A TOWN IS DROWNING

by
FREDERIK POHL
and
C. M. KORNBLUTH

BALLANTINE BOOKS
NEW YORK

This is an original novel—not a reprint—
published by Ballantine Books, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 55-12407

PRINTED IN U.S.A.

BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.
404 Fifth Avenue, New York 18, N. Y.

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

By Frederik Pohl and C. M. Kornbluth

Contemporary Novel

A TOWN IS DROWNING

Science Fiction

THE SPACE MERCHANTS
SEARCH THE SKY
GLADIATOR-AT-LAW

This novel takes you right into the heart of the new flood country, the Northeast United States which had generally been free of hurricanes and attendant floods. Now disaster has struck, more than once—terrible and grim.

Although this novel will give you an accurate and brilliantly vivid picture of what it's like to live through a flood, even more importantly it will show you what the people are like who fought the catastrophe and how those who survived are still fighting. In the persons of Starkman the burgess, Groff the dynamic young executive, Sharon the shrewd opportunist, Mrs. Goudeket, the resort owner, and others, you will meet and understand the varying human elements that the flood unleashed and intensified. Through it all you will sense a growing feeling of pride—that despite the selfishness of some, the people of the town met the terrible onslaught with courage and a sense of mutual help.

Already well known for their superb science fiction, Frederik Pohl and C. M. Kornbluth demonstrate here their equal power in the realistic contemporary novel.

The man in the filling station was clearly of two minds about it, but finally he buttoned up his raincoat and pulled on his hat and came out to Mickey Groff's car. "Sorry to make you come out in the rain like this," Groff said. "Fill it up, will you?"

He rolled up the window and picked out the least soaked wad of Kleenex to wipe the mist off the inside of the windshield. The car radio stopped playing show tunes and began to talk about freezer food plans. Groff snapped it off and leaned back to watch the turning dials on the gas pump. By the time the man had put back the cap and sloshed around to the window Groff had the exact change ready in his hand. "How far is it to Hebertown?"

"Five miles," the attendant said, and went inside without counting the money. As Groff pulled out he saw the lights go out on the pumps and the big sign overhead.

You couldn't blame him, he thought; there weren't enough cars out in this rain to make it worth while. He had been lucky to find even one station open.

It was nearly impossible to see the road, no matter how hard the windshield wipers worked. Rain was spraying in somehow; all the windows were closed tight, but Groff could feel the thin mist on his face. He rolled around a long, downgrade curve, and when he touched the brake for a moment there was a queasy slipping sensation; the rain was coming down faster than it could flow off the highway.

Foolish to drive all the way to Hebertown, Groff reflected; but the only alternative, actually, was to take a bus. The railroads didn't bother much with this little out-of-the-way corner of the state. And that was something to keep firmly in mind when he talked to the burgess the next morning, he reminded himself. An industry-hungry town could make you some tempting offers; there was a firm promise of a tax break and bank credit, and the suggestion that maybe a suitable factory building could be turned over to you for nearly nothing at all. But you had to keep freight differentials in mind too; and what about labor supply? Well, no; he crossed that off. That was the whole point of the burgess's cooperative attitude; Hebertown had plenty of available labor ten months of the year, it was only when the vacationers came up from New York and the other big cities that local unemployment and the state of the local tax rolls ceased to be a problem. Still, what about that? Were you supposed to close down in the months of July and August?

He shifted in his seat, forcing himself to lean back—it did no good to peer into the rain—and tried to relax. Mickey Groff was a big man and not used to sitting. It gave him a cramped, unwelcome feeling of confinement.

There was a light ahead; it turned out to be a store with a neon sign that said Sam's Grocery, but it gave Groff enough help to let him pick up his speed to nearly thirty-five miles an hour. He had been nearly an hour covering the last twenty miles, he saw irritably. Of course, it didn't matter—it meant just one hour less to spend sitting in the lobby of the Heber House, since there wasn't a thing he could do until the next morning in this rain. But why did he have to pick this particular Thursday to come up?

He passed the store, and at once the road was invisible in front of him again. He tramped on the brake, slipped and skidded, and straightened out. That was foolish, he told himself. He carefully slowed as the road curved again....

Not enough. It was the other car's fault, of course; he saw the lights raging at him down the middle of the road and automatically pulled over quickly. At once he felt the sidewise slip and sway of the skid, but it was too late to do anything about it.

It could have been worse. Thank God there was a good wide shoulder right there. The only thing was, he seemed to be stuck in the mud.

Mickey Groff wasn't much of a waiter. There wasn't a showdog's chance of a car stopping to help him, of course—even if one came by, they'd hardly be able to see him. Anyway, Sam's Grocery couldn't be more than a quarter of a mile back along the road, and from there he could phone for a wrecker—or at worst, if the wreckers had their own problems on a night like this, for a cab to get him into Hebertown. Once the rain stopped, it wouldn't be much of a problem to get pulled out of the mud.

He almost changed his mind when he stepped out into the rain, but by the time he had locked the car door behind him it was too late—it was hard to imagine how he could get any wetter than he was. Mickey Groff had heard of rain coming down in sheets, but he had never experienced it before. This was something beyond all expectations; in ten seconds he was wet to the skin, in a minute he was drenched as a Channel swimmer. There was wind with the rain, too; part of the time it came swiping at him from the side, stinging into his eyes, infiltrating his ears, slipping up the cuffs of his sodden sleeves. By the time he got around the curve in the road he was shaking with chill.

After ten minutes of staggering through the storm he wondered why he couldn't see the lights of the store. Then he saw why, and it was like a fist under the heart; the lights were out. There was the store just ahead, but the neon was black, the windows were black, there was only the faintest suggestion of a glimmer at the edges of the glass.

He went stumbling across a little gravel parking lot with water sloshing around his shoes and banged on the door. Then he saw that there was a light in the back of the store; it was a candle. He tried the door handle and it opened.

Inside, the noise of the rain changed and dulled; instead of a slashing at his ears it was a drumming overhead. A man came out of a storeroom at the back, carrying a gasoline lantern, and the whole store brightened and began to look more normal.

"Oh," said Mickey Groff. "Your power's out. I thought maybe you were closing up."

The man said sourly, "I might as well be. Jesus, did you ever see weather like this in your life? I been here—"

Groff sluiced some of the water off his face and hair. "Well," he said. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that the phones might not be working. There wasn't much sense in going back to the car again; he knew a mudded-in wheel when he saw one. You could push blankets and boards under those rear wheels all night and the mud would just swallow up what the wheels didn't slide right off. "Maybe you can help me," he said. "I'm stuck in the mud down the road and I've got to get into Hebertown."

The grocer glanced at him appraisingly and then bent to adjust the flame on the gasoline lantern. "I'm all alone here," he mentioned.

"I hate to close up before time," the grocer said virtuously. "I'd like to help you out—You stuck bad?"

"Pretty bad. Anyway, I can't rock it out. I was hoping to call a tow truck from Hebertown."

"I got a pickup truck with four-wheel drive," the grocer said thoughtfully. "You're welcome to wait here till I close if you want to. Wouldn't be more than a couple of—"

The grocer's eyes flickered, but he shook his head. "You don't know the people around here," he complained. "They wait till I'm just ready to close, and bingo, two-three cars come zooming up. Milk for Junior, catfood for the cat, coffee, they gotta have coffee, they wouldn't bother me if it wasn't so jeezly important. Sit down and wait, mister. It's only—" He squinted at the advertising clock above his door, shadowed from the flare of the pressure lamp by a stack of tall cans on a top shelf—"It's only half an hour."

Mickey Groff thought of lying to the man, giving him a story about a medical emergency or a big deal with a deadline, something he couldn't decently brush off for the sake of two or three catfood customers. Then, because he didn't like to lie, he shrugged, made a disgusted grimace at himself in the near-dark and sat down in a spindle-back chair to wait out the thirty minutes. He knew what the trouble was; it was the old thing. He had been born, apparently, geared up about twenty-five per cent faster than most people. This was very handy in some ways; he was a Rising Young Businessman at thirty and pretty soon now he'd be a Rising Young Industrialist. His picture had been printed in Nation's Business along with eleven other promising youngsters who owned their own plants, and one day it would appear alone. He knew it and he knew it would be due to his built-in overgearing. But that didn't make it any easier to sit and wait for the catfood customers.

