``No, sir.'' ``Running in, running out. Can't have it. Makes for confusion and congestion.'' He rocked back in the chair, knee locked against stomach, his beady eyes fixed on Matson.

He was silent again, possibly listening to the sounds in the squadroom. Roll was being called. Gun cleared his throat.

Killpath said, ``You were expected to report to my office twenty minutes ago, Sergeant. That's not getting all the juice out of the orange, now is it?''

``No, sir.''

Then Killpath smiled. Gun knew that nothing but aces back to back would give the lieutenant an ulcer and a smile at the same time.

The day-watch platoon commander, Lt. Rinker, was calling out the beat assignments, but Matson couldn't make the names mean anything.

``I called the station at three this morning,'' Killpath's nasal voice pronounced. ``Do you have any idea who might have been in charge at the time?''

``Sergeant Vaughn, sir.''

``Now, now, you're just guessing, Sergeant.'' He smiled thinly, savoring his joke. ``What if I said nobody was here but a couple of patrolmen?''

``Sir, Vaughn knows better than to leave the station without a relief. He must have'' --

``He let a patrolman take over the duties of the station keeper. Now that's not regulation, is it?''

``No, sir.''

``But you didn't know a thing about it, did you?'' Killpath leaned forward; his foot slipped off the chair and he put it back again, frowning now. ``That's not taking one's command with a responsible attitude, Matson.''