THE GANG STRIKES Four men met in secret in a cobwebby cellar. "Now where? Oh yes, that disused factory's garage. And if silly tramps spoil the secrecy of place also, and lose us the next `consignment' ..." said one, somewhat muffled through his thick cloth mask. "They filled the last place with scavengings, which that caretaker burnt [see 250], and our `consignment' along with it without knowing it was there. Lets get our stuff moved." said another, also masked. The tramps hid and dressed their wounds as they could, knowing that going to hospital would expose them to the police. "Gaah! Don't they let us stay where? Then we take a few things that people don't need and ..." one moaned. "`Never mind waiting for the cops. Tool up and at 'em!' that foreman shouted. Fire extinguishers, metal tools, lengths of 'eavy cable, we didn't 'ave a $%^ chance. Worst doing over we've had since Smith & Malton's turned us out. Nobody wants us around." another agreed. "They got that old radio I found. First time I'd 'ad a radio since that thing `Shockwave' got my last one at Wernicke's [see 109]. I know somewhere to go. I saw someone takin' dossin' stuff in, thinks 'e'll 'ave that great place to 'imself!". The tramps went there. They settled down on the mattresses which they found on the floor, and rummaged the cases that were in there. "Nice!" said one, "Beddin' 'ere. No need to look for old boxes! Lets call the rest in." said one. "'Ooever put this lot 'ere, what if 'e comes back?" another queried. "'E'll 'ave to %^& well share and doss with us all together." said another. They all went in and settled. The door opened, a head appeared through it and said "Sorry, wrong door.", and withdrew. He, furious, went from the old garage back to the gang's hideout, and told them what he had seen. "I take it we'll do what you said." he asked. "Yes!" said the gang leader, "This is enough of those scruffs! We do it! Then we go to London ourselves.". The old garage's door opened again. A man wearing thick waterproof overalls, heavy boots, crash helmet with visor down, hard round gasmask with small eye windows, pickaxe handle with wrist strap, and what looked like a large battery-powered electric drill, dangling from belt at opposite hips, and oxyacetylene blowtorch fed from cylinders strapped to his back, strode in and held his hissing lighted blowtorch flame much nearer than comfortable to the nearest tramp's face. He said to the tramp: "Right, flea farm! All this good stuff in here means: `This is not a dosshouse. Keep out.', doesn't it!?". The tramp, with the resigned feeling of seeing the unwelcome inevitable yet again, took one look at the man's kit, and his cylinder valves showing over their wearer's shoulders, squinted at the hot blue flame, and said accusingly: "Captain Blowtorch! Again! Yer works is yer pitch, and yer ain't workin' for anyone 'ere neither, yer can't order us out of 'ere! Let us alone.". The man replied: "You may call me that if you wish. I am not Mr.Malton or any of his people. You will soon wish we were! Dirtying our bedding, rummaging our stuff - we've got important private matters in hand.". Three other men entered, clothed and equipped identically except that they wore packs of supplies and not blowtorches. "Yurrh! Come and fight us, fancy cleanup squad in `spacesuits', afraid of a few lice and fleas!" the tramps' new leader challenged. "We're not the council public health either." said one of the three other men. "We've got big money in this, and you're not going to spoil it for us! Nobody tells about this place!" the blowtorch man ordered. "Says who? It'll cost you ..." said a tramp. "Says Emperor Ming!" the blowtorch man ordered. The four took the `drills' from their belts, set some controls, aimed, advanced, and shot the tramps. Inside the aluminium alloy casings, powerful electric coils accelerated four-inch nails to bullet speed, spinning for accuracy, out through the opened dummy drill chucks, with little sound except slight reloading clicks, as the men sought their targets through the disused building. The `ElectroMagnetic Powered Modified Industrial Nail Guns' earned their purchase cost. Their victims' wanderings, driven by men, hating and hated by men, ended, when they were at the wrong place at the wrong time. [268] The four cleaned up there and went to London, where their leader addressed them: "Right! Next consignment, boss is coming over with it, to make sure they get it right this time! Three men with him, one's a prisoner, a reporter who got too fond of nosying and endangering our trade. And at 6 a.m. we attack Crabhaven harbour office as planned, first.". "Crabhaven?" said another, "We've lost two lots there: `diving accident' and `swamped by big wave' they said. But I bet that Hurlock's mob got them, seeing no further past their noses than a risk to their lobsters and crabs.". "Hurlock and his nine merry men are inside." said their leader, "The sport diving lobby got stroppy about them. The rest think that `they''ve been warned off. Right. The cash. Full kit. Thanks to me for forcing you three louts to train with your kit instead of drinking and gambling and womanizing, so now you can shoot straight and make good use of a stick in fights.". "But it's been in the paper twice since," said another, "divers arriving have been approached and ordered to leave. I still don't trust the place, if the consignment's coming like you say it is.". "Bluff! We can outshoot what men are left there!" said the leader, "Right. Checklist your kit, kit in the car, and off. Now. after a drink!". He rang Crabhaven harbour office on an excuse and reported to the other three: "That new citified harbourmaster's away as usual. A man called John Tregear's in the harbour office more often than anyone else. Best go to his house first.".