The storekeeper—as most people did—sensed his mood. "Like to look at the paper?" he asked, and handed him an eight-page sheet. It was the latest—yesterday's—issue of the Hebertown Weekly Times. Groff had studied the last four issues preceding it, as well as those of a dozen other country papers, trying to get the feel of the communities they served. On one of those communities he would soon have to stake his play for the jump from forty employees to a hundred.

He held the paper up to the lamplight and read the main headline, covering the three right columns. The chair crashed behind him as he snapped to his feet. "God damn it to hell!" he said.

"Sorry," Groff said. "I didn't mean you. I just thought of something I forgot to do."

Which was a lie. He forced himself to set up the chair again, sat down and reread the headline, pulses hammering at his temples. BORO MAY GRANT SWANSCOMB MILL TO CHESBRO AT NOMINAL RENT; MOVE HAILED AS EMPLOYMENT BOOM; OLD PLANT TO BE USED AS WAREHOUSE.

The former Swanscomb Mill was the building he had his eye on as the shell for his projected new factory. It was ideal. It was empty and unwanted by anybody since Swanscomb had moved south; it was a low-maintenance brick shell with plenty of adjoining room for expansion; it was solidly built and able to support his machine tools; it had its own siding and a loading deck for trucks. And somebody else, by incredible coincidence, was after it too. The pounding pulses subsided and he steadied himself to read the story. It was one column down the right and it was strangely uninformative. It led off: "Civic leaders today hailed the announcement that Arthur Chesbro hopes to secure the old Swanscomb Mill from the Borough as a warehouse for the storage of materials and supplies." It didn't say who the civic leaders were. It went on to recapitulate the familiar history of the plant. It concluded by quoting Arthur Chesbro as hoping that at least a dozen local citizens would be employed as warehousemen in the plant.

A car's headlights outside turned the streaming store window into a sheet of refracted yellow glare. A woman bustled in and peered about uncertainly in the gloom. The storekeeper yes-ma'amed her and she apologized for coming so late, the rain was so terrible she could barely crawl, and could she have three cans of catfood?

The storekeeper gave her the cans, and when he closed the door behind her—rain drove in during the brief moment and drenched a square yard of floor—turned to Groff and said: "What did I tell you?"

"Chesbro? A big wheel over in the next county. Justice of the Peace. Owns business buildings; couple of radio stations; the newspaper, I don't know the name. I just get copies of the Weekly Times; they send them so I can check my ads. Every week I take one. You look on page seven, tell me what you think of it."

Groff yanked the paper open, looked at the grocer's little ad on page seven and said: "You're Sam Zehedi? Syrian?"

"That's us!" Sam Zehedi said. "You give a Syrian a busted machine and a wrench, he'll have it going in five minutes. We're a civilized, Christian people. We been Christian a lot longer than the French or the Germans. And you know what some dumb people called me when I first bought the store? An Ay-rab. A heathen Ay-rab."

"They'll learn." Groff shrugged. He studied the newspaper story. So this Chesbro was interested in newspapers. It looked, it very definitely looked, as though he might have a piece of the Hebertown Weekly Times in his pocket; the story was pure propaganda.

Sam Zehedi went on: "Oh, they're learning. It's been five years now, and I didn't let any grass grow under my feet. I'm a respected man in this community, mister. You don't hear any Ay-rab talk any more, except maybe from some of the summer people. Jews—they're bitter about Ay-rabs, but then somebody sets them straight. I guess I'm the first Syrian boy around here except for peddlers going through in the old days the way they used to. It's like being a pioneer. Or a missionary." He glanced at the clock. "What the hell," he said, "I don't think anybody else is coming in this rain. I'll get the truck started and pull her around the front, then you can hop right in and I'll lock up, then we'll go tow you out."

"Fine," Groff said. "I appreciate it very much." The storekeeper disappeared in the back; a door slammed and over the drumming rain Groff heard a truck engine roar into life. Zehedi gunned it and held it for a minute and then took off, swinging the pickup around in front. Groff dashed for the cab when the door swung open and vaulted in. His speed hadn't helped him a bit; he was wet all over again from his brief exposure.

Zehedi got out on his side, sensibly swathed in a slicker, put out the lantern in the store and locked up. He climbed back into the cab and had to raise his voice to be heard above the rain beating on the top. "Well, here we go, mister. About how far?"

"We'll get you there." He put the truck in gear and crawled away from the store, feeding the gas lightly. "My tires are pretty good," he said. "I'd hate to start spinning my wheels, though." They crawled up the long, gentle grade into the driving torrents.

"Notice my store's located at the foot of the hill?" he chattered. "I picked it partly for that. People have time to see the sign, not like a flat straightaway where they go whizzing past fast as they can."

Groff cranked down the window and stuck his head out. He couldn't be wetter and he wasn't perfectly sure that through the rain-streaked window his ditched car would be visible. The headlights seemed to bore yellow cones through the teeming rain without illuminating anything outside their sharp margins. The drops battered at his face and hair; he pulled his head in feeling a little stunned. The violence of this storm—he had a vague feeling that it couldn't go on without something giving. What, he didn't know.

Headlights stabbed at their eyes from the rear-view mirror. Behind them a horn howled and out of the darkness behind plunged a shape. Zehedi gasped and twitched his wheel to the right. The car from behind zoomed past them, cut into the right lane again and roared on; its taillights soon were dim and then disappeared.

"Crazy idiot!" the storekeeper gasped, appalled. "He could have wrecked us! He must have been going fifty! In this!"

Groff twisted in the seat and stared through the rear window. There were headlights, far back but coming up fast. And the headlights went out as he watched, with a glimmer....

He knew suddenly what had given. Even a city man, born and bred in city safety, could recognize the signs.

"Step on it," he said to the storekeeper swiftly. "Floodwater behind us. Get us to the top of the hill. Fast."

Zehedi didn't argue or hesitate. Few people argued or hesitated when Groff used that tone of voice. Quickly and steadily he stepped on the gas. They whirled around the curve where Groff's car stood empty and past it. It was a long, straight upgrade from there. Either the rain had slackened off a little or Zehedi was more worried about what was behind them than about the rain; they roared up the hill, accelerating all the way, and only stopped when they saw another car parked by the side of the road, lights on and windshield wipers flapping, and a man leaning out of the opened door, staring back.

It was the car that had passed them. Zehedi recklessly stopped alongside him, making it a tight squeeze in case another car wanted to get by. The other driver misinterpreted the move.

"Jesus!" he said. "That's a good idea! Keep them from getting past into that. Jesus!"

He was in a flap, Groff observed. It wasn't surprising. "Flood?" he called. But he knew the answer.

"Flood? Christ a-mighty, the whole goddam Atlantic Ocean's down there. I was trying to pass a lousy milk tank truck for five miles—they ought to widen this road, you get stuck behind a truck on these hills and—anyway, I finally got past him, and all of a sudden I hear him blowing his horn like a son of a bitch and I turn around and—" The man choked. "Jesus!" he said again. "That lousy little creek. This time of year, half the time it's practically dry. And here's the whole creek jumping up out of the ground at me. I stepped on the gas and got the hell out of there." He peered back nervously, as though the creek might still be following, though they were easily two hundred feet up. "You haven't seen that milk truck, have you?"

It would be a long time, Groff was absolutely sure, before anybody saw that milk truck again.

Zehedi leaned across him. "Hey, mister. You think there was much damage down there? I own the store back there—you know, Sam's Grocery, down at the foot of the hill."

If you had smoothed out the crumpled paper to look at the ad, you would have read:

GOUDEKET'S GREEN ACRES

Your happy vacation hideaway, tucked away in the heart of the majestic Shawanganunks. Golf! Tennis! Riding! Swimming (Two Pools)! Moonlight dancing! That grand Goudeket Cuisine (Dietary Laws Observed)! Under personal direction of Mrs. S. Goudeket.

