The man's eyes narrowed. "Them happens to be John Sager's men, mister, and they all happen to be deputies." His pistol came out suddenly. "I'm orderin' you to take 'em off." Brek shrugged and unbuckled the belt. "I ain't lookin' for an argument," he said, handing the gunbelt to the sheriff. But as the sheriff reached for the belt, Brek lashed out with one hand, slapping the other's weapon aside. It skittered across the floor as Brek jerked one of his own guns from the belt and sent the sheriff reeling backward with a blow in the chest. Several of the other armed men started to reach for their hips, but Brek's icy voice stopped them short. "First man to touch a gun gets lead!" The sheriff's face grew red. "You've got trouble, stranger." "Maybe. But them guns is mine." "You're trying to buck the law," said the sheriff. Brek grinned. "It's a damn fool law that needs so many men to enforce it. If you was the only one packin' irons, I might be persuaded to gie 'em to the barkeep here. But as long as everybody is carryin' full holsters, I reckon I don't want to be out of style. I'd look too conspicuous." Still holding his weapon, he buckled on his belt and walked over to where the sheriff's gun had fallen. Without taking his eyes off of anyone in the room, he squatted and picked it up. Then he walked back to the sheriff and shoved the six-gun into the lawman's holster. "Don't aim to cause no trouble, sheriff. If you and the rest of these gents will oblige me, I'll ask the barkeep to set us all up a drink." There was a moment of silence, then the sheriff grinned. "Reckon I'll take whiskey," he said. Brek grinned back and put his weapon in its sheath. It was almost a mistake. As soon as his hand was well away from the gun butt, one of the men at the bar snatched at his six-gun and brought it up to fire. * * * * * No ordinary man with ordinary guns could have moved fast enough to do anything. But Brek was no ordinary man, and his weapons were far from ordinary; both man and guns were the product of a science far in advance of the nineteenth century. Brek's hands blurred, and his weapons seemed to leap from their holsters as the little robot mechanisms secreted in their butts responded to the electroneural commands of their owner. There was a roar of sound as one of the guns spoke. The gunman's weapon seemed to vanish from his hand. It sailed across the room, banged against the wall, and dropped to the floor. Brek had no compunction against killing a man, particularly in self-defense, but the death of one man might conceivably make radical changes in the future. As the echoes of the gunshot died away, the gunman howled with pain. The shock of Brek's bullet against the gun had sent needles of pain racing up his arm. The room was silent. Then the sheriff walked over to the gunman, who was massaging his aching, numbed fingers, and grabbed him by the shirt collar.