think I told you what I
collect--personal combat arms, both firearms and edge-weapons."

They entered the front door, which opened directly into a large parlor, a
brightly colored, cheerful room. A woman rose from a chair where she had
been reading. She was somewhere between forty-five and fifty, but her
figure was still trim, and she retained much of what, in her youth, must
have been great beauty.

"Mother, this is Colonel Rand," Pierre said. "Jeff, my mother."

Rand shook hands with her, and said something polite. She gave him a
smile of real pleasure.

"Pierre has been telling me about you, Colonel," she said. There was a
faint trace of French accent in her voice. "I suppose he brought you here
to show you his treasures?"

"Yes; I collect arms too. Pistols," Rand said.

She laughed. "You gun-collectors; you're like women looking at somebody's
new hat.... Will you stay for dinner with us, Colonel Rand?"

"Why, I'm sorry; I can't. I have a great many things to do, and I'm
expected for dinner at the Flemings'. I really wish I could, Mrs.
Jarrett. Maybe some other time."

They chatted for a few minutes, then Pierre guided Rand into one of the
wings of the house.

"This is my workshop, too," he said. "Here's where I do my writing." He
opened a door and showed Rand into a large room.

On one side, the wall was blank; on the other, it was pierced by two
small casement windows. The far end was of windows for its entire width,
from within three feet of the floor almost to the ceiling. There were
bookcases on either long side, and on the rear end, and over them hung
Pierre's weapons. Rand went slowly around the room, taking everything in.
Very few of the arms were of issue military type, and most of these
showed alterations to suit individual requirements. As Pierre had told
him the evening before, the emphasis was upon weapons which illustrated
techniques of combat.

At the end of the room, lighted by the wide windows, was a long
desk which was really a writer's assembly line, with typewriter,
reference-books, stacks of notes and manuscripts, and a big dictionary
on a stand beside a comfortable swivel-chair.

"What are you writing?" Rand asked.

"Science-fiction. I do a lot of stories for the pulps," Pierre told him.
"_Space-Trails_, and _Other Worlds_, and _Wonder-Stories_; mags like
that. Most of it's standardized formula-stuff; what's known to the trade
as space-operas. My best stuff goes to _Astonishing_