However, you would have had trouble smoothing it out, because it was soaked; it had been thrown in the middle of both of Goudeket's Green Acres by a dissatisfied customer, raging at the malicious trick Mrs. Goudeket had played on her by causing it to rain for three consecutive days.

Mrs. Goudeket, wearing a set smile that was ghastly even in the candlelight, moved among her guests. She was arch and gay with some of them, apologetic and sympathetic with others, as circumstances indicated; but in her heart she was torn between rage and fear. Now it rains! For two months not a drop, so the grass is dying and the dug well for the swimming pools goes dry, and the guests complain, complain, complain, it's hotter than Avenue A, Mrs. Goudeket, and couldn't you air-condition a little, Mrs. Goudeket, and frankly, Mrs. Goudeket, what I wouldn't give to be back in our apartment on Eastern Parkway right now, we always get a breeze from the ocean. And now it comes down pouring, almost all of last week, and now it starts again so hard the lights go out and the phone goes out, and there's a hundred and sixty-five guests looking for something to do.

She told herself pridefully: Thank God Mr. Goudeket didn't have to put up with this.

Not that he could have handled it; he would have retreated to his room with a stack of Zionist journals, written letters to friends in Palestine, wistful letters saying that maybe next year they'd have enough for a winter cruise—

There had never been enough for a winter cruise; Mrs. Goudeket had efficiently seen to that. First things first. A new roof before a winter cruise to visit Palestine, new pine paneling in the recreation room, things you could lay your hand on. And Goudeket's Green Acres grew. Because of her.

But she had been kind and reasonable. She had let him send a hundred dollars a year for planting orange groves. She had never argued when he talked about retiring some day and going to Palestine—he always called it that, even after it was Israel—to live. She could have argued; she could have told him plenty. That this is America, that here you don't retire and doze in the sun, here you drive hard and get big.

Dave Wax came half-trotting through the dim rooms looking for her. He started to call to her, changed his mind and came close before he half-whispered. "It's the telephone, Mrs. Goudeket. It's working again!"

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Why are you keeping it a secret? It's good news, let's tell everybody—they can use a little good news. You see—" She turned to the nearest couple—"they've fixed the telephone lines already. I bet they'll have the electricity on in ten minutes, you wait and see. Did you call up, Dave?"

"The electric company, Dave!" He shook his head. "Go call them! No, wait—better I'll call them myself." Let him talk to the guests a while, she told herself grimly. Perhaps when the lights were on again and things were back in their normal swing she would want to talk to her guests again. Or perhaps, she thought, hurrying across the dark and deserted entrance lobby, she would go up in her room and lock the door and pull the covers over her head, as she wanted to about once an hour from May through September of every year since Mr. Goudeket died.

The phone was working all right, but it wasn't working well. Mrs. Goudeket got the Hebertown operator and asked for the number of the power company's repair service, but there was so long a wait after that, filled with scratchings and squeals on the wire, that she began to think something had gone wrong. She pulled out the jack and tried again on another line.

All it took was waiting, it turned out. While she waited Mrs. Goudeket had plenty of time to think of the meaning of the long wait to get connected with the repair service. Not that that was any surprise, actually, because she had been through storms before in the majestic Shawanganunks; but always before it had been maybe a quick, violent thunderstorm coming up after a hot spell, and it was a lark for the guests because it was a change, or maybe a violent autumn storm when only a handful remained. But here were a hundred and sixty-five who had been penned in the hotel for days already and....

"Hello, hello?" She tried to hear the scratchy voice at the other end. "Can you hear me? This is Mrs. S. Goudeket, from Goudeket's Green Acres."

The scratchy voice was trying to say something, but she couldn't hear; evidently, though, they could hear her so she went right on: "Our electricity is off. Can you hear me? Our electricity has been off for two hours. They fixed the phone lines, why can't you people fix the power lines?" More scratchy sounds. Mrs. Goudeket listened to them—first casually, out of politeness, then very, very hard. Then there was a click.

This is new, she thought. Her mind was cold and alert; she knew she could not afford rage. The electric company here is not a good company, not like the wonderful Consolidated Edison in New York City. Here they overcharge you—by mistake, they say—and here the meter readers are underpaid and insolent, even with good customers like me. Their repair men are unshaven and lazy and when they finally get to you they stretch out a job forever so they don't have to hurry on to the next. But this is new, this hanging up. I'm no fool, not after thirty years in the resort business; I know their phone girls are under orders to kid the customers along, promise anything, not to hang up.

She walked slowly into the lobby, with a mechanical smile for each sullenly accusing guest. At the cigar stand she told little Mr. Semmel: "A pack of cigarettes. Any kind."

He raised his eyebrows and passed one over. As she clumsily tore open the pack, extracted one and lit it he began to grumble: "Some hotel. Some light-and-power company. By now I should be getting the overnight lines for Monmouth, Hialeah and Sportsman's, by now I should have booked two hundred dollars on tomorrow. Believe me, Mrs. Goudeket, this is my last year at Green Acres. This kind of thing doesn't happen up at New Hampshire Notch; I don't pay good money for the concession so this kind of thing happens."

A fattish, red-faced man bulged up to the counter, breathing whiskey at them. That's a Young Married, Mrs. Goudeket thought with distaste; that's what I have to take at this place because I can't get enough nice young people. "Sammy," the red-faced man complained hoarsely, "isn't the damn ticker working yet? I've got fifty bucks I have to play. You're busting my system to hell."

Mr. Semmel said politely: "I'll see, Mr. Babin." He opened the plywood door behind the stand, looked into the little room where the teletype horse ticker stood, and closed the door again. "I'm sorry, Mr. Babin," he said, with a look at Mrs. Goudeket. "I think the wire's okay, but you got to have power to run the machine and there isn't any power. If it comes on later maybe I can phone Chicago for a repeat—if there's time before midnight."

"You see?" Mr. Semmel hissed, in a hate-filled whisper. "You see what you're costing me? Never again, Mrs. Goudeket!"

She wandered off, preoccupied. Semmel was a nobody, a clerk hired by the big brokers, in spite of his pretensions. But if the brokers, in their cold and analytical way, did decide at the end of the season that Goudeket's Green Acres didn't handle enough to make the operation worth their while, next year nobody would come around and bid for the horse-book concession. And it was the concession that pushed the resort over the line between red and black ink.

You had to make money and you had to grow. Mr. Goudeket had never understood that. Orange trees were all very well, but since 1926 she had been the driver, the doer, the builder. And Mr. Goudeket had never got to Palestine after all, which showed that dreaming got you nowhere. She felt a guilty twinge. One year they could have made the cruise. One year there had been nothing urgent, which is a miraculous year in the resort business. She had put the money aside as a reserve and said nothing about it, and poor Mr. Goudeket couldn't understand a financial statement. The guests loved him, his Zionist connections had been valuable, though he never suspected it, and he had been a fine all-around handyman since the days in the Brighton Beach boarding house; he had saved them thousands of dollars with his clever hands and brought in thousands of dollars with his connections. But grow? He had never understood. And so he never got to see Palestine? What of it, anyway? And again Mrs. Goudeket felt the guilty twinge.

She peered into the bar; it was doing a good business by candlelight. Her Young Marrieds—she grimaced—were getting drunk early. Dave Wax was on a barstool with an on-the-rocks glass in front of him; he was telling one of his stories.

"Dave," she said softly, "when you've finished your drink why don't you give a little show for the people outside?"

The comedian theatrically gulped from his glass and told his barmates loudly: "I love this dear lady. Just like my mother, she is. Just like my mother—always hollering, 'Get to work, ya bum!'"

He pranced out, grinning, on the tide of half-drunk laughter. She watched him from the bar for a minute; he went looping through the room loudly announcing a one-man show by that star of stage, screen, TV and radio, Dave Wax, also available for weddings and bar mitzvahs, call Murray Hill 3-41798805427—it went trailing on and on and on as he led them to circle him around the piano. He pounded out the introductory chords of his "Nervous in the Service" routine, which was very funny and not too dirty; from there she hoped he'd go into a community sing; that would calm the people down.

