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station.”
    Paulus said, “So we've got to cover them. Twelve men. We're going right back up to twenty-five again.”
    Edgars took the cigar out of his mouth and looked insulted. “Why? Twelve men, what's so bad about that? Twelve men to take a whole city.”
    “Maybe we're not done yet,” Paulus told him.
    “Night people,” said Grofield, “that's what we've got to think about. Who are the night people? Cops, firemen, telephone girls, we've got them. What about milkmen?”
    Edgars shook his head. “They're union, they deliver in the daytime.”
    “Post office,” said Grofield. “They've got to have somebody around for special-delivery letters. Western Union office. Railroad station. Cabdrivers.”
    “You don't have to worry about cabdrivers,” Edgars told him.“I told you there was a curfew. There's no taxi customers after midnight.”
    “What about emergencies?” Grofield asked him. “Ladies having babies, children swallowing pins, men with appendicitis. Ambulances racing back and forth amid the booming safes.”
    Parker said, “That's right. Hospital. You got a hospital in this town?”
    “No. The fire department has an ambulance, to take any emergency cases to the hospital in Madison, fourteen miles away on the highway.”
    Paulus said, “So the fire department man covers the ambulance, too.”
    Parker asked Edgars, “You know the train schedules? Anything going in or out between midnight and six in the morning?”
    “No. It's just a spur line in. There's one passenger train a day, and two freight trains. The railroad station is closed between eight at night and eight in the morning.”
    “Good,” said Paulus. “That takes care of the railroad station.”
    “Western Union,” said Grofield. “Post office.”
    “The post office closes,” said Edgars. “I'm sure it does. I don't know what they do about special-delivery letters. Maybe they drive them in from Madison.”
    “But Western Union?”
    “They've got an office on Raymond Avenue. I don't know if it closes nights or not. I should, but I don't.”
    “We have to know,” Parker told him. “You got a contact in that town?”
    “No.”
    “If everything else closes down,” said Paulus, “the Western Union office probably does, too. They wouldn't have much business at night.”
    “No business at all,” said Edgars. “Most likely any telegrams that come at night are driven in from the Madison office, the same as special-delivery letters. I can't remember if I've ever seen the Western Union office open at night, but I don't see why it would be.”
    “We have to know,” Parker repeated. “If it's open, it's got to be covered, and that means another man.”
    “The only way to find out,” Edgars told him, “is to go to Copper Canyon and look for yourself.”
    “I know.”
    “I'll write it down,” said Paulus.
    “More night people,” said Grofield. “Who can think of more night people? You say there's no all-night diner?”
    Edgars shook his head. “No. No business stays open at all, because of the curfew.”
    “That's a very small-town thing, a curfew,” said Grofield. “Big cities talk about it, but small towns do it.”
    Wycza said, “What about a newspaper?”
    “A weekly,” Edgars told him. “It comes out on Thursday, for the convenience of the shoppers.”
    “No reporters on at night?”
    “No. Most of the paper is written by the secretaries of women's organizations.”
    They were all silent, then, all trying to think of other people who might be out and around late at night. After a minute, Paulus said, “That's it, then. We need another man, to cover the fire department. And we have to find out about the Western Union office.”
    Wycza said, “What about the getaway?”
    “I got the two maps like Parker suggested,” Edgars answered. “There's no other way to get out of town except the road, but I think I've found the hideout.”
    “I don't like that barracks,” Wycza said.
    Grofield said, “An idle