"Damn it to hell, it doesn't make _sense_!" protested Arch. "A new energy source should make everything cheaper for everybody--more production available for less work." He felt a nervous tic beginning in one cheek. "Production for use instead of for profit--" "Oh, dry up, will you? Any system is a profit system. It has to show a profit in some terms or other, or it would just be wasted effort. And the profit has to go to individuals, not to some mythical state. The state doesn't eat--people do." "Would you have the oil interests simply write off their investment?" "No, of course not. Why couldn't they--Look. Gasoline can still run generators. Oil can still lubricate. Byproducts can still be synthesized. It's a matter of shifting the emphasis of production, that's all. All that's needed is a little common sense." "Which is a rather scarce commodity." "There," said Arch gloomily, "we find ourselves in agreement." "The trouble is," said Bob earnestly, "we're faced with a real situation, not a paper problem. It calls for a real solution. For an idea." "There aren't any ideas," said Elizabeth. "Not big sweeping ones to solve everything overnight. Man doesn't work that way. What happens is that somebody solves his own immediate, personal problems, somebody else does the same, and eventually society as a whole fumbles its way out of the dilemma." Arch sighed. "This is getting over my head," he admitted. "Thanks for small blessings: the thing has grown so big that I, personally, am becoming forgotten." He rose. "I'm kind of tired tonight," he went on. "Maybe we better be running along. Thanks for the drinks and all." He and his wife slipped into their raincoats and galoshes for the short walk home. The street outside was dark, a rare lamp glowing off slick wet concrete. Rain misted his face and glasses, he had trouble seeing. "Poor darling," Elizabeth took his arm. "Don't worry. We'll get through all right." "I hope so," he said fervently. No money had come in for some time now. Bob's enterprise was levelling off as initial demand was filled, and a lurching industry wasn't buying many electronic valves. The bank account was getting low. He saw the figure ahead as a vague shadow against the night. It stood waiting till they came up, and then stepped in their path. The voice was unfamiliar: "Arch?" "Yes--" He could see only that the face was heavy and unshaven, with something wild about the mouth. Then his eyes dropped to the revolver barrel protruding from the slicker. "What the devil--" "Don't move, you." It was a harsh, broken tone. "Right now I'm aiming at your wife. I'd as soon shoot her, too." Fear leaped crazily in Arch's breast. He stood unable to stir, coldness crawling in his guts. He tried to speak, and couldn't. "Not a word, you--. Not another word. You've said too goddam much already." The gun poked forward, savagely. "I'm going to kill you. You did your best to kill me."