She went to the switchboard again and snapped the toggle for the outside line. Try the electric company, get some kind of a real promise out of them, maybe bully her way through to the Load Dispatcher, a really responsible person, not like their phone girls.

"Hello," she said. "Operator, hello?" The line wasn't stone-cold dead, but it wasn't buzzing with the reassuring familiarity of the dial tone. A delusive droning kept encouraging her to try; mechanically she switched off and on again, asked for the operator, tried dialing various service numbers. As she went through the motions she thought abstractedly that something had to work; the horse-book concession was absolutely vital. She'd always known she should have an auxiliary generator, paid for God knows how, so the teletype could be kept going—but what good was a teletype with power and no line in? It was dawning on her that the place was cut off from the outside world, that the wires were down and would stay down for hours.

Radios? The radio must be saying something. There was a little station in Hebertown that played nothing but records and news a couple of times a day from the Weekly Times office. Junk like who's in the hospital, the borough council meeting, "want ads of the air," traffic things. They'd know what this rain was doing, they'd have an estimate from the power and phone companies of the damage to the lines and when they'd be back in service.

The radio would tell her everything she needed to know; then a calm announcement to the guests and everybody would go to bed cheerfully, rather enjoying the excitement....

But little Mrs. Fiedler came up and she had her portable radio in her hand, weighing her down like a suitcase; it wasn't one of those little pocket jobs but a substantial long-range outfit. Little Mrs. Fiedler made something of a nuisance of herself when she played it beside the swimming pool—highbrow music from New York City stations.

"Could you get me an outside line, Mrs. Goudeket?" she said. "I want to call my mother in New York so she won't worry."

"Worry? About somebody at Goudeket's Green Acres?" the old woman kidded. "She should have such worries. But I'm sorry, the phone's out again. I don't know for how long. But why should she worry?"

"There was a news broadcast from New York, there's a flood up in Richardstown. Of course that's a hundred miles away, but to my mother, the mountains are the mountains."

"Ah. Richardstown. Mrs. Fiedler, did you try the local station? Let's go into my office and see what they have to say."

But even the big, powerful portable failed to pick up the local station. Mrs. Goudeket refused to think of what that might mean.

Alone again, she realized that she'd have to send somebody out into that terrible rain, send them to town, the Times office or any other phone they could reach. She had to know what was coming next. Send who? Not the bartender; he was the most valuable man on the premises right now. Dave Wax was next, and the kitchen help couldn't be spared. Dick McCue, the "golf pro"—nineteen years old, doubling in trumpet—where was he? He should be in the social hall backing up Dave Wax, keeping the people busy, keeping their minds off—whatever it was. Where was he?

And then she thought, distastefully, of exactly whom she'd have to send. Sharon Froman, she called herself, and in the wild week before opening she had let Sharon Froman foist herself on Green Acres as a "publicity director"—just room, board, ten a week for the season. At first Sharon Froman had actually worked; she had written good stories that actually appeared, not cut too badly, in the issues of the New York Post which also carried Green Acres advertisements; maybe she had even got them a couple of guests. That lasted for about ten days, and then Sharon Froman had slowly withdrawn from any hotel activity except eating; when you passed her room at any time of the day or night you were as likely as not to hear the muffled thudding of a noiseless portable. When Mrs. Goudeket barged in or met her in the dining room and asked how the publicity stories were coming, Sharon Froman would smile vaguely, teasingly, and say something that didn't, after you stopped to think of it, make sense. "I think I've got a very dynamic program lined up, Mrs. Goudeket, and I'm polishing the rough spots."

Black-haired, square-jawed, near-sighted, in her early thirties, a persuasive talker—Mrs. Goudeket was the living proof of that—groomed either to perfection or not at all, maybe five feet six, easily twenty pounds overweight. Sharon Froman. The perfect expendable to go out and learn the score. Mrs. Goudeket started grimly up the steps. You better be feeling good and dynamic, Miss Sharon Froman, she thought, nerving herself for a battle. I got some real rough spots for you to polish now.

In the bat's nest that that sneaking old hag Goudeket called a room, Miss Sharon Froman was lovingly recopying chapter one of Her Novel. Her only light was a candle socketed in the sticky neck of an empty Southern Comfort bottle, and the flame flickered and turned blue regularly as the wind swept through the closed windows. What a shack, thought Miss Sharon Froman, not in anger but in judgment.

But it had its compensations. She could see the jacket copy for the novel now: "Spraddled Evening is an odd book, written at odd times in odd places. Begun in a shabby trailer outside a Mississippi Army camp—" She grimaced, remembering how perfectly foul Ritchie had been when she'd had story conferences with Don while Ritchie was restricted to the post—"it was shaped and polished by turns in the club car of a transcontinental train, a cold-water flat in the East Bronx, a luxury resort hotel and a Jersey fishing village, reaching its evocative climax while Miss Froman was—" Well, that you would have to wait and see, thought Miss Froman, taking page 2 out of the typewriter. But the end was almost in sight. The first chapter set the tone for the whole book; and now that that was nearly perfect it was only a dash to the finish line.

She lit a cigarette from the candle before she put page three into the typewriter. Page three was the one that would do Hesch in the eye. He'd be sure to recognize the savagely drawn, feudal-minded pants presser if he read it—and he'd be goddam sure to read it, if he had to hock the watch she'd given him to get the price. Sixty bucks that watch had cost out of her share of his Christmas bonus, and it was the only decent thing he owned. "So why doesn't he sell it," she demanded of the wind, "if he's so broke he can't keep up the alimony?"

She knew as soon as she heard the knock on the door that it was Mrs. Goudeket. The chapter went into the bulging file under the bed; the half-page beginning on the story about Dick McCue went into the typewriter, using the paper bail so Old Bat-Ears wouldn't hear the ratchet clicking. "Come in, please," she called, with just the proper annoyance at being interrupted.

Mrs. Goudeket sat down without waiting to be asked; those stairs were getting steeper every day. "Sharon, honey," she wheezed, "I want you to do me a favor. Frankly, I'm a little worried."

Sharon listened with minimal courtesy. Unbelievable, she thought to herself, now the old harpy expected her to go driving out in this crazy rain to find out if it was really raining. So suppose she got into Hebertown, what could she find out? The lines were down? They knew that. And what else could there conceivably be?

Since it was a point of principle, she knew what she had to say. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Goudeket," she said gently. "It just isn't my job." Besides, the season was practically over; so let Old Bat-Ears fire her.

"Aw, Sharon," wheedled Mrs. Goudeket. "Who else have I got? Believe me, it's not for me, it's for all of us. Suppose—"

"No!" shrilled Mrs. Goudeket. "I feed you the whole summer, for what? One little thing I want you to do, and what do I get? Listen here, young lady, I'm telling you for the last time—" It went on for ten minutes, during which Mrs. Goudeket quite forgot to worry about the storm.

She was still breathing hard when she appeared at the door of the Game Room and signaled imperiously to Dick McCue.

"But Mrs. Goudeket!" He nodded back at the room, where a couple of sullen guests were doggedly putting golf balls into a tumbler. "I got a contest going. Dave said I had to help out; he said—"

"This is more important," Mrs. Goudeket said firmly. "You think I like going myself? God knows what the guests will think, so don't tell them. Let them look."

"All right, Mrs. Goudeket. I'll tell you what, I'll go get the car and meet you at the kitchen entrance. Just the two of us going?"

The burgess of Hebertown wasn't having any luck with his call to the weather bureau. Because he was the burgess, he had got his own line to the central office back in service; but the central office was having a hell of a time getting through to any point outside.

If he had got through, he wouldn't have had much luck either, because there were plenty of lines down, but practically all the ones that were left were trying to get onto the same three instruments in the bureau's outer office.

