"I stand corrected on both counts." He shifted to another spot, then called back, "How is it coming, girls?"

"Martha got one," Phyllis sang out.

"Good for her! What's the matter with you?"

"I'm doing all right."

"Fine. Burn 'em so they don't wiggle."

"They don't," she stated briefly.

There were no more rushes. A portion of a head would peek out cautiously, its owner would blast once quickly without proper aim, the man would duck back. They returned the fire, but with little expectation of hitting anything. The targets never appeared twice in the same spot, and for split seconds only. They crept back and forth along the balcony, trying to enfilade the rooms beyond, but their antagonists had become cagy.

"Claude ... I just thought of something funny."

"So?"

"Suppose I get killed in this. You get your own way in our argument, don't you?"

"Yes. What's the joke?"

"But if I get knocked over, you'll probably be dead too. You told me my deposit was listed only in your mind. You win and you lose."

"Not exactly. I said it was not on file. But it's identified in my will-my professional executor will carry out the plan."

"Oh, ho. So I'm a papa anyhow." He fired once at a shape that suddenly appeared in his door. There was a yelp of anguish, and the shape drew back. "Lousy," he deplored. "I must be losing my eyesight." He banked a slug off the floor in front of his door, letting it thereby ricochet loosely in the room beyond. He did the same through Mordan's door. "That's to teach 'em to keep their heads down. Look, Claude-if you had your choice, which would you prefer: for both of us to be knocked over and thereby insure your own way about my hypothetical offspring, or for both of us to get through it and be back where we started?"

Mordan considered the question. "I think I would rather try to argue around to my viewpoint. I'm afraid there isn't much of the martyr spirit in me."

"That's what I thought."

Somewhat later Mordan said, "Felix, I think they have taken to drawing our fire. I don't think that was a face I shot at last time."

"I believe you're right. I couldn't have missed a couple of times lately."

"How many shots have you left?"

Hamilton did not need to count; he knew-and it had been worrying him. He had had four clips when he left for the Hall of the Wolf-three in his belt, one in his gun, twenty-eight shots in all. The last clip was in his gun; he had fired two shots from it. He held up one hand, fingers spread. "How about you?"

"About the same. I could use half charge for this sparring." He thought a moment. "Cover both doors." He crawled rapidly away through the stacks to where the two women kept guard on the rear door.

Martha heard him and turned. "Look at this, chief," she insisted, holding out her left hand. He looked-the first two joints of the forefinger were burned away and the tip of the thumb-cleanly cauterized. "Isn't that a mess?" she complained. "I'll never be able to operate again. No manipulation."

"Your assistants can operate. It's your brain that counts."

"A lot you know about it. They're clumsy-every blessed one of them. It's a miracle they can dress themselves."

"I'm sorry. How many charges have you left?"

The picture was no better here. Phyllis's lady's weapon had been only a twenty-gun to start with. Both Mordan's and Monroe-Alpha's were fifty-guns, but the gun expropriated from Monroe-Alpha had started the evening even more depleted than Mordan's. Phyllis had withdrawn Martha from anything more than stand-by when she had been wounded, planning to use the gun herself when her own was exhausted.

Mordan cautioned them to be still more economical with their shooting and returned to his post. "Anything happened?" he asked.

"No. What's the situation?"

Mordan told him.

Hamilton whistled tunelessly, his eye on his target. "Claude?"

"Yes, Felix."

"Do you think we are going to get out of this?"

"No, Felix."

"Hmmm ... Well, it's been a nice party." A little later he added, "Damn it-I don't want to die. Not just yet ... Claude, I've thought of another joke."

"Let's have it."

"What's the one thing that could give life point to it-real point?"

"That," Mordan pointed out, "is the question I've been trying to answer for you all along."

"No, no. The question itself."

"You state it," Mordan parried cautiously.

"I will. The one thing that could give us some real basis for our living is to know for sure whether or not anything happens after we die. When we die, do we die all over-or don't we?"

"Hmm ... granting your point, what's the joke?"

"The joke is on me. Or rather on my kid. In a few minutes I'll probably know the answer. But he won't. He's sitting back there right now-in a way-sleeping in one of those freezers. And there is no way on earth for me to let him know the answer. But he's the one that will need to know. Isn't that funny?"

"Hmm ... If that's your idea of a joke, Felix, I suggest that you stick to parlor tricks."

Hamilton shrugged jauntily. "I'm considered quite a wit-in some circles," he bragged. "Sometimes I wow myself."

"Here they come!" It was an organized rush this time, spreading fanwise from both doors. They were both very busy for perhaps two seconds, then it was over. "Any get through?"

"Two, I think," Mordan answered. "You cover the stairs. I'll stay here." It was not personal caution, but tactics. Mordan's eye and hand were fast, but Hamilton was the younger, abler man.

He watched the stairs on his belly, most of his body shielded by the stacks. He was lucky on the first shot-his man stuck his head up facing the other way. Hamilton sent him down with a hole in the back of his skull and his forehead blown away. He then shifted quickly to the far side of the stair well. But his gun was empty.

The second man came up fast. Hamilton slugged him with the empty weapon and grappled, trying to get inside his range. The man almost fought free, dragging them both part way into the staircase, but Hamilton jerked back on his head, hard. There was a crunch of bone; he went limp.

Hamilton reported back to Mordan.

"Good. Where's your gun?" Hamilton shrugged and spread his palms. "There ought to be two at the foot of the stairs," he suggested.

"You wouldn't last long enough to stoop over for them. You stay up here. Go back and get Martha's."

"Yes, sir."

He crawled back, explained what he wanted, and told Martha to hide in the stacks. She protested. "Chief's orders," he lied. Then to Phyllis, "How are you doing, kid?"

"All right."

"Keep your chin up and your head down." He glanced at the meters on both guns. They had the same charge. He bolstered Monroe-Alpha's gun, shot a quick look at the door Phyllis was covering, then grabbed her chin, turned her face around, and kissed her quickly.

"That's for keeps," he said, and turned away at once.

Mordan reported no activity. "But there will be," he added. "We don't dare waste shots on casual targets and they will soon realize it."

It seemed an interminable wait. They grimly forbore accepting the targets they were offered. "I think," said Mordan at last, "that we had better expend one charge on the next thing that appears. It might cause a worthwhile delay."

"You don't have any silly notion that we are going to get out of this now, do you? I've begun to suspect that the monitors don't even know this point was attacked."

"You may be right. But we'll keep on."

"Oh, of course."

They had a target soon-plain enough to be sure that it was a man, and not a decoy. Mordan stung him. He fell in sight, but shots were scarce-he was allowed to crawl painfully back.

Hamilton looked up for a moment. "See here, Claude-it would be worthwhile, you know-to know what happens after the lights go out. Why hadn't anyone tackled it seriously?"