Macroeconomics Fourth Canadian

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Macroeconomics Fourth Canadian Edition Canadian 4th Edition Williamson Test Bank

Macroeconomics, Cdn. 4e (Williamson)

Chapter 1 Introduction

1) Which of the following topics is a primary concern of macro economists?

A) standards of living of individuals
B) choices of individual consumers and firms
C) short-run growth models
D) relative wages of skilled and unskilled workers
E) fluctuations in the level of aggregate economic activity
Answer: E
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 2

2) Primarily, macroeconomists use microeconomic principles to study

A) business cycles and trends in the stock market.
B) long-run economic growth and business cycles.
C) trends in the stock market and long-term economic growth.
D) long-run economic growth and employment policies.
E) short run and long run economic growth.
Answer: B
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 3

3) Gross Domestic Product is

A) the quantity of goods and services produced within a country's borders during some specified period
of time.
B) the quantity of goods produced by Canadian residents domestically and abroad during some specific
period of time.
C) the quantity of goods produced within a country's borders during some specific period of time.
D) the aggregate quantity of income earned by consumers who have jobs during some specified period
of time.
E) the quantity of goods and services produced by Canadian residents domestically and abroad during
some specific period of time.
Answer: A
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 3

4) Since 1870 in Canada, there has been

A) sustained economic growth until the Great Depression followed by little growth since.
B) sustained economic growth.
C) too many business cycles to sustain economic growth.
D) GDP measured in 2002 dollars is largely unchanged.
E) only small growth in average incomes.
Answer: B
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 3

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5) Business cycles in macroeconomics are
A) the increase in a nation's productive capacity over a long period of time.
B) the economic interrelationships among nations.
C) changes in the average standard of living over time.
D) short-run ups and downs in aggregate economic activity.
E) profits and losses of firms.
Answer: D
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 3

6) Since 1870, the typical Canadian

A) became ten-times as rich.
B) remained equally as rich.
C) remained as rich as the typical American.
D) became twice as rich.
E) became almost fourteen-times as rich.
Answer: E
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 3

7) The two key business cycle events in Canadian economic history were
A) government budget deficits and World War II.
B) the Great Depression and government budget deficits.
C) World War II and the Great Depression.
D) the Great Depression and stagflation.
E) the productivity slowdown and the Great Depression.
Answer: C
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 3

8) Which of the following is a fundamental question of macroeconomics?

A) What causes sustained economic growth?
B) How should a labour contract be structured?
C) How should governments be elected?
D) What causes the health care industry to prosper?
E) What is the effect of penalties on crime?
Answer: A
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 4

9) Which of the following is a fundamental question of macroeconomics?

A) What is the impact of government provided health care?
B) How should governments be elected?
C) What mechanism could force people to pollute less?
D) Where is the stock market heading?
E) Should governments act to smooth business cycles?
Answer: E
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 4

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10) The relationship between the level of growth of an economic variable, gt, and its level, yt, is best
approximated as

A) gt = .

B) gt = log yt + log yt-1.

C) log gt = yt – yt-1.
D) gt = log yt - log yt-1.
E) yt = log gt - log gt-1.
Answer: D
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 5

11) The business cycle component of the log of real per capita GDP is equal to
A) log of trend GDP divided by log of actual real GDP.
B) log of trend per capita GDP - log of actual real per capita GDP.
C) log of actual real GDP divided by log of trend GDP.
D) log of trend GDP - log of actual real GDP.
E) log of actual real per capita GDP - log of trend per capita GDP.
Answer: E
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 5

12) Sometimes it is useful to separate economic movements into

A) short run growth from business cycle fluctuations.
B) short run growth from income movements.
C) employment growth from business cycle fluctuations.
D) long run growth from income movements.
E) long run growth from business cycle fluctuations.
Answer: E
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 5

13) For the study of economic growth, it is most helpful to examine movements in ________; for the
study of business cycles, it is most helpful to examine movements in ________.
A) trend GDP; deviations from trend in GDP
B) deviations from trend in GDP; deviations from trend in GDP
C) trend GDP; trend GDP
D) trend income; deviation from trend in income
E) deviations from trend in GDP; trend GDP
Answer: A
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 5-6

