The dynamite itself-which he sliced into two pieces-he regarded as safe, and a mere quarter-stick of it as virtually harmless (to one familiar with its action) even if exploded. No, dynamite was all right. Dinah was easygoing, tolerating almost anything short of outrage. The danger lay in that cute little black cap she wore when being readied for action. They-the percussion caps-were about the size of an after-dinner mint, and their behavior was anything but good. And tiny as they were, one of them was more than enough to remove a man's hand.

Doc was glad when his job was finished, glad that he would never again have to take on a similar job. The bombs could have been purchased ready-made, of course, but Doc distrusted the purveyors of such items. They might talk; besides, they lacked the incentive to turn out top-grade merchandise, anything less than which was apt to prove fatal to the purchaser.

Doc put the bombs in his wastebasket and crumpled the soiled newspaper over them. He scrubbed his hands in the bathroom and turned down the turnedup cuffs of his shirt. For no conscious reason, he sighed.

He'd been on tougher jobs than this one, but never one where so much depended on its success. Everything he had was on the line here; everything that he and Carol had. He was pushing forty-one. She was almost fourteen years younger. So, one more fall, one more prison stretch and-and that would be that.

The thoughts stirred muddily in the bottom of his mind. Unrecognized and unadmitted; manifested only in an unconscious sigh.

He had not taken another look at the bank, since seeing that Rudy and the kid had gotten in all right. He'd had work to do, and there'd been no point in looking. If there was trouble, he'd be able to hear it.

Now, however, he looked again, and was just in time to see the bank president enter its door. The door closed abruptly, almost catching the heel of his shoe. Doc winced and shook his head, unconsciously as he had sighed.

It was ten minutes of nine. Doc adjusted his tie and put on his suit jacket. Now it was five minutes of. He picked up the wastebasket and stepped out into the hall.

He went down the faded red carpet to the end of the hall, then turned right into a short side corridor. A metal trash can stood between the back stairs and the side-street window. Doc poked the papers into the can, idly glancing up and down the street.

His luck was far better than he could have hoped for.

A flatbed farm truck was parked rear end first at the curb. Next to it was a sedan, its windows rolled up tightly. But next to them, parked to windward of them, was another truck-loaded almost to the level of the hotel's second-floor windows.

And what it was loaded with was baled hay!

Doc gave the street another quick up and down glance. Then he tossed the bombs, lofting one between the truck's cab and bed, the other onto the load of hay.

He picked up the wastebasket and returned to his room. It was two minutes of nine now-two minutes before the bombs were set to explode-and three or four people were gathered in front of the bank, waiting for it to open.

Doc completed his arrangements for leaving, slowly counting off the seconds.

The time lock on the bank's vault was set for eightfifty. Slightly more than ten minutes later, Rudy and Jackson had cleared it of cash-dollar bills and coins excepted-and several thick packages of negotiable securities.

The banker lay sprawled on the floor, half-dead from Rudy's pistol-whipping. Stumbling over his unconscious body, Rudy gave him a savage kick in the face, turned half-crazed eyes upon the kid. The fear had filled him now, the furious outraged fear of a cornered rat. It would simmer down in time, solidify into the murderous trigger-quick wiliness which had guided him in and out of so many tight places. Which forced him to survive long after the withered inner man had cried out for the peace of death. Now, however, there was nothing but the raging fear, and he had to strike out at something. At anything.

"You hear anything out there?" He jerked his head toward the street."Well, did you?"

"Hear anything? W-what…"

"The bombs, you long-eared jerk! Any commotion."

"Huh-uh. But I don't guess we could, could we, Rudy? I mean, there in the vault we-N-no! D-don't!"

The kid strangled on a scream. He tried to claw the gun from his belt. Then he toppled forward, clutching at his half-disemboweled abdomen; at the guts which Torrento had mockingly credited him with having.

Rudy giggled. He made a sound that was strangely akin to a sob. Then he wiped his knife on a blotter, returned it to his pocket and picked up the two briefcases.

He carried them to the bank door, set them down again. He turned and looked meditatively at the bank's three employees. They were scattered about the lobby floor, their mouths sealed with tape, their wrists and ankles bound with more tape. They looked at him, their eyes rolling to show the whites, and Rudy hesitantly fingered his knife.

They'd have him tabbed for the robbery, for killing the kid. And if things broke wrong, Doc would doubtless manage to tag him with the guard's death. Trust Doc to keep himself in the clear, him and his smart little sneak of a wife! But anyway, these yokels could finger him-pick his wedge-shaped map out of a million mug shots. So as long as he couldn't be fried or have his neck popped but once anyhow, why not

He took the knife out again. He went from employee to employee, slashing the bonds of their ankles, kicking and cursing and yanking them to their feet.

Shoving them ahead of him, he herded them back inside the vault. He swung the door shut on them, gave the knob a few spins.

There'd been no point in killing them. He'd been seen coming into the joint, and he was a cinch to be seen leaving. There was a hell of a racket outside and it was growing by the second, and even in here you could get a whiff of smoke. But still, someone, a lot of someones, would see him leave. The best he could hope for was that none of 'em would try to do anything about it.

None of 'em did. Doc had figured right. They had too much else to be interested in to pay any attention to him. And after all, what was so funny about a guy coming out of a bank during banking hours?

The side street was jammed with people, surging back toward the walks occasionally when the winddriven smoke threatened to envelop them. Sparks showered upward from the burning hay. A gas tank exploded, sending a speckled fountain of fire into the air. The crowd roared, jamming back into the intersection, and the people in the intersection tried to push forward. Several men in red helmets were scurrying about, shouting and gesturing futilely. Other redhelmeted men were lunging up the street, dragging a two-wheel hose cart behind them. The bell in the courthouse cupola tolled steadily.

Rudy loaded the briefcases into the car. He made a U-turn, honking for a couple of yokels to get out of the way, and headed out of town.

A block away, Doc stepped down from the walk to the street and climbed in with him. They rode on, Rudy grinning meanly to himself as he noted the careless caution with which Doc handled his coat. McCoy asked him how they had made out.

"Two hundred in bonds. Maybe a hundred and forty in cash."

"A hundred and forty?" Doc's eyes flicked at him. "I see. Must've been a lot of ones and silver."

"So maybe there's more, dammit! You think I figured it up on an addin' machine?"

"Now, Rudy," Doc said soothingly, "no offense. How did it go with the youngster?"

"What d'you mean, how'd it go? How'd you plan it to go?"

"Of course. Too bad," Doc said vaguely. "I always feel bad when something like that is necessary."