Duke led her through the kitchen to the basement stairs. Mr. Farnham was halfway down, his wife in his arms. She seemed asleep. Duke snapped out of his attitude. "Hold it, Dad! I'll take her."
"Get on down and open the door!"
The door was steel set into the wall of the basement. Seconds were lost because Duke did not know how to handle its latch. At last Mr. Farnham passed his wife over to his son, opened it himself. Beyond, stairs led farther down. They managed it by carrying Mrs. Farnham, hands and feet, a limp doll, and took her through a second door into a room beyond. Its floor was six feet lower than the basement and under, Barbara decided, their back garden. She hung back while Mrs. Farnham was carried inside.
Mr. Farnham reappeared. "Barbara! Get in here! Where's Joseph? Where's Karen?"
Those two came rushing down the basement stairs as he spoke. Karen was flushed and seemed excited and happy. Joseph was looking wild-eyed and was dressed in undershirt and trousers, his feet bare.
He stopped short. "Mr. Farnham! Are they going to hit us?"
"I'm afraid so. Get inside."
The young Negro turned and yelled, "Doctor Livingstone I presume!"and dashed back up the stairs.
Mr. Farnham said, "Oh, God!" and pressed his fists against his temples. He added in his usual voice, "Get inside, girls. Karen, bolt the door but listen for me. I'll wait as long as I can." He glanced at his watch. "Five minutes."
The girls went in. Barbara whispered, "What happened to Joseph? Flipped?"
"Well, sort of. Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume is our cat. Loves Joseph, tolerates us." Karen started bolting the inner door, heavy steel, and secured with ten inch-thick bolts.
She stopped. "I'm damned if I'll bolt this all the way while Daddy is outside!"
"Don't bolt it at all."
Karen shook her head. "I'll use a couple, so he can hear me draw them. That cat may be a mile away."
Barbara looked around. It was an L-shaped room; they had entered the end of one arm. Two bunks were on the right-hand wall; Grace Farnham was in the lower and still asleep. The left wall was solid with packed shelves; the passage was hardly wider than the door. The ceiling was low and arched and of corrugated steel. She could see the ends of two more bunks at the bend. Duke was not in sight but he quickly appeared from around the bend, started setting up a card table in the space there. She watched in amazement as he got out the cards he had picked up—how long ago? It seemed an hour. Probably less than five minutes.
Duke saw her, grinned, and placed folding chairs around the table.
There came a clanging at the door. Karen unbolted it; Joseph tumbled in, followed by Mr. Farnham. A lordly red Persian cat jumped out of Joseph's arms, started an inspection. Karen and her father bolted the door. He glanced at his wife, then said, "Joseph! Help me crank."
"Yes, sir!"
Duke came over. "Got her buttoned up, Skipper?"
"All but the sliding door. It has to be cranked."
"Then come take your licking." Duke waved at the table.
His father stared. "Duke, are you seriously proposing to finish a card game while we're being attacked?"
"I'm four hundred dollars serious. And another hundred says we aren't being attacked. In a half hour they'll call it off and tomorrow's papers will say the northern lights fouled up the radar. Play the hand? Or default?"
"Mmm—My partner will play it; I'm busy."
"You stand behind the way she plays it?"
"Of course."
Barbara found herself sitting down at the table with a feeling that she had wandered into a dream. She picked up her partner's hand, studied it. "Lead, Karen."
Karen said, "Oh, hell!" and led the trey of clubs. Duke picked up the dummy, laid it out in suits. "What do you want on it?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter. I'll play both hands face up."
"Better not."
"It's solid." She exposed the cards.
Duke studied them. "I see," he admitted. "Leave the hands; Dad will want to see this." He did some figuring. "Call it twenty-four hundred points. Dad!"
"Yes, Son?"
"I'm writing a check for four hundred and ninety-two dollars—and let that be a lesson to me."
"You don't need to—"
All lights went out, the floor slammed against their feet. Barbara felt frightening pressure on her chest, tried to stand up and was knocked over. All around was a noise of giant subway trains, and the floor heaved like a ship in a cross sea.
"Dad!"
"Yes, Duke! Are you hurt?"
"I don't know. But make that five hundred and ninety-two dollars!"
The subterranean rumbling went on. Through this roar Barbara heard Mr. Farnham chuckle. "Forget it!" he called out. "The dollar just depreciated."
Mrs. Farnham started to scream. "Hubert! Hubert, where are you? Hubert! Make it stop!"
"Coming, dear!" A pencil of light cut the blackness, moved toward the bunks near the door. Barbara raised her head, made out that it was her host, on hands and knees with a flashlight in his teeth. He reached the bunk, succeeded in quieting Grace; her screams ceased. "Karen?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, Just bruised. My chair went over."
"All right. Get the emergency lighting on in this bay. Don't stand up. Crawl. I'll light you from here. Then get the hypo kit and—ow! Joseph!"
"Yes, sir."
