"Wait a minute!" the man said.
The harsh command froze Herb. He turned. He found himself looking into reward-hungry eyes. The hand below them held an automatic. The hand was trembling with greed.
"You're that starman," the proprietor said.
Herb caught his breath. He jerked to his left and spun around. He ran.
The harsh roar of the automatic burst behind him. The proprietor had taken flight for an admission of identity; but perhaps latent uncertainty had carried the bullet high. It smashed into the window pane above Herb's head, and glass fragments erupted upon the pavement.
"Stop him! Stop him!" cried the proprietor as Herb fled.
The sunlight was bright. Herb bolted across an intersection, narrowly missed being run down by a car, dodged around a heavy truck and ran to the left.
There was no more shooting. There was a hub-hub behind him. A policeman's whistle sounded.
Herb jerked around another corner. There was the sound of pursuit.