We heard sirens as I drove back into Middle Valley. Smoke was climbing
into the sky. I traced it to a burning house and parked a block away.
Tate and I ran to the edge of the crowd watching the fire.
"It's the Waddell house," somebody said. It was a big house probably
worth about fifty thousand. The smoke was billowing out of a room at
the back.
"Who's Waddell?" I asked.
Tate knew. "He's president of the village council. As a matter of fact,
he's chiefly responsible for the Sunday closing law."
"That's great," I said, making notes again. "What a story! And now his
house is going to burn down because it's against the law to put the
fire out. What's his first name?"
"Everett."
A fire engine screamed around a corner and men jumped from it, trailing
a hose behind them. Other equipment followed. Within a minute the hose
was attached to a hydrant and water was pouring on the fire.
"Hey!" I said to Tate. "What's the idea? Why aren't you stopping them?
They're working in Middle Valley on Sunday, aren't they? Aren't they
paid employees just like the minister and me?"
"No," the alien said. "Unfortunately for your story and your fine sense
of irony, these are not paid employees. They're volunteer firemen."