14) The largest deviation in real per capita GDP from trend GDP occurred
A) during World War II.
B) during the post World War II period.
C) in the 1990s.
D) during the Great Depression and World War II.
E) in the 1980s.
Answer: D
Type: MC Page Ref: P. 7

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Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Emperor of Elam, and
other stories
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Emperor of Elam, and other stories

Author: H. G. Dwight

Release date: July 26, 2023 [eBook #71279]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Doubleday, Page & Company,

1920

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

EMPEROR OF ELAM, AND OTHER STORIES ***
THE EMPEROR OF ELAM
AND OTHER STORIES
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
CONSTANTINOPLE OLD AND NEW
STAMBOUL NIGHTS
PERSIAN MINIATURES
 THE
EMPEROR OF ELAM
AND OTHER STORIES

BY
H. G. DWIGHT

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1920
 Copyright, 1908, 1920, by
Doubleday, Page & Company

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages,

including the Scandinavian
C , 1903, 1904, C S ’ S
C , 1904, T A S M
C , 1904, 1905, D ,M C ,
G H. D C
C , 1905, T O C
C , 1905, 1906, S S C ,I .
C , 1909, T S M
C , 1916, 1917, 1918, T C C
C , 1918, E J. O’B
C , 1918, S ,M C ,I .
 TO
J. R. M. TAYLOR
COLONEL, UNITED STATES ARMY,
HISTORIAN OF THE PHILIPPINES:

ARCH IRONIST,
EX-EDITOR OF “THE INFANTRY JOURNAL,”
LATE LIBRARIAN OF THE ARMY WAR COLLEGE, WASHINGTON,
SOMETIME MILITARY ATTACHÉ AT THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, CONSTANTINOPLE,
MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY OF THE CINCINNATI,
INSTIGATOR OF OR ACCOMPLICE IN TOO MANY OTHER ACTIVITIES HERE TO BE
NAMED;
WHO YET FOUND TIME TO INVENT ONE, NOR THE LEAST SEDUCTIVE, OF THE
ENSUING FABLES, AND WHO COURTEOUSLY PUT IN THE WAY OF HIS
COLLABORATOR TWO OF THE MOST EXASPERATING AND PROFITABLE
EXPERIENCES OF A CAREER BY NO MEANS BARREN OF SUCH ACCIDENTS:

WITH THE COMPLIMENTS

OF HIS OBLIGED AND ADMIRING FRIEND
THE AUTHOR.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Of the stories in this collection, three originally appeared in The
Century Magazine (“Like Michael,” copyright, 1916; “The Emperor of
Elam,” copyright, 1917; “The Emerald of Tamerlane,” copyright, 1918),
two each in The Bookman (“Unto the Day,” copyright, 1904; “Studio
Smoke,” copyright, 1905), in Scribner’s Magazine (“The Bathers,”
copyright, 1903; “Henrietta Stackpole Rediviva,” copyright, 1904), and
in The Smart Set (“Susannah and the Elder,” copyright, 1905; “The
Undoing of Mrs. Derwall,” copyright, 1906), and one each in The
Associated Sunday Magazines (“Martha Waring’s Elopement,”
copyright, 1904), in The Outlook (“The Pagan,” copyright, 1905), in
Short Stories (“Castello Montughi,” copyright, 1908), and in The Sunset
Magazine (“The Bald Spot,” copyright, 1909).
It may be added that the names of three of these stories are not the
ones first copyrighted and that at least two of them have been completely
recast, while not one of them has been left untouched in its earliest state.
The writer nevertheless takes this occasion to express to the editors and
publishers of the above periodicals, as well as to Mr. W. J. O’Brien and
to Messrs. Small, Maynard and Company—who made use of “The
Emperor of Elam” in The Best Short Stories of 1917—his thanks both for
their former hospitality and for their present courtesy in permitting him
to reassemble his work. Nor would this small payment of indebtedness
be complete without mention of Colonel J. R. M. Taylor, who wrote the
first draft of “The Emerald of Tamerlane,” and who generously allows it
to be reprinted over the signature of his collaborator.
 CONTENTS
PAGE
Dedication v
Acknowledgment vii
Like Michael 3
Henrietta Stackpole Rediviva 32
The Pagan 52
White Bombazine 82
Unto the Day 108
Mrs. Derwall and the Higher Life 131
The Bathers 151
Retarded Bombs 172
Susannah and the Elder 191
The Emerald of Tamerlane 221
In collaboration with John Taylor
Studio Smoke 252
Behind the Door 266
The Bald Spot 290
The Emperor of Elam 306
LIKE MICHAEL
 THE EMPEROR OF ELAM AND
OTHER STORIES