The chief of bureau was talking into one of them, kept open with a direct line to the nearest Civil Defense filter center: "Charley? Here's the latest. No chance of the rain stopping for at least several hours, that's the big thing. Some places it's hitting an inch an hour. There's all that wet air that Diane pulled in from the Atlantic, and now the winds have pushed it up; when it gets cold the water has to come out. How much?" He blinked at the phone; he had been in that office for seventeen hours and, he suddenly remembered, he'd never got around to having lunch sent up. "Call it ten inches, average through the area affected. What?" He sat up straight. "Now listen, Charley! I've busted forecasts and I've admitted it; but you can't hang this one on me—"

The station duty forecaster, on the phone next to him, was saying: "Sure, we're sticking by our forecast. Go ahead and print it. Flood damage? No, I can't give you anything; not our line. Please, won't you read the forecast? We said heavy rain. We said prospect of danger from flooding because the soil is saturated—no room for the rain to soak in, it has to run off somewhere. The only thing we didn't say was 'positively.'" He hung up, but didn't take his hand off the phone; it would ring again in seconds. It didn't much matter what they printed, of course; the newspaper that had been on the wire was in a town that had grown rich from the two rivers that joined in its heart, and the forecaster had his own feelings about what those two rivers might do.

He took his other hand off the clipboard and found he had crumpled their copy for the last forecast into a ball. He tossed it in the basket, hardly hearing his chief shouting into the phone next to him; it didn't matter, he knew it by heart now anyhow, but as the phone rang again, he made a dive and recovered the forecast. He smoothed it out carefully. It might, he suddenly realized, be very important indeed, over the next weeks and months when the investigating commissions and legislative committees began sniffing through the debris.

Mrs. Chesbro came smiling into the burgess's office. "Excuse me," she said. "I knocked, but you were busy on the phone—"

"Not very," said the burgess, slamming the instrument down. Now he couldn't even get the central office again. "What can I do for you?" He didn't know the woman. She was expensively dressed; the burgess, whose wife read Vogue, realized that her flat-heeled leather shoes, her matching waterproof tweed coat and cap, her neat leather gloves all were imported and expensive. For the rest, she was a small blonde in her twenties with a careful, conciliatory look on her face.

"I'm Mrs. Arthur Chesbro," she said. "Arthur and I drove over from Summit to see you. Arthur let me off and then he decided he'd better move the car to a little higher ground, the top of that little shopping street you have, Sullivan Street, isn't it? After General Sullivan, I suppose? And he'll be right along and then you two can get on with your little talk."

The burgess looked at her vaguely, her chatter only half comprehended. If she had been a man he would have said something like: "I'm sorry but I'm tied up now; write me a letter and we'll make an appointment." Since she was a woman his old-fashioned notions ruled that out. "I didn't expect Mr. Chesbro," he began. "I've got so much on my mind right now with the rain—" He noted with wry amusement that he had started to say "flood" and changed the word. Civic pride or superstition?—"that I don't think this is the best time for a meeting. Could you go and head him off, Mrs. Chesbro? It can't be urgent."

"Arthur thinks it is," she said. "A man phoned him from New York that this Mickey Groff is on his way and Arthur swore around the house for fifteen minutes and then told me to get out the car and, well, here I am." She could ask for a favor and keep her dignity. "I'm sure it won't take more than a minute. Arthur says it's all cut and dried."

Chief Brayer came in without knocking. His black slicker streamed and his mustache was limp. "Henry," he said to the burgess, "I make it twelve feet and rising at the Sullivan Street bridge. In thirty-five it was only eight feet and in thirty-nine it was only nine and a half. What's going on down in the Hollow, God only knows. Anyway, I'd better get down there with all the boys. All right?"

"Sure, Red. Get on down. Send somebody to my place in a car with a trailer hitch; have 'em tow my boat down to the Hollow. It's all set up on the trailer in the garage, ready to go." He grinned wryly. "I was thinking I might take Bess up to Cayuga for a day on the water."

"Great," the chief said. "It's got a good spotlight, too. We'll need that. If you don't mind a suggestion, Henry, I'd turn out the fire department and have them standing by. You may need some able-bodied men in a hurry. Twelve feet and rising—" He hurried from the office.

"Excuse me," the burgess said to Mrs. Chesbro, and tried the interphone on his desk. It worked; so far the main to the north end of the borough had not been flooded and shorted out.

"This is Henry, Chief. Red Brayer thinks, and I agree, that you should sound the general alarm for the volunteers, that they should be standing by in the engine house with their cars parked in the square. The Hollow's filling up fast—at least it must be; the water's twelve feet and rising at the bridge."

"For the present, yes," the burgess sighed. He clicked the box off. Immediately he heard the klaxon on top of the building hoot three longs, then pause and hoot again and then again. It was the Emergency Muster signal, and it would galvanize fifty men scattered throughout the borough into dropping whatever they were doing, tearing to their cars and speeding to the borough hall, or more exactly to its ground floor left wing where the fire department—two LaFrance pumpers, one ancient and one beautifully new, two full-time employees, the chief and the driver—were housed. He hoped they wouldn't be too disappointed when they found they'd be on a boring standby.

And now, he thought, he really ought to get out and drive around on a tour of inspection. There wasn't any point to sticking in the office with the phone out and the firemen and police already committed to action. He had hoped for some usefulness out of the local radio station, but it was silent, had been for an hour. The news of the Hollow explained that; the transmitter tower, a modest spire, was planted in a marshy field down that way. It had something to do with a good ground, he had been told once, so they had a good ground and they were now bugged out the one time they'd be able to do a public service beyond broadcasting damnfool hillbilly music.

He was reaching for his raincoat, to the dismay of Mrs. Chesbro, when a big man came in. The burgess recognized him as her husband, the redoubtable Arthur Chesbro of Summit. He had, quite consciously, had as little to do with Arthur Chesbro as possible, but there was an irreducible minimum of contact with the man that couldn't be avoided. He was all over the place in Summit, a closely neighboring borough, and he had feelers out through the entire area. You heard of his interest in this and that—bankrolling a resort, buying a professional building a county away and turning it over fast, snapping up timber rights to a farmer's woodlot and turning them over to a firm from over the state line; snatching an FCC television construction permit from under the nose of heavy competition and then not building the station after all for mysterious and profitable reasons. He was a leading citizen, the burgess supposed, but he had nevertheless carefully avoided him whenever possible. He was not really sure why, but once after a couple of bourbons with Chief Brayer he had told the chief that he thought Arthur Chesbro suffered from a case of moral and ethical halitosis.

Physically, Chesbro was a picture of success, rather soaked and winded success at the moment, having hiked in the rain from Sullivan Street and climbed the steep stairs to the burgess's second-floor office.

He grasped the burgess's automatically extended hand with a firm and manly grip. "It's good to see you again, Henry," he intoned. "How's Bess?"

"Fine—uh, Arthur." He thought resignedly that you have to go along with these characters. And maybe, for God's sake, Chesbro actually did remember Bess and did remember hearing about Ted and actually did wish them well. Maybe.

"I see you've met my wife, Henry. Well, it looks like quite a nasty downpour, doesn't it?"

Now he's talking about the weather, for God's sake, to put me at my ease and get the conversation going on a topic of universal interest. Always start by talking about the weather; nobody's so shy or so stupid that he can't think of something to say about the weather. Well, sir, this time the maxim was going to backfire in Arthur Chesbro's red face. "Glad you mentioned that, Arthur," the burgess said briskly. "I'm leaving now. I'm afraid we're in for something worse than we got in thirty-five and thirty-nine, and I'm going to cruise around and have a look-see. I don't know why you came to see me on a dirty night like this, but if you can't put it in a nutshell it'll have to wait."

Arthur Chesbro was disconcerted. "Didn't you see the story in the paper yesterday, Henry?"

"Well, it said, roughly—well, never mind the story. What I want to do is take the old Swanscomb Mill off the borough's hands and put a tidy rental into the communal pocket—and hire a few of your local people."

