people without the guts to die, and a law against killing them." It had now dawned upon Jim Wilson that they were faced by a maniac. His eyes met those of Frank Brooks and they were—on this point at least—in complete agreement. A working procedure sprang up, unworded, between them. Jim Wilson took a slow, casual step toward the homicidal maniac. "You didn't see anyone else?" Frank asked. Davis ignored the question. "Look at it this way," he said. "In the old days they had Texas long horns. Thin stringy cattle that gave up meat as tough as leather. Do we have cattle like that today? No. Because we bred out the weak line." Frank said, "There are some cigarettes on that table if you want one." Jim Wilson took another slow step toward Davis. Davis said, "We bred with intelligence, with a thought to what a steer was for and we produced a walking chunk of meat as wide as it is long." "Uh-huh," Frank said. "Get the point? See what I'm driving at? Humans are more important than cattle, but can we make them breed intelligently? Oh, no! That interferes with damn silly human liberties. You can't tell a man he can only have two kids. It's his God-given right to have twelve when the damn moron can't support three. Get what I mean?" "Sure—sure, I get it." "You better think it over, mister—and tell that fat bastard to quit sneaking up on me or I'll blow his brains all over the carpet!" If the situation hadn't been so grim it would have appeared ludicrous. Jim Wilson, feeling success almost in his grasp, was balanced on tiptoe for a lunge. He teetered, almost lost his balance and fell back against the wall. "Take it easy," Frank said. "I'll take it easy," Davis replied. "I'll kill every goddam one of you—" he pointed the gun at Jim Wilson "—starting with him." "Now wait a minute," Frank said. "You're unreasonable. What right have you got to do that? What about the law of survival? You're standing there with a gun on us. You're going to kill us. Isn't it natural to try anything we can to save our own lives?"
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