LIKE MICHAEL
I

What was he like?

H’m! That’s rather a large order. What are people like, I wonder?
Some of them are like dogs. There are plenty of poodles and bull pups
walking around on two legs. Some of them are like cats. Some of them
are like pigs. A few of them are like hyenas. More of them are like fishes
in aquariums. A lot of them are like horses—of all kinds, from
thoroughbreds and racers to those big, honest, comprehending,
uncomplaining creatures that drag drays. But I have a notion that most of
them are like you and me.
What are we like, though? If we happen to be like Greek gods—which
we don’t!—if we have red hair or vampire eyes or humps on our backs,
if we harpoon whales or compose operas or put poison in our mother-in-
law’s soup, it is possible to make out for us a likely enough dossier. Yet
how far does that dossier go? It tells less than a tintype at a county fair.
Vamp eyes or godlike legs, even the ability to compose operas, have
nothing to do with the way we react when we inherit a billion dollars or
lose our last cent, when our wives get on our nerves or the boiler of our
ship blows up at sea. And what on earth are you to say about people like
Michael, who are neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, good nor bad? Or
people whose wives never get on their nerves and whose boilers never
blow up? They have their dossier all the same. Why not? They do nine-
tenths of the work of the world. They lay its stones one upon another.
They commit their share of its follies, suffer their share of its sorrows,
and pay more than their share of the bill.
What was Michael like? My good man, you loll there with your
ungodlike leg over the arm of your chair and you blandly propose to me
the ultimate problem of art! One would think you were Flaubert—or was
he Guy de Maupassant?—who made it out possible to tell, in words that
have neither line nor colour, that are gone as soon as you have spoken
them, how one grocer sitting in his door differs from all other grocers
sitting in doors. I have spent hours, I have lost nights, over that wretched
grocer; and I haven’t learned any more about him than when I began:
except to suspect that Maupassant—or was it Theophile Gautier?—
wanted to be Besnard and Rodin too. I grant you that no grocer looks
precisely like another. But that isn’t Maupassant’s business—to tell how
a grocer looks. The thing simply can’t be done. Nor is it enough for your
grocer to sit in his door. He must say something, he must do something,
or words won’t catch him. And then how do you know why he said or
did that particular thing, or what he would say or do at another time?
And you have the courage to ask me, between two whiffs of a
cigarette, what Michael was like! How the deuce do I know? I never had
anything particular to do with him. He was like fifty million other people
with lightish hair and darkish eyes and youngish tastes, whom neither
their neighbours nor their inner devil have beaten into distinction. If I
tried to tell you what a man like that is like, I would land you in more
volumes than “Jean Christophe.” I can only tell you what he was like at
two very different moments of his life, in two entirely different places.
Perhaps you are naturalist enough to construct the rest of him out of
that. I, for one, am not. But it’s astounding how little we know about
people, really, and how childishly we expect miracles of each newcomer.
It isn’t as if anybody ever did anything new. How can they? Nobody is
radically different from anybody else. The only thing is that some of us
are a little harder or a little softer, some of us are longer-winded or
shorter-winded, some of us see better out of our eyes or have less idea
what to do with our hands. That isn’t all, though. There are other things,
outside of us, for which we are neither to blame nor to praise—the
houses we happen to be born in, the winds that blow us, arrows that fly
by day and terrors that walk by night. And then there are other people.
They come, they go, they get ideas into their heads, they put ideas into
ours. It may be pure bull luck whether you are a grocer sitting in your
door for a Maupassant to scratch his head over, or something more—
definite, shall we say?
Michael, now: why should a man like that disappear? Would you
disappear? Would I disappear? Why on earth should Michael have
disappeared? Surely not for the few thousand dollars that disappeared at
the same time. Nothing was the matter with him. He had a good enough
job. He was married to a nice enough girl. He would have prospered and
grown fat and begotten a little Michael or two to follow in his footsteps.
But those reaping and binding people take it into their heads to send him
over there, and he suddenly vanishes like a collar-button in a crack. And
we all make a terrific hullabaloo about it—when the thing to make a
hullabaloo about is that one man may get all geography to reap and bind
in, while another may never get outside his valley.
The thing in itself was infinitely simpler than one of Michael’s
confounded reapers and binders.

