ground in
order to reach the book store. He therefore decided to take along
the .30-caliber Savage rifle in addition to the small hand weapon.

You're a fool, Lewis, he told himself, as he slid the oiled Savage from
its leather case. Are the books important enough to risk your life? Yes,
another part of him replied, they _are_ that important. If you want a
thing badly enough and the thing is worthwhile, then you must go after
it. If fear holds you like a rat in the dark, then you are worse than a
coward; you betray yourself and the civilization you represent. Go out
and bring the books back.

Running in the chill night wind. Grass, now pavement, now grass, beneath
his feet. Ducking into shadows, moving stealthily past shops and
theatres, rushing under the cold moon. Santa Monica Boulevard, then
Highland, the Hollywood Boulevard, and finally--after an eternity of
heartbeats--the book store.

Pickwick's.

Lewis Stillman, his rifle over one shoulder, the small automatic
gleaming in his hand, edged silently into the store.

A paper battleground met his eyes.

In the filtered moonlight, a white blanket of broken-backed volumes
spilled across the entire lower floor. Stillman shuddered; he could
envision them, shrieking, scrabbling at the shelves, throwing books
wildly across the room at one another. Screaming, ripping, destroying.

What of the other floors? _What of the medical section?_

He crossed to the stairs, spilled pages crackling like a fall of dry
leaves under his step, and sprinted up the first short flight to the
mezzanine. Similar chaos!

He hurried up to the second floor, stumbling, terribly afraid of what he
might find. Reaching the top, his heart thudding, he squinted into the
dimness.

The books were undisturbed. Apparently they had tired of their game
before reaching these.

He slipped the rifle from his shoulder and placed it near the stairs.
Dust lay thick all around him, powdering up and swirling, as he moved
down the narrow aisles; a damp, leathery mustiness lived in the air, an
odor of mold and neglect.

Lewis Stillman paused before a dim hand-lettered sign: MEDICAL SECTION.
It was just as he had remembered it. Holstering the small automatic, he
struck a match, shading the flame with a cupped hand as he moved it
along the rows of faded titles. Carter ... Davidson ... Enright ...
_Erickson_. He drew in his breath sharply. All three volumes, their gold
stamping dust-dulled but readable, sto