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Show 197 his hands. "Pull it!" Steve gave a tremendous jerk, the baseboard ripping away down to the corner. The wire remained unbroken. He tore frantically at it. Until the large cord of telephone wires it led into-as round as a quarter, containing all the telephone wires in the store-was pulled from the conduit. He tore out a couple feet of this-it would give no further. With a desperate cry, a wild growl, he pulled harder. Bracing his feet against the wall, arms straining against the unyielding cord, eyes bulging-his own leverage slowly forcing him down to a sitting position on the floor. It would not give. The man, momentarily diverted by Steve's wild effort, commanded: "Just don't move! Just don't anyone move!" Steve sat there with the cord limply in his hand, his face an ashen grey. The man stepped past him, over the jumble of black wire, motioning with the gun for Mr. Richards to precede him into the stockroom. At the doorway, Mr. Richards glanced back at them, an imploring look on his face. Pleading with them not to do anything foolish. Then he chomped down on his cigar and went through the threshold-where the man stopped, glancing at each of them-his eyes like those of a fish-- at Steve, at Sharon, at the pharmacist: "Remember: one move, I'll blow his head off! One move!" They could not look away from him, he held their gaze like a |