II

I suppose you know Aurora—Mrs. Michael as was? I began stepping

on her toes at dances twenty years ago, and I believe I could tell you
what she is like. This country is a factory of Auroras. Dozens of her pass
under that window every day, all turned out to sample as if by
machinery, all run by the same interior clockwork, all well made, well
dressed, well educated—in the American sense; also well able to milk a
cow or to carry one on their backs, but preferring to harangue clubs all
day, to dance all night, in any case to circumvent the ingenuity of life in
playing us nasty tricks. They won’t do anything they don’t like, and they
shut their eyes to the dark o’ the moon.
Just what Aurora wanted of Michael, I can’t say. As the poet hath it,
there is a tide in the affairs of women which, taken at the flood, leads
God knows where. But these things are not so awfully mysterious. There
was a period in Aurora’s history when, it being reported to her that the
simple Michael had likened her eyes to Japanese lanterns, she was not
displeased. And I have been told on the best authority that even a
suffragette may not be averse to having her hand held. Whether Michael
first grabbed Aurora’s or whether Aurora first grabbed Michael’s doesn’t
much matter. There came a later period when they were both able to
recall that historic event with considerable detachment.
Aurora likewise lived to learn that there are other ways of
circumventing the tricks of life than by reaping and binding. She thirsted
for higher things, for wider horizons, than those of Zerbetta, Ohio.
Above all human trophies she burned for two which cohabit not too
readily under one roof—Culture and Romance. So when Michael was
unexpectedly ordered to the East she accompanied him only as far as
Paris.
My relations with her, I regret to say, were such that she did not
confide to me what she thought when Michael failed to turn up again.
You can easily perceive, however, that Michael translated, Michael
probably murdered, Michael made, at all events, for once in his life,
mysterious, was a very different pair of sleeves from the Michael she had
not considered important enough to see off on his Orient Express. Aurora
was never the one to miss that. It put her in the papers. It made her a
heroine. It invested her with the romance for which she yearned. It also
invested her with extremely becoming mourning. Yet I fancied once or
twice that I detected in her a shade of annoyance. She was capable of
choosing an occultist for her second husband, but in the bottom of her
heart she hated people to be as indefinite as Michael. She naturally did
not like, either, a rumour of which she had caught echoes, that Michael
had run away from her.
Well, when Aurora heard that I was going to Constantinople, she
asked me to find out what I could. It was quite a bit afterward, you know,
and she had already entered the holy bonds of wedlock with her
occultist. But she couldn’t quite get over that exasperating indefiniteness
of Michael’s. She wanted to put a tangible tombstone over him—with a
quatrain of her own composition, and the occultist’s symbol of the
macrocosm. Wayne, too—Michael’s uncle, and one of the reaping and
binding partners—suggested that I quietly look about once more. What
the partners principally minded, of course, was their money. Yet it wasn’t
such a huge sum, and Michael really did them a good turn after all, the
ironic dog. They could well afford the fat reward they offered. They got
no end of free advertising, you know, what with the fuss the State
Department made, and all. People who had sat in darkness all their lives,
never having heard of a reaper and binder, suddenly saw a great light
when the Bosphorus was dragged and Thrace and Asia Minor sifted for
an obscure agent of reapers and binders.
Such are the advantages of getting yourself robbed and murdered, as
compared to those of working your head off to keep your job. Michael,
to be sure—I ended by finding out all about Michael, long after I had
given him up. It was nothing but an accident. I wonder, though, that we
go on believing there’s anything in this world except accident. And the
beauty of this accident is that I can’t claim that reward I need so much—
one of the beauties. It was altogether, for Aurora and Michael even more
than for me, such a characteristic case of missing what you look for and
finding what you don’t.
I never told Wayne. I never told Aurora. I never intended to tell you.
Another accident! But isn’t it aggravating how one’s best stories always
have to be kept dark?

