When morning came, Calhoun very wryly considered the situation. He couldn't know the actual state of things, to be sure. He'd been shot at. But even so—though that fact did not allow his hopes to be realized in every detail—the probability of a considerable success remained. It was not likely that the invaders would ascribe the finding of unconscious, stertoriously breathing members of their number to Calhoun. Making men unconscious was not the kind of warfare a plague-refugee would use. Still more certainly, it was not what the invaders themselves would practice. To devise and spread a plague, of course, was not beyond them. That had been done. But they would not disable an enemy and leave him alive. They would murder him or nothing. So when men of their group were found in something singularly close to the terminal coma of the plague, they'd think them victims. They'd guess that their supposed immunity was only to the early symptoms, not to the final ones and death.
It should not be an encouraging opinion.
But this morning Calhoun found himself hungry. He looked remorsefully at Murgatroyd.
"I gave our rations to those refugees," he said regretfully. "I took no thought for the morrow—which has turned out to be today. I'm sorry, Murgatroyd!"
Murgatroyd said nothing.
"Maybe," suggested Calhoun, "we can find some of these invaders at a meal."
It was reckless, but recklessness was necessary in the sort of thing Calhoun had started. He and Murgatroyd ventured out into the streets. The emptiness of the city was appalling. If it had been dilapidated, if it had been partly ruined—the emptiness might have seemed somehow romantic. But every building was perfect. Each was complete but desolately unused.
Calhoun spotted a ground-car at a distance, stopped before a long, low, ground-hugging structure near the landing grid. It was perfectly suited to be the headquarters of the strangers in the city. Calhoun considered it for a long time, peering at it from a doorway.
"We shouldn't try it," he said at last. "But we probably will. If we can make these characters so panic-stricken that they run out of the city like the earlier refugees—it would be a highly favorable happening. They might do it if their bosses were knocked out by what they thought was the plague. And besides, we should get a meal out of it. There'll be food in there."
He backtracked a long way. He darted across a road with Murgatroyd scampering beside him. He stalked the building, approaching it behind bushes, carrying the paint gun. He reached its wall. He began to crawl around the outside to reach the doorway. He heard voices as he passed the first windows.