"You in one piece?"
"I'm okay, Boss."
"Persuade your furry-faced Falstaff to join you. He jumped on me."
"He's just friendly, Mr. Farnham."
"Yes, yes. But I don't want him doing that while I'm giving a hypo. Call him."
"Sure thing. Here, Doc! Doc, Doc, Doc! Fish, Doc!"
Some minutes later the rumbling had died out, the floor was steady, Mrs. Farnham had been knocked out by injected drug, two tiny lights were glowing in the first bay, and Mr. Farnham was inspecting.
Damage was slight. Despite guardrails, cans had popped off shelves; a fifth of rum was broken. But liquor was almost the only thing stored in glass, and liquor had been left in cases, the rest of it had come through. The worst casualty was the shelter's battery-driven radio, torn loose from the wall and smashed.
Mr. Farnham was on his knees, retrieving bits of it. His son looked down. "Don't bother, Dad. Sweep it up and throw it away."
"Some parts can be salvaged."
"What do you know about radios?"
"Nothing," his father admitted. "But I have books."
"A book won't fix that. You should have stocked a spare."
"I have a spare."
"Then for God's sake get it! I want to know what's happened."
His father got up slowly and looked at Duke. "I would like to know, too. I can't hear anything over this radio I'm wearing. Not surprising, it's short range. But the spare is packed in foam and probably wasn't hurt."
"Then get it hooked up."
"Later."
"Later, hell. Where is it?"
Mr. Farnham breathed hard. "I've had all the yap I'm going to take."
"Huh? Sorry. Just tell me where the spare is."
"I shan't. We might lose it, too. I'm going to wait until I'm sure the attack is over."
His son shrugged. "Okay, if you want to be difficult. But all of us want to hear the news. It's a shabby trick if you ask me."
"Nobody asked you. I told you I've had all the yap I'm going to take. If you're itching to know what's happening outside, you can leave. I'll unbolt this door, crank back the armor door, and you can open the upper door yourself."
"Eh? Don't be silly."
"But close it after you. I don't want it open—both for blast and radioactivity."
"That's another thing. Don't you have any way to measure radioactivity? We ought to take steps to—"
"SHUT UP!"
"What? Dad, don't pull the heavy-handed father on me."
"Duke, I ask you to keep quiet and listen. Will you?"
"Well . . . all right. But I don't appreciate being bawled out in the presence of others."
"Then keep your voice down." They were in the first bay near the door. Mrs. Farnham was snoring by them; the others had retreated around the bend, unwilling to witness. "Are you ready to listen?"
"Very well, sir," Duke said stiffly.
"Good. Son, I was not joking. Either leave . . . or do exactly as I tell you. That includes keeping your mouth shut when I tell you to. Which will it be? Absolute obedience, prompt and cheerful? Or will you leave?"
"Aren't you being rather high-handed?"
"I intend to be. This shelter is a lifeboat and I am boat officer. For the safety of all I shall maintain discipline. Even if it means tossing somebody overboard."
"That's a farfetched simile. Dad, it's a shame you were in the Navy. It gives you romantic ideas."
"I think it's a shame, Duke, that you never had service. You're not realistic. Well, which is it? Will you take orders? Or leave?"
"You know I'm not going to leave. And you're not serious in talking about it. It's death out there."
"Then you'll take orders?"
"Uh, I'll be cooperative. But this absolute dictatorship—Dad, tonight you made quite a point of the fact that you are a free man. Well, so am I. I'll cooperate. But I won't take unreasonable orders, and as for keeping my mouth shut, I'll try to be diplomatic. But when I think it's necessary, I'll voice my opinion. Free speech. Fair enough?"
His father sighed. "Not nearly good enough, Duke. Stand aside, I want to unbolt the door."
"Don't push a joke too far, Dad."
"I'm not joking. I'm putting you out."
"Dad . . . I hate to say this . . . but I don't think you are man enough. I'm bigger than you are and a lot younger."
"I know. I've no intention of fighting you."
"Then let's drop this silly talk."
"Duke, please! I built this shelter. Not two hours ago you were sneering at it, telling me that it was a 'sick' thing to do. Now you want to use it, since it turned out you were wrong. Can't you admit that?"
"Oh, certainly. You've made your point."
"Yet you are telling me how to run it. Telling me that I should have provided a spare radio. When you hadn't provided anything. Can't you be a man, give in, and do as I tell you? When your life depends on my hospitality?"
"Cripes! I told you I would cooperate."
"But you haven't been doing so. You've been making silly remarks, getting in my way, giving me lip, wasting my time when I have urgent things to do. Duke, I don't want your cooperation, on your terms, according to your judgment. While we are in this shelter I want your absolute obedience."
Duke shook his head. "Get it through your head that I'm no longer a child, Dad. My cooperation, yes. But I won't promise the other."
