From its recesses he pulled out a short-barreled shotgun, tossed it to me. I quickly checked the weapon over, trying to be as efficient and businesslike as Argent. The Remington Roomsweeper seemed new, its action like silk, having been used just enough for the parts to work in properly. I checked the tubular magazine under the barrel-six shells-then glanced up, about to ask for more ammo. Argent had anticipated me. I took the box he offered, checked the shells: double-ought cubic pellets, suitable for the biggest game.