"Sounds fine," the burgess said. He started for the door. "But there's a fellow with a plant in Brooklyn who's interested too. I understood he's coming out to see us about it, but I suppose this weather'll hold him up. I think we'd better table this matter until I hear from him and have a chance to compare the offers. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"I never thought," said Chesbro flatly, "that I'd see a neighbor selling out to foreign interests when he has a bid from a local man."

The burgess took his hand off the doorknob and looked at Chesbro steadily up and down. "I don't like your language worth a damn," he said. "I'd give you a lecture on manners if I didn't have more important things to do. You can find your way out, can't you?"

Chesbro's eyes dropped, but the burgess thought he could read a look of calculation on his face. "Sorry," he said. "By the way, my car is just up the hill. Can I help out?"

"Well," said the burgess, and thought. Might as well save climbing all the way up West Street—and you couldn't brush off a man who was trying to do you a favor, just because you thought he stank. "Obliged," he said. "If you'll drop me at my house I'll pick up my own car."

He waited with Mrs. Chesbro while her husband dashed through the rain. She didn't talk, which the burgess approved, and once when he met her eye she gave him a tired smile. The burgess judged that she was onto her husband, and seldom had anything to smile about.

For that matter, what did anyone have to smile about? The burgess looked over his borough and hardly heard Artie Chesbro chattering beside him. The street lamps at the bottom of West Street were out. One of the big elms that framed the post office was trailing a pair of enormous branches, broken-winged, across the street; they had to detour far to the left to pass it. Well, there wouldn't be much traffic tonight—and you couldn't tell, maybe he'd be lucky and the whole tree would have to come down; and then they could get on with widening West Street and the hell with the Garden Club.

They went up over the West Street hill and down the other side. "—don't know if you've considered the importance of warehousing facilities in attracting industry," Chesbro was saying in his ear. "War plants? Sure. They're a dime a dozen, Henry, and they come and fold up and then where are you? But you take a town that's got a reputation for good, low-cost—"

The burgess felt entirely too surrounded by Chesbros, with Artie babbling on one side and the wife, silent on the other. Then they turned into Sycamore. The burgess leaned forward. Funny, he could hardly see the highway junction at the bottom of the hill. They rolled down at forty or so, and then everything happened at once. Something jumped up out of the pavement ahead of them. "Watch out!" yelled the burgess. "Jesus!" cried Artie Chesbro, slamming on the brakes and skidding. It looked like a figure, some crazy kind of figure hard to make out in the rain, that suddenly started to get up in the middle of the road; it humped itself and flopped back, and then leaped high in the air, higher than the roof of the car.

It was a fountain, all right, but it wasn't anything broken. The burgess swallowed hard. Not in '35, not even in '39, had the storm sewers backed up hard enough and fast enough to send their manhole lids flying into the air.

Dick McCue started off like a jet pilot. "What's the hurry?" Mrs. Goudeket demanded. "Better go slow and we'll get there." She was feeling uneasier than ever; because though she had heard the rain pounding on the house, and seen the rain sluicing down the windows, she hadn't felt the rain until that two-yard dash from the door to the station wagon that had wet her to the skin.

"Sure, Mrs. Goudeket," he said cheerfully, and slowed down—briefly. Fast, slow—he could drive that blacktop road down to the highway in his sleep. This was what he liked; something happening. He never would have taken the agency's offer of this job if he'd known it would involve running putting contests for rained-in guests who blamed it all on him. Girls, dances, a chance to sharpen up his game for the all-important Inter-Collegiate Medalist next year—the agency had made it sound pretty great. Of course, he had a lot to offer, too—his maidenhead, for instance, as far as the world of golf was concerned; now he was definitely and permanently a pro, and some of the doors in golfing were forever closed to him. Maybe he should have held out for more money. But what was the difference; Dick McCue knew well enough that his game wasn't going to support him all his life; he had a good, powerful drive and a touch with the putter, but everything between the tee and the cup was hard work. It made him a splendid golf pro for Mrs. Goudeket's guests, most of whose future golfing would be either on a driving range or on one of those miniature courses that were coming back, but that was as far as his talents went. Dick McCue didn't kid himself—or anyway, not about his golf.

Mrs. Goudeket cried out and clutched his arm. "Look! Four hundred dollars worth of topsoil!" But it wasn't four hundred dollars worth of topsoil any more; it was a lake. She looked at it incredulously. She remembered distinctly what it had looked like when she and Mr. Goudeket had taken possession of Goudeket's Green Acres, formerly known as Holiday Hacienda: It had been a muddy cow pasture, rutted and gullied. It had taken three days with a bulldozer before they could start putting the topsoil on—

Mrs. Goudeket swallowed, as she considered where the four hundred dollars for the next batch of topsoil might be coming from. From the back seat Sharon Froman called sharply: "Watch yourself, Dick!"

"I see him," McCue said, slowing down. A battered pickup truck was wallowing around their entrance road, trying to turn around. The driver was being meticulously careful about staying off the shoulders, which made it a long process, but finally he got turned around and pulled over. As the station wagon drew close he leaned out and yelled: "This ain't the road to Hebertown, is it?"

Dick McCue leaned over his employer to roll the window down and yell back: "No! You have to turn left at the road, then the second right, left at the bridge—Look, just follow me." He barely got his head out of the window before Mrs. Goudeket rolled it up again.

"Nothing looks familiar," Sam Zehedi complained, trying to keep the lights of the station wagon in sight. He stole a look at the dashboard. Forty-two miles they'd come! Backtracking where the bridge was washed out, taking a shortcut that had turned out impassable, getting lost on the country roads down toward the river—forty-two miles, and they'd started out three miles from town. There was a mile marker right in front of the store....

No, not any more there wasn't. Sam Zehedi got a sudden cramp in his belly thinking about it. The important thing was whether the insurance covered it or not. He had the impression that he was covered for everything from artillery fire by the Argentine army to glacier damage; but that was a long time ago when he signed that check for the policy, and he couldn't remember what it said about floods. Of course, he told himself valiantly, that guy in the car was nuts; the store couldn't have been just washed away. It was just that it was so dark and you couldn't see through the rain from as close as you dared to get in the car. Probably there was water in it, sure—but was that so bad? Look at those people in Missouri and places like that, they go through this every year.

Sam Zehedi swallowed hard. "I'm okay," he said. And he concentrated on the twin red lights ahead of him, the beating raindrops that slipped into the cones of the headlights and out again faster than the eye could follow. He concentrated on the feel of the gas pedal, feeding the gas delicately. You're driving, he told himself. So drive and don't worry.

But in less than five minutes he humbly asked Groff, "You know anything about insurance?"

"Well, to tell you the truth I don't remember what my policy on the store was like. Fire, of course, and extended coverage. That means water damage, doesn't it?"

"I'm afraid not," Groff told him, feeling rotten. "Under some special circumstances, yes—but what's back there, no. If it were primarily windstorm damage with water damage secondary—for instance, if wind tore your roof off and rain ruined your stock, you could collect. But nobody's covered against—flood."

The word was out in the open at last. Zehedi choked back a sob. You're driving. So drive.

But in less than five minutes he found himself railing to Groff that it wasn't fair, that he'd lost five years of work, that he would have been ready to look for a wife in another three years, a good old-fashioned girl from the New York or Detroit colonies of Syrians, somebody who could cook the old-country food—God, how sick he was of hamburgers and soda pop, sometimes he looked at a hamburger when he thought he was hungry and just put it down and walked away with a pain in his belly.

"So why," he asked indignantly, a little hysterically, "didn't I stay in the colony and eat my mother's cooking? I'll tell you why. Because I wanted to be my own boss, I wanted to be a pioneer, it's no good crowding into the big cities and working for other people. In this country you have to make money to be respected, nobody respects you if you're just a working stiff all your life. So I saved and I bought that place through a broker and I've been slaving for five years, eating the lousy food and thinking about broiled lamb I'm going to eat every day when I find a wife, and then...."

