"Everything's all right. Just a little metal transformation," said Ben. "Stick around, I'll get you some oil. You squeak." He was off down the street in a clatter, leaving Murray with the newcomer. "Permit me to introduce myself," he offered. "I am--or was--Murray Lee. My friend, who has gone to get you some oil, is Benjamin Franklin Ruby. He thinks the big comet which hit the earth contained radioactive gas that made us all into metal. Did you live in a penthouse?" She eyed him darkly. "Somebody told you," she said, "I'm Gloria Rutherford, and we have the top floor of the Sherry-Netherland, but all the rest were away when this happened.... Oh, pardon me, it hurts me to talk." There came a crash from down the street, indicating that Ben was forcing another store, and in a minute he was back with a handful of bottles. With a flourish he offered one to the girl. "Only castor, but it's the best the market affords," he said. "What we need is a good garage, but there aren't many around here.... Go ahead, drink her down, it's all right," he assured the girl, who was contemplating the bottle in her hand with an expression of distaste. Following his own recommendation, he tipped up one of the bottles and drank a deep draught, then calmly proceeded to douse himself from head to foot with the remainder. She made a little grimace, then tried it. "Thank you," she said, setting the bottle down. "I didn't think it was possible anybody could like the stuff except in a magazine ad. Now tell me, where are all the other people and what do we do?" "Do?" queried Ben. "Find 'em. How? Ask Mr. Foster. Anybody else in your neck of the woods?" She shook her head. Murray noticed that the joints of her neck rattled. "Paulson--that's my maid--was the only other person in our apartment, and she seems to be even more solid-iron in the head than usual--like this lot." She swung her hand round in an expressive gesture toward the image of a policeman which was directing two similar images to pause at the curb. "How about a bonfire?" suggested Murray. "That's the way the Indians or South Africans or somebody, attract attention." "What could we burn?" asked Ben. "... A building, of course. Why not? Property doesn't mean anything any more with all the property owners dead." "I know," said Gloria Rutherford, falling into the spirit of his suggestion. "The old Metropolitan Opera. That eyesore has worried me for the last five years." The suggestion was endorsed with enthusiasm. They climbed into the taxi and twenty minutes later were hilariously kindling a blaze in the back-stage section of the old building, running out of it with childish delight to watch the pillar of smoke grow and spread as the flames caught the timbers, long dry with age.