Mr. Farnham shook his head sorrowfully. "Maybe it would be better if you took charge and I obeyed you. But I've given these circumstances thought and you haven't. Son, I anticipated that your mother might be hysterical; I had everything ready to handle it. Don't you think I anticipated this situation?"
"How so? It's pure chance that I'm here at all."
"'This situation' I said. It could be anybody. Duke, if we had been entertaining friends tonight—or if strangers had popped up, say that old fellow who rang the doorbell—I would have taken them in; I planned on extras. Don't you think, with all the planning I have done, that I would realize that somebody might get out of hand? And plan how to force them into line?"
"How?"
"In a lifeboat, how do you tell the boat officer?"
"Is that a riddle?"
"No. The boat officer is the one with the gun."
"Oh. I suppose you do have guns down here. But you don't have one now, and"— Duke grinned—"Dad, I can't see you shooting me. Can you?"
His father stared, then dropped his eyes. "No. A stranger, maybe. But you're my son." He sighed. "Well, I hope you cooperate."
"I will. I promise you that much."
"Thank you. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do." Mr. Farnham turned away. "Joseph!"
"Yes, sir?"
"It's condition seven."
"Condition seven, sir?"
"Yes, and getting worse. Be careful with the instruments and don't waste time."
"Right away, sir!"
"Thank you." He turned to his son. "Duke, if you really want to cooperate, you could pick up the pieces of this radio. It's the same model as the one in reserve. There may be pieces we can use to repair the other one if it becomes necessary. Will you do that?"
"Sure, sure. I told you I would cooperate." Duke got on his knees, started to complete the task he had interrupted.
"Thank you." His father turned away, moved toward the junction of the bays.
"Mr. Duke! Get your hands up!"
Duke looked over his shoulder, saw Joseph by the card table, aiming a Thompson submachine gun at him. He jumped to his feet. "What the hell!"
"Stay there!" Joseph said. "I'll shoot."
"Yes," agreed Duke's father, "he doesn't have the compunctions you thought I had. Joseph, if he moves, shoot him."
"Daddy! What's going on?"
Mr. Farnham turned to face his daughter. "Get back!"
"But, Daddy—"
"Shut up. Both of you get into that lower bunk. Karen on the inside. Move!"
Karen moved. Barbara looked wide-eyed at the automatic her host now held in his hand and got quickly into the lower bunk of the other bay. "Arms around each other," he said briskly. "Don't either of you let the other one move." He went back to the first bay.
"Duke."
"Yes?"
"Lower your hands slowly and unfasten your trousers. Let them fall but don't step out of them. Then turn slowly and face the door. Unfasten the bolts."
"Dad—"
"Shut up. Joseph, if he does anything but exactly what I told him to, shoot. Try for his legs, but hit him."
Face white, expression dazed, Duke did as he was told: let his trousers fall until he was hobbled, turned and started unbolting the door. His father let him continue until half the bolts were drawn. "Duke. Stop. The next few seconds determine whether you go—or stay. You know the terms."
Duke barely hesitated. "I accept."
"I must elaborate. You will not only obey me, you will obey Joseph."
"Joseph?"
"My second-in-command. I have to have one, Duke; I can't stay awake all the time. I would gladly have had you as deputy—but you would have nothing to do with it. So I trained Joseph. He knows where everything is, how it works, how to repair it. So he's my deputy. Well? Will you obey him just as cheerfully? No back talk?"
Duke said slowly, "I promise."
"Good. But a promise made under duress isn't binding. There is another commitment always given under duress and nevertheless binding, a point which as a lawyer you will appreciate. I want your parole as a prisoner. Will you give me your parole to abide by the conditions until we leave the shelter? A straight quid-pro-quo: your parole in exchange for not being forced outside?"
"You have my parole."
"Thank you. Throw the bolts and fasten your trousers. Joseph, stow the Tommy gun."
"Okay, Boss."
Duke secured the door, secured his pants. As he turned around, his father offered him the automatic, butt first. "What's this for?" Duke asked.
"Suit yourself. If your parole isn't good, I would rather find it out now."
Duke took the gun, removed the clip, worked the slide and caught the cartridge from the chamber, put it back into the clip and reloaded the gun—handed it back. "My parole is good. Here."
"Keep it. You were always a headstrong boy, Duke, but you were never a liar."
"Okay. . . Boss." His son put the pistol in a pocket. "Hot in here."
"And going to get hotter."
"Eh? How much radiation do you think we're getting?"
"I don't mean radiation. Fire storm." He walked into the space where the bays joined, looked at a thermometer, then at his wrist. "Eighty-four and only twenty-three minutes since we were hit. It'll get worse."
"How much worse?"
"How would I know, Duke? I don't know how far away the hit was, how many megatons, how widespread the fire. I don't even know whether the house is burning overhead, or was blasted away. Normal temperature in here is about fifty degrees. That doesn't look good. But there is nothing to do about it. Yes, there's one thing. Strip down to shorts. I shall."
