"Me, too," Sniffy says. Everything is a red fog, fading to black. He stumbles toward what he hopes is the center of the room, until he barks his shin against the box. He stoops, hauls out the machine gun. He fumbles with the feed-cover, feeling for the ammunition belt. The smooth cartridges are as big as his thumb. Luckily, the belt-feed is already engaged. He backs away, feeling a surge of power like a coke high, suffused with supreme confidence, an edgy energy. "Say, chief," Sniffy says, "you were right. This baby hardly weighs a thing. How do you fire it?"