ways wondered about this
suicide talk; I couldn't see why Humphrey was so perturbed about it.
Anything that lowered the market price of Premix, at this time, would be
to his advantage." She looked at Goode as though he had six legs and a
hard shell. "You know, Humphrey, I can't say I exactly thank you for
this."

"Did you know about it?" Nelda demanded of her husband. "You did! My God,
Fred, you are a filthy specimen!"

"Oh, you know; anything to turn a dishonest dollar," Geraldine piped up.
"Like the late Arnold Rivers's ten-thousand offer. Say! I wonder if that
mightn't be what Rivers died of? Raising the price and leaving Fred out
in the cold!"

Dunmore simply stared at her, making a noise like a chicken choking on
a piece of string.

"Well, all this isn't my pidgin," Rand said to Gladys. "I only work here,
_Deo gratias_, and I still have some work to do."

With that, he walked past Goode and Dunmore and ascended the spiral
stairway to the gunroom. Even at the desk, in the far corner of the room,
he could hear them going at it, hammer-and-tongs, in the library.
Sometimes it would be Nelda's strident shrieks that would dominate the
bedlam below; sometimes it would be Fred Dunmore, roaring like a bull.
Now and then, Humphrey Goode would rumble something, and, once in a
while, he could hear Gladys's trained and modulated voice. Usually, any
remark she made would be followed by outraged shouts from Goode and
Dunmore, like the crash of falling masonry after the whip-crack of a
tank-gun.

At first Rand eavesdropped shamelessly, but there was nothing of more
than comic interest; it was just a routine parade and guard-mount of the
older and more dependable family skeletons, with special emphasis on
Humphrey Goode's business and professional ethics. When he was satisfied
that he would hear nothing having any bearing on the death of Lane
Fleming, Rand went back to his work.

After a while, the tumult gradually died out. Rand was still typing when
Gladys came up the spiral and perched on the corner of the desk, picking
up a long brass-barreled English flintlock and hefting it.

"You know, I sometimes wonder why we don't all come up here, break out
the ammunition, pick our weapons, and settle things," she said. "It never
was like this when Lane was around. Oh, Nelda and Geraldine would bare
their teeth at each other, once in a while, but now this place has turned
into a miniature Iwo Jima. I don't know how much longer