orarily. Go home and get some sleep now; you're all worked
up. I'll go in and talk to Morrel. Maybe I can handle that old buzzard
better than you can."

Roger watched his friend amble down the aisle and out of the store. He
felt better now that he had talked to Drengo. Smiling to himself, he
finished off his coffee. Many a scrape he and Martin had seen through
together. He remembered that night of horror when the bomb fell on the
city, his miraculous rescue, the tall thin figure, reflecting the red
glare from his glasses, forcing his way through the burning timbers of
the building, tearing Roger's leg loose from the rubble covering it;
the frightful struggle through the rubbish, fighting off fear-crazed
mobs that sought to stop them, rob them, kill them. They had made the
long trek together, Martin and he, the Evacuation Road down to
Maryland, the Road of Horrors, lined with the rotting corpses of the
dead and the soon-dead, the dreadful refuse of that horrible night.
Martin Drengo had been a stout friend to Roger; he'd been with Martin
the night he'd met Ann; took the ring from Martin's finger when they
stood at the altar on their wedding day; shared with Martin his
closest confidence.

Roger sighed and paid for the coffee. What to do? The boy was home
now, recovering from the shock of the attack. Roger caught an
out-bound tri-wheel, and sped down the busy thoroughfare toward his
home. If Martin could talk to Morrel, and get something done, perhaps
they could get a line. Somehow, perhaps they could trace the
attackers. In the morning he'd see Martin again, and they could figure
out a scheme.

But he didn't have a chance to see Martin again. For at 11:30 that
night, the marauders struck again. For the third time.

* * * * *

Through his sleep he heard a door close down below, and sat bolt
upright in bed, his heart pounding wildly. Only a tiny sound, the
click of a closing door--

Ann was sitting up beside him, brown hair close around her head, her
body tense. "Roger!" she whispered. "Did you hear something?"

Roger was out of bed, bounding across the room, into the hall. Blood
pounded in his ears as he rushed to David's room, stopped short
before the open door.

The shots rang out like whip cracks, and he saw the yellow flame from
the guns. There were two men in the dark room, standing at the bed
where the boy lay rolled into a terrified knot. The guns cracked again
and again, r