He went into the other bay. The girls were still in the lower bunk, arms around each other, keeping quiet. Joseph was on the floor with his back to the wall, the cat in his lap. Karen looked round-eyed as her father approached but she said nothing.
"You kids can get up."
"Thanks," said Karen. "Pretty warm for snuggling." Barbara backed out and Karen sat up.
"So it is. Did you hear what just happened?"
"Some sort of argument," Karen said cautiously.
"Yes. And it's the last one. I'm boss and Joseph is my deputy. Understood?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Mrs. Wells?"
"Me? Why, of course! It's your shelter. I'm grateful to be in it—I'm grateful to be alive! And please call me Barbara, Mr. Farnham."
"Sorry. Hmmm— Call me 'Hugh,' I prefer it to 'Hubert.' Duke, everybody—first names from now on. Don't call me 'Dad,' call me 'Hugh.' Joe, knock off the 'mister' and the 'miss.' Catch?"
"Okay, Boss, if you say so."
"Make that 'Okay, Hugh.' Now you girls peel down, panties and bra or such, then get Grace peeled to her skin and turn the light out there. It's hot, it's going to get hotter. Joe, strip to your shorts." Mr. Farnham took his jacket off, started unbuttoning his shirt.
Joseph said, "Uh, I'm comfortable."
"I wasn't asking, I was telling you."
"Uh . . . Boss, I'm not wearing shorts!"
"He's not," Karen confirmed. "I rushed him."
"So?" Hugh looked at his ex-houseboy and chuckled. "Joe, you're a sissy. I should have made Karen straw boss."
"Suits me."
"Get a pair out of stores and you can change in the toilet space. While you're about it, show Duke where it is. Karen, the same for Barbara. Then we'll gather for a powwow."
The powwow started five minutes later. Hugh Farnham was at the table, dealing out bridge hands, assessing them. When they were seated he said, "Anybody for bridge?"
"Daddy, you're joking."
"My name is 'Hugh.' I was not joking, a rubber of bridge might quiet your nerves. Put away that cigarette, Duke."
"Uh . . . sorry."
"You can smoke tomorrow, I think. Tonight I've got pure oxygen cracked pretty wide and we are taking in no air. You saw the bottles in the toilet space?" The space between the bays was filled by pressure bottles, a water tank, a camp toilet, stores, and a small area where a person might manage a stand-up bath. Air intakes and exhausts, capped off, were there, plus a hand-or-power blower, and scavengers for carbon dioxide and water vapor. This space was reached by an archway between the tiers of bunks.
"Oxygen in those? I thought it was air."
"Couldn't afford the space penalty. So we can't risk fire, even a cigarette. I opened one inlet for a check. Very hot— heat 'hot' as well as making a Geiger counter chatter. Folks, I don't know how long we'll be on bottled breathing. I figured thirty-six hours for four people, so it's nominally twenty-four hours for six, but that's not the pinch. I'm sweating—and so are you. We can take it to about a hundred and twenty. Above that, we'll have to use oxygen just to cool the place. It might end in a fine balance between heat and suffocation. Or worse."
"Daddy—'Hugh,' I mean. Are you breaking it gently that we are going to be baked alive?"
"You won't be, Karen. I won't let you be."
"Well . . . I prefer a bullet."
"Nor will you be shot. I have enough sleeping pills to let twenty people die painlessly. But we aren't here to die. We've had vast luck; with a little more we'll make it. So don't be morbid."
"How about radioactivity?" asked Duke.
"Can you read an integrating counter?"
"No."
"Take my word for it that we are in no danger yet. Now about sleeping— This side, where Grace is, is the girls' dorm; this other side is ours. Only four bunks but that's okay; one person has to monitor air and heat, and the other one without a bed can keep him awake. However, I'm taking the watch tonight and won't need company; I've taken Dexedrine."
"I'll stand watch."
"I'll stay up with you."
"I'm not sleepy."
"Slow down!" Hugh said. "Joe, you can't stand watch now because you have to relieve me when I'm tuckered out. You and I will alternate until the situation is safe."
Joe shrugged and kept quiet. Duke said, "Then it's my privilege."
"Can't either of you add? Two bunks for women, two for men. What's left over? We'll fold this table and the gal left over can sprawl on the floor here. Joe, break out the blankets and put a couple here and a couple in the tank space for me."
"Right away, Hugh!"
Both girls insisted on standing watch. Hugh shut them off. "Cut for it."
"But—"
"Pipe down, Barbara. Ace low, and low girl sleeps in a bunk, the other here on the floor. Duke, do you want a sleeping pill?"
"That's one habit I don't have."
"Don't be an iron man."
"Well . . . a rain check?"
"Surely. Joe? Seconal?"
"Well, I'm so relieved that I don't have to take that quiz tomorrow . . ."
"Glad somebody is happy. All right."
"I was going to add that I'm pretty keyed up. You're sure you won't need me?"
"I'm sure. Karen, get one for Joe. You know where?"
