At first his disappearance was a relief to the small would-be Air Warden. Then, as the ear-shattering sirens died into muted silence, as McCurdle's footsteps pattered off into murkiness, a vast, enswaddling stillness descended upon Peter Pettigrew—and with it came stark realization of his perfect aloneness. In Stygian gloom he murmured, "Oh, my goodness! I'm all alone!" and raised a trembling hand before his eyes. It was a vague, white blob in the darkness. Tingling fingers of panic clutched at Peter's nerves, and his ganglea hummed like harpstrings. "Oh, my soul!" he jittered. "It's so dark!"
Civic authorities had deliberately chosen a moonless night for this experiment. Mother Nature had collaborated by veiling the sky with a thick overcast, making the night starless as well. The street upon which Peter stood was as black as a whale's belly. Except for—
"Oh, mercy me!" bleated Peter, "this will never do!"
And his panic subsiding in the face of this unallowable thing, he scurried down the street to a dwelling beneath the lowered blinds of which escaped one lone, betraying slant of light. Hastily he ascended its steps, more hastily rapped on the door.
"Lights out!" he cried. "Air alert! Lights—"
The door flew open suddenly, hurling a blazing flood of forbidden illumination into Peter's eyes. A figure loomed in the doorway; the figure of a man whose shoulders seemed to stop the entrance, who towered threateningly above Peter.
"Hey?" roared this outraged Titan. "What's this all about? Whatcha tryin' to—?"
"—out!" ended Peter feebly. "L-lights out, if you don't mind, please, mister. It's an—an alert—"
There came a sudden, menacing snap! and Peter closed his eyes, wondering dimly which arm or leg was broken and why it didn't hurt. Then stunningly: