‘What are they doing now?’ he asked after a long pause.
The street was suspiciously silent.
‘They’re standing about,’ she said, watching intently. ‘One of them is looking up here. They seem to be waiting for something. Some of them have machine-guns.’
Baird grinned savagely. He remembered Chuck Fowler, who had been trapped in a house. He had been one of the crowd that time, watching the fun. He had seen the police shooting it out with Chuck. He remembered how they had sprayed the front of the house with their Thompsons. The stream of lead had smashed windows, broken window-frames, brought down plaster. It had been hell while it lasted. Then they had tossed in their tear-gas bombs and had gone in, shooting like madmen the whole time; wrecking the house, smashing down the front door, shooting their way up the stairs; and Chuck had been dead long before the final assault.
‘You’d better get out,’ Baird said. ‘I know what’s coming. They’l cut this room to ribbons.’
‘There’s nowhere for me to go,’ she began, then stopped, and he saw her stiffen, her hands going once more to her breasts.
‘What is it?’ he asked, knowing at once what it was.
‘I think they’re coming now,’ she said breathlessly.
Again he made the effort and raised himself on his elbow. This time he succeeded in getting both feet to the floor.
‘Help me up,’ he gasped. ‘I don’t stand a chance on the bed.’