"Yes, and I'm going to get one for me, since I won the cut. I'm no iron man! And a Miltown on top of it."
"Do that. Sorry, Barbara, you can't have one; I might have to wake you and have you keep me awake. You can have Miltown. You'll probably sleep from it."
"I don't need it."
"As you wish. Bed, everybody. It's midnight and two of you are going on watch in eight hours."
In a few minutes all were in bed, with Barbara where the table had been; all lights out save one in the tank space. Hugh squatted on blankets there, playing solitaire—badly.
Again the floor heaved, again came that terrifying rumble. Karen screamed.
Hugh was up at once. This one was not as violent; he was able to stay on his feet. He hurried into the girls' dorm. "Baby! Where are you?" He fumbled, found the light switch.
"Up here, Daddy. Oh, I'm scared! I was just dropping off and it almost threw me out. Help me down."
He did so; she clung to him, sobbing. "There, there," he said, patting her. "You've been a brave girl, don't let it throw you."
"I'm not brave. I've been scared silly all along. I just didn't want it to show."
"Well . . . I'm scared too. So let's not show it, huh? Better have another pill. And a stiff drink."
"All right. Both. I'm not going to sleep in that bunk. It's too hot up there, as well as scary when it shakes."
"All right, I'll pull the mattress down. Where's your panties and bra, baby girl? Better put 'em on."
"Up there. I don't care, I just want people. Oh, I suppose I should. Shock Joseph if I didn't."
"Just a moment. Here are your pants. But where did you hide your brassiere?"
"Maybe it got pushed down behind."
Hugh dragged the mattress down. "I don't find it."
"The hell with it. Joe can look the other way. I want that drink."
"All right. Joe's a gentleman."
Duke and Barbara were sitting on the blanket she had been napping on; they were looking very solemn. Hugh said, "Where's Joe? He wasn't hurt, was he?"
Duke gave a short laugh. "Want to see 'Sleeping Innocence'? That bottom bunk."
Hugh found his second-in-command sprawled on his back, snoring, as deeply unconscious as Grace Farnham. Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume was curled up on his chest. Hugh came back. "Well, that blast was farther away. I'm glad Joe could sleep."
"It was too damned close to suit me! When are they going to run out of those things?"
"Soon, I hope. Folks, Karen and I have just formed the 'I'm-scared-too' club and are about to celebrate with a drink. Any candidates?"
"I'm a charter member!"
"So am I," agreed Barbara. "God, yes!"
Hugh fetched paper cups, and bottles—Scotch, Seconal, and Miltown. "Water, anyone?"
Duke said, "I don't want anything interfering with the liquor."
"Water, please," Barbara answered. "It's so hot."
"How hot is it, Daddy?"
"Duke, I put the thermometer in the tank room. Go see, will you?"
"Sure. And may I use that rain check?"
"Certainly." Hugh gave Karen another Seconal capsule, another Miltown pill, and told Barbara that she must take a Miltown—then took one himself, having decided that Dexedrine had made him edgy. Duke returned.
"One hundred and four degrees," he announced. "I opened the valve another quarter turn. All right?"
"Have to open it still wider soon. Here are your pills, Duke—a double dose of Seconal and a Miltown."
"Thanks." Duke swallowed them, chased them with whisky. "I'm going to sleep on the floor, too. Coolest place in the house."
"Smart of you. All right, let's settle down. Give the pills a chance."
Hugh sat with Karen after she bedded down, then gently extracted his hand from hers and returned to the tank room. The temperature was up two degrees. He opened the valve on the working tank still wider, listened to it sigh to emptiness, shook his head, got a wrench and shifted the gauge to a full tank. Before he opened it, he attached a hose, led it out into the main room. Then he went back to pretending to play solitaire.
A few minutes later Barbara appeared in the doorway. "I'm not sleepy," she said. "Could you use some company?"
"You've been crying."
"Does it show? I'm sorry."
"Come sit down. Want to play cards?"
"If you want to. All I want is company."
"We'll talk. Would you like another drink?"
"Oh, would I! Can you spare it?"
"I stocked plenty. Barbara, can you think of a better night to have a drink? But both of us will have to see to it that the other one doesn't go to sleep."
"All right. I'll keep you awake."
They shared a cup, Scotch with water from the tank. It poured out as sweat faster than they drank it. Hugh increased the gas flow again and found that the ceiling was unpleasantly hot. "Barbara, the house must have burned over us. There is thirty inches of concrete above us and then two feet of dirt."
"How hot do you suppose it is outside?"
"Couldn't guess. We must have been close to the fireball." He felt the ceiling again. "I beefed this thing up—roof, walls, and floor are all one steel-reinforced box. It was none too much. We may have trouble getting the doors open. All this heat— And probably warped by concussion."
She said quietly, "Are we trapped?"