III

So the romantic Aurora, as I told you, sat in Paris like a true American
wife, inviting her soul in the Louvre—both musée and magasins—while
the humdrum Michael set forth for that bourne whence he was not to
return, with his reaper and binder under his arm. What he did with it
doesn’t matter. In fact I believe he did very little with it. He wasn’t born
to reaping and binding. Reaping and binding had been thrust upon him—
by the uncle to whom he applied at a desperate moment for a job. Like
most of us, you see, he didn’t know what he wanted. I’m not sure he ever
found out. Aurora, however, must have helped him in a back-handed
way to find out that he hadn’t got what he wanted. And so did that
sudden journey of his. He had never been anywhere before in his life.
I make fun of poor Aurora, who after all had perhaps divined in poor
Michael, at the flood of her tide, what she was really after. But I found it
rather quaint, I must confess, that he, the reaper and binder of Zerbetta,
Ohio, should be caught by Stambul. Yet why not? I myself am
unaccountably moved by reapers and binders, by motors and dynamos
and steam engines, by all manner of human ingenuities of which I know
nothing and could never learn anything. Why should not Michael have
been moved by things as foreign to him? Moreover has there not always
been in the Anglo-Saxon some uneasy little chord that has made him the
wanderer and camper-out of the earth, that nothing can twitch like the
East?
Michael took an astonishing fancy to that bumpy old place, and to
those mangy dogs and those fantastic smells and those inconvenient
costumes and those dusty Bazaars and all the trash that is in them. He
bought quantities of it. Rugs and brasses and I don’t know what
uncannily kept turning up long after he had dropped through his crack.
Aurora received them tearfully as tributes to herself, and I believe they
paved the way for her next experiment. Michael’s successor is an
antiquary as well as an astrologer, and he keeps an occult junk-shop on a
top floor in Union Square.
That junk, as it happened, was just what played so fateful a part in
Michael’s adventure. He bought a good deal of it from a certain antiquity
man who knew English better than any one else Michael ran across in
the Bazaars. Finding Michael a promising customer, the antiquity man
said he had better stuff stored away in a khan outside the Bazaars. And
Michael, of course, was delighted to go and look at it. Do you wonder?
The khan was one of those old stone houses in Mahmud Pasha that
have a Byzantine look about them, with their string-courses of flat
bricks, the heavy stone brackets of their projecting upper storeys, the
solid iron cages of their windows, and their arched tunnels leading into
courts within courts, where grape-vines grow and rugs lie fading in the
sun. The antiquity man took Michael up some stone stairs into one of the
galleries overlooking a court, and then into a series of dirty little stone
rooms full of all sorts of queer-looking boxes and bundles. And some of
the boxes and bundles were opened with great ceremony, and Rhodian
plates were brought forth for Michael to admire—Persian tiles,
Byzantine enamels—You know the sort of thing.
Michael, our reaper and binder, liked it. I can’t say how intelligently
he liked it; but he had discovered a new world, and he liked it well
enough to go back again and again. I must confess that I don’t recollect
very much about it, myself. I do remember, though, that the most
outlandish-looking people—Greeks, Jews, Armenians, Persians, Tartars,
Heaven knows who—carry on outlandish-looking activities there. Any
number of forges and blow-pipes flare in those dark stone rooms, where
goldsmiths and silversmiths make charms, amulets, reliquaries, little
Virgins to hang around your neck, little votive hands and feet to hang on
icons, silver rings for Turks who think it wicked to wear gold, and
filigree chains, pendants, and lamps in the Byzantine tradition. That’s
where most of the antiques sold in the Bazaars come from. And
devilishly well-made a lot of them are, too. I know a Byzantine gold
chalice in a museum in England, decorated with St. Georges of the tenth
century, that came out of that khan not twenty years ago! Admirable
coins and gems come from there too, to say nothing of Tanagra figurines.
Did you ever hear of a Chalcedonian figurine? Not many other people
have, either. But plenty of real ones used to be dug up on the Asiatic side
of the Bosphorus; and clever Greek potters copy them and rename them
for tourists. However, it isn’t all fake. There are real artists in those dark
little stone rooms. And there are real antiques—some of them stored
away, some of them undergoing a final dilapidation to suit them for the
critical eye of fake collectors.
Michael liked it all so much that he spent more time in that
extraordinary maze than was good for his reapers and binders. The
people got to know him by sight, and they let him rummage around by
himself.

