t consumers
shouted. "Don't let 'em touch our fire."

* * * * *

The mob went back into action in two task-forces; one dedicated to the
extirpation of the BSG-men currently available, the other clustered
around the firetruck, thwarting the fire-fighters' efforts to couple
their hose to the hydrant. One youngster, wearing the black leather
jacket and crash-helmet of a Potlatch Party, ran from the fireworks
warehouse with a thermite grenade. Pulling the pin, he tossed the
sputtering bomb through a window of the burning building. "Stop him!"
the white-helmeted fire-chief shouted.

"Stop him, hell!" a consumer replied. "Man, we got a rebellion going.
Don't you guys try to throw cold water on it unless you'd like to be
squirted solid ice with your own hose."

* * * * *

The fire-chief, his hands raised in despair, turned to his colleagues.
"Stand by, boys," he said. "Nothing we can do till the cops get here to
quell this bunch."

"Pretty, isn't it?" one of the firemen remarked, dropping the canvas
hose. "We never get to see a building burn all the way. Think of all the
papers in there, file-cabinets full of government regulations, lists of
all our birthdays, quota-forms; all curling up and turning brown and
reaching the kindling point. Nice fire, Chief."

The fire-chief faced Headquarters, a new look replacing his anxiety. "It
is kind of pretty," he admitted. He turned to the consumer ringleader.
"OK with you if we throw a little water on the fireworks warehouse?" he
asked.

"Sure," the man said. "We don't want to blow up the old home-town; we
only want to put the BSG out of business." His band of consumers stepped
back from the yellow fireplug to let the firemen hook up their hoses,
toggle on the pressure, and begin playing water over the blank face of
the fireworks warehouse.

Captain Winfree was buried in hard-fisted civilians, all seemingly
intent on erasing him as the most familiar symbol of the Bureau of
Seasonal Gratuities. Winfree bobbed to the surface of the maelstrom for
a moment, waving his saber, and shouted, "MacHenery! Get these jokers
off my back before I'm knee-deep in cold meat." He thwacked another of
his assailants across the pate with the flat of his blade.

MacHenery, using his saber as a lever, pried himself a path through the
crowd. As he reached Captain Winfree, he raised his saber. The crowd
about the two men retreated. "These