"Good question," Don told him. "Saw a guy come out in one broadcast. Someone vaporized him. No way of telling which direction the spray came from, of course. No tracer on the beam." He shrugged.
"Somehow, I don't think it would lead to a long and happy life."
"No." Pete nodded. "I didn't suppose it would." He looked at the long target rifle in Don's hands.
"You could have gotten several of them with that, while they were getting into position, couldn't you?"
"Suppose so," Don nodded. "But I'm saving it for a while. Got an idea, but it's a one-shot and I'll have to wait before I try it." He paused as a head appeared close to the base of the loud-speaker stand.
"Well, the show's about to start," he added quietly. "Here's the man with the serenade."
The speaker disintegrated in blazing fury and Pete turned away from the glare, to look back at the house.
"Took your father years to get this place built the way he wanted it," he remarked. "Shame you're going to have to lose it this way." He glanced over at his companion.
Don was stretched out in the prone position, his sling tight on his arm, the rifle extended.