudder spun through Herb's body. He paced the room restlessly. Somewhere at a distance a clock struck the hour. Outside the open window, English sparrows chattered shrill, imperative commands. Herb was hungry. He phoned the desk and ordered breakfast. He was in the bath room when the bellboy arrived; he called, "The money's on the dresser." For fear of being recognized, he remained hidden until the bellboy left. He came out. The tray was on the night table. Eating, he continued to watch the progress of the starships. The voice of the Oligarch now came from the TV. He fabricated plausible details about what they were discovering of Earth's early physical history. Sweaty faces advanced and receded from the cameras. The three tubes continued into the Earth, going deeper by the minute. A sense of urgency and desperation filled Herb. He must hurry to kill Bud. By noon the desert operation would be completed. Earth would be a mined planet. Destruction could then be accomplished by the flick of a switch. He looked at his face in the mirror. Black stubble pricked his skin in a thousand places, and he ran his hand across his cheek. He shrugged and found his hat. Until sunset, he told himself, he would have until sunset to accomplish his self-imposed assignment. Bud, he thought (and revulsion mounted in him), is her brother, and she, his sister; and Frank, Frank is dead and forgotten and hidden somewhere, as soon will be now the Earth and all its beauty. He was in the street. The sunshine was bright. He walked. A gun, he thought, for a hand that is hungry for--and he thought: To cup the hand behind Norma's head, and stroke her hair, and look deeply into her eyes. He looked at his hands; strange, hungry hands, he thought. He felt them tighten against the metallic iciness of a gun.... "You can't," the man behind the counter said, "buy a pistol without a permit. You'll have to get a police permit before I can sell you a gun." His eyes shifted uneasily from Herb's face, and Herb thanked the man and started back toward the sunshine.