The store had lost its windows. Brave stepped through onto the display ledge and dropped inside. A voice in the gloom said, "Stand right there, mister." The proprietor, white and tense, leaned over his counter and held a .45 revolver steadily, its muzzle looking at the Indian's chest. "One more step and you join them." Brave saw there were bodies on the floor.
"I'm no looter, man," he said sharply. "I'll buy guns."
The fellow considered that. "By God, you sound sane. And you look like a good man. Everybody's crazy out there. You come back and pick yourself out something. We're going to need sane men with guns in this mess."
"Men are fighting each other," nodded Brave. "The blast drove them crazy."
"Can't tell me anything about that. One of those bodies was my brother. I couldn't let even my brother loose in this hell with a gun, not when he'd gone out of his head. Tried to kill me for a gun." The face was drawn and cold. "How about a .30-'06?" he asked. "Stop a grizzly if you're good enough. Heavy though."
"I wasn't looking for an air rifle," said Brave. Alan came in through the window. "He's with me. We have five others outside."
"You can have guns for 'em all. Sorry I don't have grenade pistols or flamers. This is a sporting goods store." He handed a .30-'06 across the counter. "Take this. I'll give you all the ammo I have for it. You put it to good use when the Russkis come."
"It wasn't Russians," said Alan, "It was flying saucers."
"Russkis in flying saucers. They'll be coming on the ground pretty soon. Didn't I see 'em come in in Germany in the big war? Take these boxes. Enough ammo to stand a good siege here. Save it all you can. We're going to be at war a long, long, time."
Shortly they came out into the morning air, carrying armloads of heavy rifles, four revolvers, and what seemed half a ton of ammunition.