Surrounded

least." Imrie rubbed his stomach, consoling it. "Thank God the majority of decent Americans understand that we have to have guns to keep this country free. If we didn't have guns, how would we keep the Communists out?" He burped on his cookies, excused himself. "Most people realize that there's nothing foul and fiendish about a man who deals in guns. Look, I'm no degenerate. Most people know that a gun dealer is no more a villain than your local Ford salesman or the friendly neighborhood Good Humor man." He burped again, patted his lips. "Now, Tucker, what can I do for you?"
        "I want three guns. Something ugly enough to terrorize the average citizen. Something that would intimidate a man and keep him from behaving foolishly."
        "Sure," Imrie said, smiling. "I know just what you mean. I can fix you up."
        "I thought you could," Tucker said.
        They walked to the rear of the store along a tight aisle of cupboards, corner desks, bookcases, china closets, and other furniture, all stacked on top of one another, all graced with nearly perfectly preserved isinglass doors. At the back of the room, they went through a tattered yellow curtain, up dimly lighted stairs past the second floor where Imrie lived, and on up to the third level where the fat man kept his guns.
        "I couldn't deliver these today, if that's what you have in mind," Imrie said as they came off the stairs. "They need work done on them."
        "I don't need them today," Tucker said.
        On the third floor, as on the first, the partitions had been knocked out to form one enormous room. But while the first floor contained old furniture, curiosities and antiques, this place housed more deadly merchandise: in excess of two thousand rifles, shotguns, handguns, machine and submachine guns. They were hooked on the white pegboard walls, crammed on wooden and metal wall shelves, tilted against wooden display lifts, laid gently in velvet-lined collector's cases, scattered about the floor, jammed into paper bags. The room also contained metal-working machines, lathes and a small gas-fired forge and cooking pots where metals could be melted down and shaped. Despite the disarray there was no dust up here as there was on the first floor. And all the corners were well lighted. There was an open, airy feeling that the lower level did not have. Quite obviously, it was here at the top of the building where Imrie's heart would remain even if the improbable should come to pass and his antique business should become more profitable than gun dealing.
        "I take it you don't want machine guns," Imrie said. "If you did, you'd have said."
        "Something ugly and impressive-but concealed," Tucker said, measuring an imaginary weapon with his slim hands.
        "Three of them?"
        "That would be best."
        The fat man scratched his shiny skull, ruffled the fringe of gray hair, pursed and unpursed his lips, smiled with sudden inspiration. "Give me a minute or two." He went off to prowl through his haphazardly stored collection. Five minutes later he called Tucker over to the main workbench. "Here's what I can let you have," he said, carefully aligning three guns on the top of the bench.
        They were fairly well matched heavy black automatic pistols with folding wire stocks that could be swung back to transform them into moderately efficient submachine guns. At the moment, all the stocks were clamped forward over the barrels; however, the pistols looked nonetheless deadly in this compacted shape.
        "These are perfect," Tucker said, lifting one of the guns, testing its weight on his flat palm. "I've never seen anything like this before."
        "It's a Czech Skorpion," Imrie said fondly.
        "World War Two?"
        "Sure."
        "Looks like a thirty-eight," Tucker said.
        "No. Just a thirty-two." Imrie picked up one of the others. "But it isn't a lady's weapon, believe you me. It packs more wallop than any other thirty-two-caliber piece ever made."
        As gently as if he were handling a mean-tempered poisonous snake, Tucker turned the pistol over in his hands, examining it from every angle. Heavy, well defined, cast with many rich planes, the piece looked especially wicked and even alien, almost like something from the lurid cover of an old science-fiction magazine. Though inanimate, it radiated a chilling animal malevolence, a tangible and exciting evil. Because he was basically a