They're an emotional people, Mickey Groff thought automatically, and then cursed himself. Damned fool! Here you are thirty years old and you're babbling stereotypes to save yourself the trouble of thinking. Why the hell shouldn't he be emotional with his store washed away? I seem to remember that when Zimmerman slipped the old knife between your ribs with the trick specially printed discount sheet and cost you forty thousand dollars you didn't have, forty thousand dollars for him and Brody to spend on likker and wimmen, forty thousand dollars you might have air-conditioned the plant with for better productivity and fewer rejects, you weren't exactly philosophical about it. Your screams, in fact, were allegedly heard as far west as Council Buffs, Iowa. So less guff, please, about any "they," who exist only in your head, being emotional, or stingy, or stoical, or vindictive or, for that matter, generous and good-hearted. Take 'em as they come, one by one, for what they show they are.

"Watch out!" Mrs. Goudeket yelled at Dick McCue. "Watch out!" The white posts that marked the sharp left curve loomed big, too big, in front of them. McCue twisted the wheel and stepped on the brake pedal hard and fast. It was nightmarish to feel the rear of the car swivel around; it was uncanny to see the road passing in front of him, defying all his experience of perhaps a hundred thousand miles in a driver's seat. The white center line flashed across his vision and then headlights glared into his eyes; it was the truck that had been following them. The skid continued for an interminable few seconds more; Sharon Froman was screaming in the back seat. The rear of the car jolted down and McCue and Mrs. Goudeket were thrown back against the seat as the front of the car nosed up; metal crunched behind them. Then it all seemed to be over. McCue took a deep breath, turned off the ignition and waited for Mrs. Goudeket to skin him alive verbally.

She said, panting with relief: "I'm sorry I yelled at you, Dick. It must have made you nervous so that happened."

"If your aunt had you-know-whats she'd be your uncle," said Mrs. Goudeket tartly. "No remarks are required from you, Miss Elegant Loafer." Sharon laughed.

"Both wheels in the drainage ditch," McCue diagnosed, "and we seem to be hung up on the transmission."

Sam Zehedi laid his truck alongside the ditched sedan and got out. "Anybody hurt?" he called.

"We're okay, thank God," Mrs. Goudeket told him shakily. "But my driver tells me the car is through. Could you maybe give us a lift into Hebertown? We'll be okay from there."

Mickey Groff got out—soaked again!—and surveyed them. "You two ladies can fit in the cab with Mr. Zehedi here. The gentleman and I will ride in the back."

"Will you take these, please?" Sharon said, opening the rear door. "Put them in the back. Careful, that's a typewriter. And very careful with that one—it's manuscript. And these two are just clothes."

Groff wrenched open the double rear doors of the truck and put the four pieces of luggage inside. In the darkness there were crates and cartons. At least they'd be able to sit up instead of crouching on a metal floor. As the driver of the ditched car passed before the headlights he saw he was surprisingly young and obviously shaken by the accident. "Get in," he said. "It might be worse."

Mrs. Goudeket, puffing, pulled herself up the high running board of the truck and slid in beside Zehedi. Sharon followed, and slammed the door. The truck moved cautiously off.

In the dark rear of the truck Groff and McCue had found milk crates to sit on. "You all right?" Groff asked the young man. "Didn't bump your head or anything?"

"It wasn't that kind of stop," McCue said. He began to laugh. "I'm from Springfield, Ohio," he said between chuckles.

"Well, mister, in Springfield, Ohio, damn near every spring, the little old Springfield river that runs through town begins to rise and rise. After a week of this it spills over the banks and the sandbags they put up every time at the last minute and downtown Springfield is a lake. Then everybody swears and gets the canoes and rowboats out of the garage and goes boating glumly around until the water subsides. Well, mister, I came east to college because I was tired of Springfield and its foolish floods, and I run into this mess!"

Through the windows of the double door Groff saw they were passing a small frame building with gas pumps in front. It was dark. "Cigarette?" Groff asked steadily. He didn't want to encourage the kid's near-hysteria.

"No, thanks. But the difference is, in Springfield it's slow and steady and this is happening fast. And when it happens fast, sooner or later a crest comes along and then it isn't one of those years when you just go boating around; it's one of the years when you head for the goddam hills, and fast."

"Hell, yes. Thirty, forty feet of water smashing down through the valley. And when it comes, mister, we'd better not be there. Because those things don't leave much behind."

There was a scratching at the double doors, and one of the women from the ditched car climbed in. "Grand Central," she called. "Change for the downtown local. Follow the green lights for the shuttle to Times Square."

"Why, it's nothing at all. We're just out of gas, nothing else." She turned to Mickey Groff. "Mr. Zehedi's compliments, sir, and would you like to help him scout up some petrol?"

They found the blacked-out gas station after squelching for a couple of interminable minutes through the sopping night.

"I thought I had plenty of gas. How'd I know we'd be driving all over the valley? You said just a quarter of a mile down the road and—"

"Shut up and let's see if we can get in," Groff ordered. Zehedi's whining was getting on his nerves.

There wasn't a soul in the station. Not even a night light. Probably no power, Groff thought. That meant no burglar alarms in case they couldn't find an unlocked window—though hell, he thought wryly, wouldn't it be nice if a State Police car did come screeching up?

"Up you go," he told Zehedi, clasping his hands to receive the toe of Zehedi's foot.

"Break it open. With your elbow. Try not to cut an artery. Then when you get inside see if—" He jerked his head aside as glass tinkled around him.

Groff heaved and got him through the window and went back to the front door to wait. He hoped to God Zehedi would be able to unlock something from the inside. They would never get the women through that upper window, and he didn't want to have to break the front door. They would need every bit of shelter they could get.

Zehedi appeared, tried the front door from the inside (you idiot, didn't you see the padlock? Groff thought sourly), and made shadowy gestures toward the rear. He was yelling something, but you couldn't hear a gunshot in the crashing rain. Groff got the general idea in any case, and stumbled around to the back. Zehedi let him in.

The grocer was all keyed up. "That looks like a fuse box," he chattered. "Didn't see a switch for the pump motors, but it ought to be right around there someplace, wouldn't you say? And there're some soda bottles in case we can't find a gallon jug. All we have to do—"

"Go get the others, Sam," Groff ordered. He took his fingers off the light switch he had been trying, though he had known what the results would be ahead of time. "No electricity, you see? So the gas will just have to stay in the pumps for a while."

He closed the door behind the grocer and looked over their refuge. It wasn't much of a filling station—a couple of pumps out in front, an ice chest full of soft-drink bottles and a little serving counter inside. They had come in through a sort of storeroom, and there was the chance that there might be something useful in there, but it had looked like nothing more promising than the usual collection of old newspapers and three-legged chairs. There was a rickety stair to, presumably, a couple more storerooms.

Groff made thrifty inventory of what was on and behind the serving counter. A coffeemaker—no good. No power, though a cup of good hot coffee would have helped a lot. Easily a dozen cardboard boxes which, opened, proved to contain peanut-butter-and-cheese crackers and Orioles. Candy bars and bags of peanuts beyond their utmost powers of consumption—they might get rickets, but they wouldn't starve. But water, though—the place didn't seem to have any.

Scratch water. They could get by on the soft drinks, or if worse came to worst, there certainly was much more water than they needed right outside.

A telephone! He looked through all his pockets without coming up with anything smaller than a quarter; he slipped the quarter into the slot and there was a mellow bong to acknowledge it. There was nothing else. He held the receiver to his ears for a good two minutes, but the line was dead.

And then he found the greatest treasure of all, a box of stubby short candles, under the serving counter. Evidently power failures were not unheard of around here—something, Groff reminded himself automatically, to keep in mind when he talked to the burgess tomorrow.

If he talked to the burgess tomorrow. There was something there that would need thinking about, too, but the thing to do right now was locate some matches. His own, of course, were more than merely wet—the striking surface had soaked right off them. But there was a cigarette machine, and fortunately a mechanical, not an electrically operated, one.

By the time Sam got back with the others Groff was busy by candlelight, trying to brace a Coca-Cola easel display to cover the window they had broken. Sharon Froman was hugging the briefcase full of manuscript.

