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“Keep an eye on them,” Canidy said lightly. “Those two may not stand a chance in hell against the cockroaches in this place.”

Fuller didn’t respond. And Canidy now realized that he really had not regained all the color in his face. He still looked fairly pale.

“You’ll be all right, Tubes,” Canidy said. “We all will.”

He looked at the pouch.

“So far so good, right, Adolf? Eva?”

Tubes made a small smile.

Canidy reached down to his duffel and began pulling out what Fuller recognized as pieces of a rifle.

As Canidy put the weapon’s receiver on his lap, he noticed Tubes was watching with interest.

“Johnny gun,” Canidy said. “Officially, Johnson Model of 1941 Light Machine Gun.”

“Never seen one.”

“Not many have,” Canidy said. “Marine Corps reserve officer Melvin Maynard Johnson, Jr.—a Boston attorney—wanted something to beat the Browning Automatic Rifle. So he built this. It’s eight pounds lighter than the BAR, and a helluva lot more flexible.”

He pulled its barrel out of his duffel, then quickly and effortlessly assembled it to the receiver.

“See?” Canidy said. “Unscrewing the BAR’s barrel is such a bitch, it’s next to impossible. Leave it to a jarhead to come up with a practical design for the easy swapping of barrels and for general field servicing. Plus, it packs compact.”

He reached back into the duffel bag, brought out two curved box magazines and held one up.

“Twenty rounds of thirty-aught-six Springfield, same as the BAR,” he said, then smacked the mag into the mount in the left side of the receiver.

“Presto. Ready to go.”

He turned and stood the Johnny gun on its butt, leaning its muzzle against the cabinets where they formed a V.

“Helluva weapon,” Canidy said. “Too bad the bureaucrats killed its chances of mass production.”

Fuller nodded, then reached into his duffel, and brought out his British-made Sten 9mm submachine gun and a magazine.

Holding the Sten with its barrel pointed to the ceiling, he fed the magazine into the opening under the receiver, and checked to make sure the breech was clear. Then he slug its strap over his right shoulder, letting the weapon hang there, ready.

“Now what?” Fuller said.

Nola came back into the room. He had a look of worry.

“No one here—” Nola announced, then paused when he saw the long guns.

“That would mean that Tubes’s question remains all the more valid,” Canidy said.

Nola’s face was questioning.

“To wit, now what?” Canidy said.

“I’m not sure,” Nola said. “It doesn’t appear that anyone has been here for some time.”

“No shit,” Canidy said and jerked his right thumb toward the sink. “Looks like they may have left in a hurry, too.”

Nola glanced in that direction, then looked to be in deep thought.

“So far,” Canidy went on, “the only thing we have confirmed is, one, that the cargo ship blew up and, two, that there weren’t mass deaths from the nerve gas.”