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Ralph that lives with us, he says they’re just a bunch of dopes, but I think,” said Mrs. Gillespie courageously, “some of ’em would be real nice if you got to—”
    She broke off and sat with parted lips, listening. The buzz of general conversation died; from the open street-door down the hall a man’s voice sounded, strident, authoritative: “What in the hell have I got to do with it? I pointed out your position, and that was all.”
    â€œThat’s all?” The answer came in a higher key, unsteadily. “You—you keep me on the rack, you won’t lift a finger to—”
    Mrs. Gillespie half rose from her seat. “Ralphie!” she breathed, and then caught her husband’s eye and sank back reluctantly.
    â€œShut up,” said the first voice, in a lower tone, “and come on in to the meeting. If I think of anything I’ll let you know, so you can quit doggin’ at my heels.”
    â€œRalphie,” Mrs. Gillespie whispered again, her hands twisting nervously. “Oh, why will he—”
    Abruptly a man appeared in the living-room door, and stood surveying the company. You knew at once that his was the strident voice; he was a stocky man with a florid, unremarkable face, the felt armband of Civilian Defense prominently displayed on his sleeve. It was a good entrance, effective as the sharp rap of a gavel. The audience froze to attention.
    Warden Hollister opened his lips to speak; and, sudden and loud as a gunshot, the front door violently slammed.
    Everyone in the room gave a nervous start, and Peter Frey swung round from the window. That shattering noise had had in it all the fury that taut nerves could produce.
    Mr. Hollister recovered himself and laughed shortly. “Come in and sit down, Stort,” he said over his shoulder. After a moment a lean man, somewhat resembling Mimi Gillespie, passed him with averted, twitching face. He sat down wordlessly in a dim corner, beside a man whom Georgine hadn’t yet identified, and remained throughout the meeting in the same position, gazing down at his knees, a lock of blond hair falling over his eyes.
    â€œNow,” Hollister said, looking around swiftly, “Are we all here? Where’s Devlin?”
    â€œOut of town,” said Mrs. Devlin shortly. Her son added, “Sure, didn’t you notice the Jeep was off the street? I can’t keep her in the garage when Dad’s home.”
    â€œThe Carmichael ladies?”
    Several voices told him that the ladies were in Carmel, opening their cottage so they could go down for the weekend of the Fourth.
    â€œWhen they knew there was to be a meeting?” Hollister scowled. Somebody chuckled softly. “Well, damn it, I don’t hold these get-togethers for my health, you know! I’ve got information to pass on, and you’re supposed to come here and listen, all of you.”
    â€œHeil Hitler,” said Mr. Gillespie, just audibly.
    The Warden ignored this with an effort, and glared into a corner. “Is Professor Paev absent, again? ”
    Mrs. Blake’s organ tones answered him. She would pass on anything important, having been sent as deputy for an employer who never left home if he could possibly help it. “Anyhow,” she added, “come some bombs, it’ll be my job to attend to ’em. I guess the P’fessah couldn’t be bothered.” She retired again into her dignified silence.
    â€œMaybe you’re right,” said Hollister with a grudging smile. He flipped open a notebook. “Now, will you all attend carefully, please. There’s a new method of treating incendiary bombs—”
    Mrs. Devlin sighed audibly.
    The meeting progressed with remarkable efficiency. Georgine found herself thinking that these hill-dwellers were making very heavy weather of their defense measures. In her section, the householders perfected their preparations and then relaxed; up here,