"When the door opens, strike a match. So I can see to shoot."
Morgan crouched low. There came a light tapping at the torn screen, then several seconds of silence. Someone pushed at the door. It swung slowly open.
"Jerry?" called a faint voice. "Jerry—thet you in theah?"
Morgan breathed easily again. An Orenian would not have called out. "Who is it?" he barked.
There was no answer. Morgan groped for the lamp, found it, and held the match poised but not lighted.
"Come in here!" he ordered. "We've got a gun."
"Yes, suh!"
A shadow appeared in the door frame. Morgan struck the match. It was an ancient Negro with a burlap sack in one hand and a bloodstained pitchfork in the other. He stood blinking at Shera's shotgun and at the lamp as Morgan lit it. His overalls were rainsoaked, his eyes wild.
"Come in and sit down."
"Thankya suh, thankya." He shuffled inside and slumped into a rickety chair.