"Thanks," Gordon says. As he points the gun at the boards covering the door and blasts them out of the way he notes, "You're pretty good yourself."

The alley outside is narrow and twisty, clogged with oil drums. At one turn, a black artillery shell of some sort- wide, and opened at one end- blocks the way. Gordon eyes the thing with visible loathing. "Headcrab rocket," he says shortly. "One of plenty."