"What do you call it?" the first one asks. "I don't know any more." He sighs. "I don't think I've taken my eyes off this thing for more than two hours since they got to the beach. Every mile they've come closer has made my blood run colder."
"What do we report to Hama Incarnate?"
"It would be silly to say anything now. We just don't know."
"Well," says the other, "at least we can do something with the City of New Hope since they got rid of that super-amoeba."
"Are you sure they really got it?"
"After the burning it received over that naked atom pile? It was all it could do to get to the waterfront. It's just about fried up and blown away already."
"And how safe would you call them?" the other asks.
"Right now? I wouldn't call them anything."
Something glitters on the table by the door. Yes, there it is. In the pile of strange equipment is a U-shaped scrap of metal. Just what I need. Hot damn, adhesive tape too. Quick, there, before they see. Fine. Now, let the door close, real slow. Ooops. It clicked. Now come on, look innocent, in case they come out. I hope the Old Man isn't watching. Guess they're not coming. And down the stairs again, the black stone walls moving past. Out another door, into the garden, dark flowers, purple, deep red, some with blue in them, and big stone urns. Some priests are coming down the path. Ooops again, there's old Dunderhead. He'll want me inside praying. Duck down behind that urn. Here we go. What'll I do if he catches me? Really sir, I have nothing under my choir robe. Peek out.
Very, very small sigh of relief, now. Can't afford to be too loud around here. They're gone. Let's examine the loot. The black stone urn has one handle above. It's about eight feet tall. One, two, three: jump, and ... hold ... on ... and ... pull. And try to get to the top. There we go. Cold stone between my toes. And over the edge, where it's filled with dirt. Pant. Pant. Pant.