"You say you've got fuel. You're a liar. You've got no fuel."
"I got plenty fuel, wise guy," Arena yelled. He was tired too.
"Lousy crook," I said. "Can't even cheat a little without getting caught at it."
"Who's caught now, swabbie?" Arena was getting mad. That suited me.
"You're a lousy liar, Arena. You can't hide hot metal. Even Stenn ought to know that."
"What else was in the cache, Maclamore?" Stenn asked—for the hundredth time. He slapped me—also for the hundredth time. It jarred me and stung. It was the last straw. If Stenn was acting, I'd help him along. I lunged against the wires, swung a foot and caught him under the ribs. He oofed and fell off his chair.
"Don't push me any farther, you small-time chiselers," I yelled. "You've got nothing but a cast brass gall to offer. There's no hole deep enough to hide out power metal, even if a dumb slob like you thought of it."
"Dumb slob?" Arena barked. "You think a dumb slob could have built the organization I did, put this town in his hip pocket? I started stock-piling metal five years ago—a year before the ban. No hole deep enough, huh? It don't need to be so deep when it's got two feet of lead shielding over it."
"So you smuggled a few tons of lead into the Public Library and filed it under Little Bo Peep."
"The two feet was there ahead of me, wisenheimer. Remember the Polaris sub that used to be drydocked at Norfolk for the tourists to rubberneck?"