"No, no. Under these bottles is a hatch to a tunnel. Thirty inch culvert pipe with concrete around it. Leads to the gully back of the garden. We can break out—crowbars and a hydraulic jack—even if the end is crushed in and covered with crater glass. I'm not worried about that; I'm worried about how long we can stay inside . . . and whether it will be safe when we leave."
"How bad is the radioactivity?"
He hesitated. "Barbara, would it mean anything to you? Know anything about radiation?"
"Enough. I'm majoring—I was majoring—in botany; I've used isotopes in genetics experiments. I can stand bad news, Hugh, but not knowing—well, that's why I was crying."
"Mmm— The situation is worse than I told Duke." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Integrating counter back of the bottles. Go look."
She went to it, stayed several minutes. When she came back, she sat down without speaking. "Well?" he asked.
"Could I have another drink?"
"Certainly." He mixed it.
She sipped it, then said quietly, "If the slope doesn't change, we'll hit the red line by morning." She frowned. "But that marks a conservative limit. If I remember the figures, we probably won't start vomiting for at least another day."
"Yes. And the curve should level off soon. That's why heat worries me more than radiation." He looked at the thermometer, cracked the valve still wider. "I've been running the water-vapor getter on battery; I don't think we should crank the blower in this heat. I'm not going to worry about Cee-Oh-Two until we start to pant."
"Seems reasonable."
"Let's forget the hazards. Anything you'd like to talk about? Yourself?"
"Little to tell, Hugh. Female, white, twenty-five years old. Back in school, or was, after a bad marriage. A brother in the Air Force—so possibly he's all right. My parents were in Acapulco, so perhaps they are, too. No pets, thank God—and I was so pleased that Joe saved his cat. No regrets, Hugh, and not afraid . . . not really. Just . . . sad." She sniffed. "It was a pretty nice world, even if I did crumb up my marriage."
"Don't cry."
"I'm not crying! Those drops are sweat."
"Yes. Surely."
"They are. It's terribly hot." Suddenly she reached both hands behind her ribs. "Do you mind? If I take this off? Like Karen? It's smothering me."
"Go ahead. Child, if you can get comfortable—or less uncomfortable—do so. I've seen Karen all her life, Grace even longer. Skin doesn't shock me." He stood up, went behind the oxygen bottles, and looked at the record of radiation. Having done so, he checked the thermometer and increased the flow of oxygen.
As he sat down he remarked, "I might as well have stored air instead of oxygen, then we could smoke. But I did not expect to use it for cooling." He ignored the fact that she had accepted his invitation to be comfortable. He added, "I was worried about heating the place. I tried to design a stove to use contaminated air safely. Possible. But difficult."
"I think you did amazingly well. This is the only shelter I've ever heard of with stored air. You're a scientist. Aren't you?"
"Me? Heavens, no. High school only. What little I know I picked up here and there. Some in the Navy, metal work and correspondence courses. Then I worked for a public utility and learned something about construction and pipelines. Then I became a contractor." He smiled. "No, Barbara, I'm a 'general specialist.' 'The Elephant Child's 'satiable curiosity.' Like Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume."
"How did a cat get a name like that?"
"Karen. Because he's a great explorer. That cat can get into anything. Do you like cats?"
"I don't know much about them. But Dr. Livingstone is a beauty."
"So he is but I like all cats. You don't own a cat, he is a free citizen. Take dogs; dogs are friendly and fun and loyal. But slaves. Not their fault, they've been bred for it. But slavery makes me queasy, even in animals."
He frowned. "Barbara, I'm not as sad over what has happened as you are. It might be good for us. I don't mean us six; I mean our country."
She looked startled. "How?"
"Well— It's hard to take the long view when you are crouching in a shelter and wondering how long you can hold out. But— Barbara, I've worried for years about our country. It seems to me that we have been breeding slaves—and I believe in freedom. This war may have turned the tide. This may be the first war in history which kills the stupid rather than the bright and able—where it makes any distinction."
"How do you figure that, Hugh?"
"Well, wars have always been hardest on the best young men. This time the boys in service are as safe or safer than civilians. And of civilians those who used their heads and made preparations stand a far better chance. Not every case, but on the average, and that will improve the breed. When it's over, things will be tough, and that will improve the breed still more. For years the surest way of surviving has been to be utterly worthless and breed a lot of worthless kids. All that will change."
She nodded thoughtfully. "That's standard genetics. But it seems cruel."
"It is cruel. But no government yet has been able to repeal natural laws, though they keep trying."
She shivered in spite of the heat. "I suppose you're right. No, I know you're right. But I could face it more cheerfully if I thought there was going to be any country left. Killing the poorest third is good genetics . . . but there is nothing good about killing them all."
"Mmm, yes. I hate to think about it. But I did think about it. Barbara, I didn't stockpile oxygen just against radiation and fire storm. I had in mind worse things."
"Worse? How?"
