He had headed back to the waterfront, afraid to run, with some vague notion of stealing a boat. Before he reached the row of saloons and joints, a smart-looking squad of eight tall men overtook him. "Hold it, mister," a sergeant said. "Are you Orsino?" "No," he said hopelessly. "That crazy woman began to yell at me that I was Orsino, but my name's Wyman. What's this about?" The other men fell in beside and behind him. "We're stepping over to O.N.I.," the sergeant said. "There's the son of a bitch!" somebody bawled. Suddenly there were a dozen sweatered Guardsmen around them. Their leader was the thug Orsino had beaten in a fair fight. He said silkily to the sergeant: "We want that boy, leatherneck. Blow." * * * * * The sergeant went pale. "He's wanted for questioning by the O.N.I.," he said stolidly. "Get the marine three-striper!" the Guardsman chortled. He stuck his jaw into the sergeant's face. "Tell your squad to blow. You marines ought to know by now that you don't mess with the Guard." A very junior officer appeared. "What's going on here, you men?" he shrilled. "Atten-_shun_!" He was ignored as Guardsman and marines measured one another with their eyes. "I said _attention_! Dammit, sergeant, _report_!" There was no reaction. The officer yelled: "You men may think you can get away with this but by God, you're wrong!" He strode away, his fists clenched and his face very red. Orsino saw him stride through a gate into a lot marked _Bupers Motor Pool_. And he felt a sudden wave of communal understanding that there were only seconds to go. The sergeant played for time: "I'll be glad to surrender the prisoner," he started, "if you have anything to show in the way of--" The Guardsman kicked for the pit of the sergeant's stomach. He was a sucker Orsino thought abstractedly as he saw the sergeant catch his foot, dump him and pivot to block another Guardsman. Then he was fighting for his life himself, against three bellowing Guardsmen. A ripping, hammering noise filled the air suddenly. Like cold magic, it froze the milling mob where it stood. Fifty-caliber noise. The jaygee was back, this time in a jeep with a twin fifty. And he was glaring down its barrels into the crowd. People were beginning to stream from the saloons, joints and shipfitting shops. The jaygee cocked his cap rakishly over one eye. "_Fall in!_" he rasped, and a haunting air of familiarity came over Orsino. The waiting jeep, almost bucking in its eagerness to be let loose--Orsino on the ground, knees trembling with tension--a perfect change of mount scene in a polo match. He reacted automatically. There was a surrealist flash of the jaygee's face before he clipped him into the back of the square little truck. There was another flash of spectators scrambling as he roared the jeep down the road.