"It's getting pretty late," he said, hoping his voice sounded natural. "Let's just knock off for now, I'll study it over, maybe I'll have something figured by tomorrow." Historical research, huh? Some professors all right, this bunch-- The thing to do was to stall, not let them know he suspected anything. "I tell you," he said casually, "do you have some place I could bed down here? Save me a trip into town and back." Was it his imagination, or did Brown relax slightly? "Why, yes, we do have a spare cot in Mr. Smith's room," Brown said. "Would that be good enough?" "Sounds fine," Dolan said. He snapped the lid of his tool-box shut. "Let's go see what it looks like." * * * * * The two male gun runners held a council of war while Dolan was eating his breakfast. "Subject's attention diverted," the senior gun runner said. "Unknown factor. Annoying." Smith clucked his tongue in sympathy. He thought for a moment. "Raise threshold to override?" he suggested. "Must. Moirta." Smith nodded and went out. He returned in a moment with the female gun runner. Brown explained the problem to her in the same few words he had used to Smith. She shrugged. She did not bother to practise her specialty on her colleagues--they were, for one thing, almost immune, they had grown up in a civilization where her specialty was over-crowded. For another, in the nature of her specialty, she found it hard to concentrate on more than one subject at a time. "Doing best," she said indifferently. Brown studied her shrewdly. "Supplies short," he said mildly. "One-half larger than one-third. Each must pay way." His voice was mild, but Moirta understood the threat quite clearly. "Suggestions?" she asked coldly. Brown nodded equably--he was used to temperament in this member of his team--and told her what he wanted her to do. She would obey, he knew. She would also double-cross him, if the occasion offered; but he did not intend that the occasion _should_ offer. * * * * * There was a foot-path leading up the ridge back of the cabin. Dolan did not ordinarily feel the need of an after-breakfast stroll, but today he was looking for something. He was not quite sure what it would be, but he thought he would recognize it if he saw it. He walked slowly up the foot-path, letting his eyes roam. Perhaps fifty yards from the cottage, the grass was trampled and the brush bent where someone had left the path. This might be it. He followed the trampled trail off the path, searching carefully now. Three or four steps along it, he found what he had been looking for--two empty .45 caliber cartridges lying in the grass. He picked them up and juggled them in his hand, looking speculatively about. Angling off to the left was an opening in the undergrowth.