"Quiet. They'll hear us. Oh, God, they'll find us soon enough—"
Below them, Mink's voice. The husband stopped. There was a great universal humming and sizzling, a screaming and giggling. Downstairs, the audio-televisor buzzed and buzzed insistently, alarmingly, violently. Is that Helen calling? thought Mrs. Morris. And is she calling about what I think she's calling about?
Footsteps came into the house. Heavy footsteps.
"Who's coming in my house?" demanded Henry, angrily. "Who's tramping around down there?"
Heavy feet. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty of them. Fifty persons crowding into the house. The humming. The giggling of the children. "This way!" cried Mink, below.
"Who's downstairs?" roared Henry. "Who's there!"
"Hush, oh, nonononono!" said his wife, weakly, holding him. "Please, be quiet. They might go away."
"Mom?" called Mink, "Dad?" A pause. "Where are you?"
Heavy footsteps, heavy, heavy, very HEAVY footsteps came up the stairs. Mink leading them.
"Mom?" A hesitation. "Dad?" A waiting, a silence.