"All the talk about the horrors of World War Three has been about atomic weapons—fallout, hundred-megaton bombs, neutron bombs. The disarmament talks and the pacifist parades have all been about the Bomb, the Bomb, the Bomb—as if A-weapons were the only thing that could kill. This may not be just an A-weapons war; more likely it is an ABC war—atomic, biological, and chemical." He hooked a thumb at the tanks. "That's why I stocked that bottled breathing. Against nerve gas. Aerosols. Viruses. God knows what. The communists won't smash this country if they can kill us without destroying our wealth. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that bombs had been used only on military targets like the antimissile base here, but that New York and Detroit and such received nerve gas. Or a twenty-four plague with eighty percent mortality. The horrid possibilities are endless. The air outside could be loaded with death that a counter won't detect and a filter can't stop." He smiled grimly. "Sorry. You had better go back to bed."
"I'm miserable anyway and don't want to be alone. May I stay?"
"Certainly. I'm happier with you present no matter how gloomy I sound."
"What you've been saying isn't nearly as gloomy as the thoughts I have alone. I wish we knew what was going on outside!" She added, "I wish we had a periscope."
"We do have."
"Huh? Where?"
"Did have. Sorry. That pipe over there. I tried to raise it but it won't budge. However— Barbie, I tromped on Duke for demanding that I break out our spare radio before the attack was over. But maybe it's over. What do you think?"
"Me? How would I know?"
"You know as much as I do. That first missile was intended to take out the MAMMA base; they wouldn't bother with us otherwise. If they are spotting from orbiting spaceships, then that second one was another try at the same target. The timing fits, time of flight from Kamchatka is about half an hour and the second hit about forty-five minutes after the first. That one was probably a bull's-eye—and they know it, because more than an hour has passed and no third missile. That means they are through with us. Logical?"
"Sounds logical to me."
"It's crumby logic, my dear. Not enough data. Perhaps both missiles failed to knock out MAMMA, and MAMMA is now knocking out anything they throw. Perhaps the Russkis have run out of missiles. Perhaps the third round will be delivered by bomber. We don't know. But I'm itching to find out. Twist my arm."
"I would certainly like to hear some news."
"We'll try. If it's good news, we'll wake the others." Hugh Farnham dug into a corner, came out with a box, unpacked a radio. "Doesn't have a scratch. Let's try it without an antenna.
"Nothing but static," he announced shortly. "Not surprised. Although its mate could pull in local stations without an aerial. Now we'll hook to the fixed antenna. Wait here."
He returned shortly. "No soap. Stands to reason that there isn't anything left of the fixed antenna. So we'll try the emergency one."
Hugh took a wrench and removed a cap from an inch pipe that stuck down through the ceiling. He tested the opening with a radiation counter. "A little more count." He got two steel rods, each five feet long; with one he probed the pipe. "Doesn't go up as far as it should. The top of this pipe was buried just belowground. Trouble." He screwed the second rod into the first.
"Now comes the touchy part. Stand back, there may be debris—hot both ways—spilling down."
"It'll get on you."
"On my hands, maybe. I'll scrub afterwards. You can go over me with a Geiger counter." He tapped with a sledge on the bottom of the joined rods. Up they went about eighteen inches. "Something solid. I'll have to bang it."
Many blows later the rod was seated into the pipe. "It felt," he said, as he stopped to scrub his hands, "as if we passed into open air the last foot or so. But it should have stuck out five feet above ground. Rubble, I suppose. What's left of our home. Want to use the counter on me?"
"Hugh, you say that as casually as 'What's left of yesterday's milk.'"
He shrugged. "Barbie girl, I was broke when I joined the Navy, I've been flat busted since; I will not waste tears over a roof and some plumbing. Getting any count?"
"You're clean."
"Check the floor under the pipe."
There were hot spots on the floor; Hugh wiped them with damp Kleenex, disposed of it in a metal waste can. She checked his hands afterwards, and the spots on the floor.
"Well, that used up a gallon of water; this radio had better work." He clipped the antenna lead to the rod, switched it on.
Ten minutes later they admitted that they were getting nothing. Noise-static all over the dial—but no signal. He sighed. "I'm not surprised. I don't know what ionization does to radio waves, but that must be a sorcerer's brew of hot isotopes over our heads. I had hoped we could get Salt Lake City."
"Not Denver?"
"No. Denver had an ICBM base. I'll leave the gain up; maybe we'll hear something."
"Don't you want to save the battery?"
"Not really. Let's sit down and recite limericks." He looked at the integrating counter, whistled softly, then checked the thermometer. "I'll give our sleeping beauties a little more relief from the heat. How well are you standing it, Barbie?"
"Truthfully, I had forgotten it. The sweat pours off and that's that."
"Me, too."
"Well, don't use more oxygen on my account. How many bottles are left?"
"Not many."
"How many?"
"Less than half. Don't fret. I'll bet you five hundred thousand dollars—fifty cents in the new currency—that you can't recite a limerick I don't know."
"Clean, or dirty?"
"Are there clean ones?"
