So Sami had used his ingenuity. He took one of the long-barreled wooden rifles from the wall. "Made here, in the city," he said fondly, turning the heavy object over in his hands, "to my own design."

The larger gun bore a metal nameplate, Dido. The other was decorated with a sticker of a squirrel turning a somersault. In place of bullets, each fired syringes, which Sami had tailored to fit with flights of hen feathers. Propelled by a small carbon dioxide canister, the larger gun had an anesthetic range of ten yards. But, for times when canisters were scarce, he had come up with another alternative.

"Watch."

He pushed a sharp syringe into Dido's barrel. Putting his lips to the head of the rifle, he aimed, and puffed. The syringe shot out, its wake ruffling her hair, and stuck firm in a cork notice board on the opposite wall. The journalist paled. "Thirty foot capability," he said contentedly, "My own invention."

—from The Zoo on the Road to Nablus