IV

He turned up one afternoon to look at some pottery, and the antiquity

man happened to be out. Michael was therefore given coffee and left
more or less to his own devices. Nobody could talk to him, you see, and
the antiquity man was coming back.
Michael prowled mildly about, finding nothing much to look at but
packing-cases and kerosene tins—those big rectangular ones that
everybody in the Levant hoards like gold. He presently recognised,
however, on top of a pile of boxes, a basket that he had seen at the
antiquity man’s shop in the Bazaars—a basket, with an odd little red
figure in the wicker, containing embroideries. He managed to get it
down, and found it unexpectedly heavy. It turned out to be full this time
of broken tiles. He poked them over. Each bit was worth something—for
a flower on it, or an Arabic letter, or a glint of Persian lustre. But as he
poked down through them, what should he come across but some funny-
looking metal things: some round, some square, some with clockwork
fastened to them. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if bombs looked
like that! He proceeded, very gingerly, to replace the bits of tile.
Just then he became aware that the antiquity man had come in quietly
and was looking at him.
“What the devil have you got here?” asked Michael, with a laugh. “An
ammunition factory?”
The antiquity man shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“I have better than that. I have a Rhages jar for you to look at, if you
will come this way.”
A Rhages jar! I don’t suppose Michael had ever until that moment
heard of a Rhages jar. However, he followed the antiquity man into
another room even more crowded with boxes and tins; and there, to be
sure, the Rhages jar was put into his hands. But the place was so dark he
could hardly see it.
“If you will excuse me another moment,” said the antiquity man, “I
will get a light.”
He was gone, as he said, only a moment. When he came back a
servant followed him, carrying a candle—a big porter whom Michael
already knew by sight, in baggy blue clothes and a red girdle. Michael
nodded to him, and the man salaamed. Then the antiquity man pointed
out to Michael, by the light of the candle, the beauties of the Rhages jar.
As he did so another man came in, an older man with a grizzled beard.
He gravely saluted Michael and took the candle from the porter, who
went out. The porter very soon returned, however. This time he carried a
tray on which was one of those handleless little cups of Turkish coffee in
a holder of filigree silver. The antiquity man set down the Rhages jar.
“Won’t you have a cup of coffee?” he said, making a sign to the porter.
“No, thank you,” replied Michael. That was one thing about Stambul
he didn’t altogether like—that eternal sipping of muddy coffee.
“Oh, but just one!” insisted the antiquity man. “Why not?”
“I’ve had one already,” answered Michael. “I’m not used to it, you
know. It keeps me awake.”
The antiquity man smiled a little.
“But not this coffee,” he said. “I think you will find that it does not
keep you awake.”
It began to come over Michael that there was more than the coffee
which he didn’t like. Was it the air in that stuffy dark little stone room?
Was it the way in which the three men looked at him? Was it that basket
of broken tiles?
“No thanks,” he said. And he added: “Let’s go out where we can see.
It’s too hot in here, too.”
He looked around for the door. He couldn’t see it from where he
stood. The antiquity man said something, and the porter stood aside.
Michael stepped past him, around some big boxes. The door was there.
Michael suddenly heard it click; but in front of it a fourth man stood in
the shadow. He did not move when Michael stepped forward. He stood