"Okay. 'A playful young fellow named Scott—'" The limerick session was a flop. Hugh accused her of having a clean mind. She answered, "Not really, Hugh. But my mind isn't working."
"I'm not at my sharpest. Another drink?"
"Yes. With water, please, I sweat so; I'm dry. Hugh?"
"Yes, Barbie?"
"We're going to die. Aren't we?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. Before morning?"
"Oh, no! I feel sure we can live till noon. If we want to."
"I see. Hugh, would you mind if I moved over by you? Would you put your arm around me? Or is it too hot?"
"Any time I'm too hot to put my arm around a girl I'll know I'm dead and in hell."
"Thanks."
"Room enough?"
"Plenty."
"You're a little girl."
"I weigh a hundred and thirty-two pounds and I'm five feet eight and that's not little."
"You're a little girl. Put the cup aside. Tilt your face up."
"Mmmm— Again. Please, again."
"A greedy little girl."
"Yes. Very greedy. Thank you, Hugh."
"Such pretty ones."
"They're my best feature. My face isn't much. But Karen's are prettier."
"A matter of opinion. Your opinion."
"Well— I won't argue. Scrunch over a little, dear. Dear Hugh—"
"All right?"
"Room enough. Wonderfully all right. And kiss me, too. Please?"
"Barbara, Barbara!"
"Hugh darling! I love you. Oh!"
"I love you, Barbara."
"Yes. Yes! Oh, please! Now!"
"Right now!"
"You all right, Barbie?"
"I've never been more all right. I've never been happier in my life."
"I wish that were true."
"It is true. Hugh darling, I'm utterly happy now and not at all afraid. I feel wonderful. Not even too warm."
"I'm dripping sweat on you."
"I don't mind. There are two drops on your chin and one on the end of your nose. And I'm so sweaty my hair is soaked. Doesn't matter. Hugh dearest, this is what I wanted. You. I don't mind dying—now."
"I do!"
"I'm sorry."
"No, no! Barbie hon, I didn't mind dying, before. Now suddenly life is worth living."
"Oh. I think it's the same feeling."
"Probably. But we aren't going to die, if I can swing it. Want to move now?"
"If you want to. If you'll put your arm around me after we do."
"Try to stop me. But first I'm going to make us a long, tall drink. I'm thirsty again. And breathless."
"Me, too. Your heart is pounding."
"It has every excuse. Barbie girl, do you realize that I am more than twice your age? Old enough to be your father."
"Yes, Daddy."
"Why, you little squirt! Talk that way and I'll drink this all myself."
"Yes, Hugh. Hugh my beloved. But we are the same age . . . because we are going to die at the same time."
"Don't talk about dying. I'm going to find some way to outwit it."
"If anybody can, you will. Hugh, I'm not feeling morbid. I've looked it in the face and I'm no longer afraid—not afraid to die, not afraid to live. But— Hugh, I'd like one favor."
"Name it."
"When you give the pills to the others—the overdose—I don't want them."
"Uh . . . it might be needful."
"I didn't mean that I wouldn't; I will when you tell me to. But not when the others do. Not until you do."
"Mmm, Barbie, I don't plan on taking them."
"Then please don't make me take them."
"Well— I'll think about it. Now shut up. Kiss me."
"Yes, dear."
"Such long legs you have, Barbie. Strong, too."
"And such big feet."
"Quit fishing for compliments. I like your feet. You would look unfinished without them."
"Be inconvenient, too. Hugh, do you know what I would like to do?"
"Again?"
"No, no. Well, yes. But right now."
"Sleep? Go ahead, dear. I won't fall asleep."
"No, not sleep. I'm not ever going to sleep again. Never. I can't spare one minute we've got left. I was thinking that I would like to play contract again—as your partner."
"Well— We might be able to rouse Joe. Not the others; three grains of Seconal is pretty convincing. We could play three-handed."
"No, no. I don't want any company but you. But I so enjoyed playing, as your partner."
"You're a good partner, honey. The best. When you say 'by the book,' you mean it."
"Not 'the best.' I'm not in your class. But I wish that we had—oh, years and years !—so that I could get to be. And I wish the attack had held off ten minutes, so that you could have played that grand slam."
"Didn't need to. When you answered my bid I knew it was a lay-down." He squeezed her shoulders. "Three grand slams in one night."
"Three?"
"Didn't you consider that H-bomb a grand slam?"
"Oh. And then there was the second bomb, later."
"I was not counting the second bomb, it was too far away. If you don't know what I counted, I refuse to draw a diagram."
"Oh! In that case, there could easily be a fourth grand slam. I can't make another forcing bid; my bra is gone and—"
"Was that a forcing bid?"
"Of course it was. But you can make the next forcing bid. I'll spot it."
"Slow down! Three grand slams is maximum. A small slam, maybe—if I take another Dexedrine. But four grand slams? Impossible. You know how old I am."
"We'll see. I think we'll get a fourth."
At that moment the biggest slam of all hit them.