You don't last thirty years in the resort business unless you know how to take your mind off your troubles. Mrs. Goudeket, sipping delicately from a quart bottle of black cherry soda, chattered gaily: "Soda pop! Three years I haven't had a drop of soda pop. Now don't tell on me, Dick. If Dr. Postal ever finds out, he'll kill me next time he comes to the hotel—" She choked on a swallow of the soda.

Dick McCue sat on one of the counter stools, sneering at the spectacle Sharon Froman was making of herself over that Mickey Groff. All the same, he admitted to himself, it was a real championship performance. She hadn't had two minutes alone with him, but McCue was willing to bet she could tell to a nickel how much a transistor manufacturer, in process of expansion from forty employees to a hundred, was likely to have in the bank. And there wasn't a chance in the world that this Groff knew what she was doing. This was the no-nonsense Sharon, the hard-working first-week-of-the-season Sharon, who was right by Groff's side when he needed a hand, who didn't ask foolish questions, who kept calm and ready. And to think that as late as Monday night, sneaking back to his own room, he had begun to think—

Sharon and the manufacturer came in from the storeroom with another load of newspapers and dumped them. "All right," said Groff, "I guess that's all we'll need. They won't be very comfortable, but maybe somebody'll come by before morning."

"I don't expect to sleep much anyhow," said Sharon cheerfully. She tapped Zehedi on the shoulder. "Move your feet a little, will you, Sam?"

The grocer started. He picked his feet up so she could spread the newspapers, and when she was through she had to remind him he could put them down again. Five years down the drain. Five more years of hot dogs and that muddy water they call coffee. I'll be thirty-five years old, and still three or four years to go—

"The wind?" ventured Mrs. Goudeket. They stared at each other; the building seemed to be vibrating slightly.

Dick McCue, suddenly white, stumbled across the floor and pressed his face to the door.

Even in the blackness, they could see the river that had been a road outside, the comb of current around the gas pumps, the surging water that lapped at the door.

An air watcher, it doesn't matter which one of the thousands he was, stepped from the hospital elevator at the third, and top floor. He went through a door marked NO ADMITTANCE and climbed iron stairs to the roof. It was black and drizzling; he hoped the rain wouldn't get worse, at least not during his tour of duty. He had heard on a news broadcast that west of his area there were cloudbursts.

He was tired from a long day at his appliance store on Broad Street and he was a little sorry he had signed up for this Ground Observer Corps thing, but everybody in Rotary was taking a shift so he felt he had to go along. He threaded his way around the invisible obstacles that studded the hospital roof and groped at the black-out curtain of the shack.

It was dry and bright inside the little cubicle, but somewhat crowded. The man he was relieving yawned, looked at the clock—so he was two minutes late!—and said: "Howdy. Ready to go?"

"Yeah. CMA Flight 24 was early and south of their course, so I phoned in for the hell of it. Coffee's hot."

The man passed over the night glasses and went yawning through the curtains. The air watcher wiped the drizzled lenses of the binoculars, sighed and stepped out onto the roof. He slumped into the swivel chair, tilted back in the patter of rain and watched the overcast sky with boredom. The little town's lights were bright; after a few minutes outside you could see how far they really shone. And a few minutes more and you could see the lights of the next little town, fifteen miles away, as a dim haze on the horizon. By the time his tour was over they would have gone out and everybody would be in bed, light rain comfortably pattering on their roofs.

He blundered in through the curtains, blinking at the naked bulb. He picked up the direct-wire phone and gave his GOC post number.

"Now what the hell—?" he gasped, standing there with the phone in his hand, not realizing that he—one of thousands—had just played his part in alleviating state-wide disaster.

The Filter Center was in the basement of the College's newest structure, the Physical Sciences Building. Its location was a low-grade secret in that it was never published in the papers. Since it was staffed mostly by unpaid volunteers, that was about as far as the secrecy went.

The government had spent a lot of money on it in 1949. The money had transformed an ordinary storage and heating-plant basement into an air-conditioned, soundproofed office of enormous size. There was a huge table with an inlaid map of the area; this was the heart of the center and the numerous other installations were designed either to send information to the table or take information from it. Information came by phone from watchers like our man on the roof; his messages buzzed from headsets into the ears of girls who stood at a plexiglas sheet ruled off in grids. At word from him that he had sighted a plane—direction traveling, height and type if possible—they scribbled symbols in china-marking pencil on the sheet. One of the girls around the map table then shoved a marker to the right spot on the map. The Air Force liaison officer constantly on duty at the table checked the marker against his list of submitted flight plans from the Civil Aeronautics Authority and decided that all was well. If the marker did not correspond with any submitted flight plan he picked up a phone and called an interceptor base, usually to find that radar units had beaten the filter center and its volunteers to the warning, that jet fighters had scrambled, perhaps that the errant plane had already been identified as a strayed commercial flight and that the fighters were down again. Twice in five years the volunteers had beaten the radar, and the lieutenant considered those two times well worth the cost of the center and the boredom of duty there.

It was a very dull night, and the lieutenant was looking forward to his relief when the call from the State Director of Civil Defense came in.

"Hell's busting loose, Lieutenant," the director said succinctly. "I'm getting calls from here and there with spotty reports of flooding, but mostly from scared people who want to know what's going on and what they should do about it. Can you call all your air watchers and get a summary of the situation?"

"I'll put the chief operator on it, sir," the lieutenant said. "We can put the reports on the map. I'll report this to Group at once; I'm sure they can get a meteorologist here at once to try and evaluate it for you. And maybe the army will lend us an engineer officer with some experience in flood control."

The night was turning out to be not so dull after all. Diplomatically—he was liaison, not command—he filled in the chief operator, and she made a little speech to the matrons and girls, detailing half of them to continue meticulously with the aircraft work and the rest to start phoning the watchers. The lieutenant rapidly devised a set of symbols to summarize the conditions at each point; his weather studies helped there.

Within minutes they were jotting them down on the map table. One girl came to him with the question, what do you do when you can't get a wire through?

The director was back on the wire, and he hadn't even called Group yet. "You'd better send a man of your own down here, sir," he advised. "Somebody from your staff who can do nothing but report to you."

He got through to Group, the officer of the day first and then the sleepy executive officer. The exec carefully avoided commenting on his action but said, "We'll send you a meteorologist pronto. I'll message First Army about the engineer officer. Meanwhile, keep at it—and don't forget your primary mission, Lieutenant."

He would not forget. One of the girls at the plexiglas scribbled a symbol, but nobody at the table picked it up; they were too busy twittering and tutting over the grim picture shaping up along the rivers of their state. "Get that intercept!" he snapped at the girl who was responsible for the sector.

"Sorry," she said, burning red, and picked out a marker to shove carefully to the right spot on the map. Multi-engine, approximately angels ten, bearing 280. The lieutenant checked his list; it was CMA Flight 24 a little off course.

And the girls kept calling; from some alert watchers they got unbelievably exact information relayed from local police or newsmen—normal river depth, present river depth, rise during the past 24 hours, condition of phone and power lines. From others they got only brief impressions that there was trouble, and how much. From many they got nothing at all. Down the river valley towns on the map table crawled the menacing symbol F, over and over again.

The man in the winterized jeep unzipped a window, leaned out and yelled: "The burgess around here?"

The four soaked men working around the tow truck didn't even answer. One of them gestured down the road with an arm and they went back to trying to get a line to a car that had gone off the road. It was now roof-deep in the torrent that had once been a drainage ditch, and up to five minutes ago it had looked as though something was moving behind the windshield.

The man in the jeep spat into the rain and drove on. He finally found the burgess's car parked with its lights on, along with a couple of others, a few yards from the edge of the river. That was crazy, he thought, why didn't they park them up on the highway, twenty-five feet above the water? Then he remembered that he was on the highway.

The burgess turned around to face his chief of police. "If it's that Artie Chesbro again, tell him to take his goddamn car and—"

"No. Lloyd Eisele—don't know if you know him, he's got a dairy farm up in the hills."

The dairy farmer said, "The kid has a contact with a phone line open to the Civil Defense Filter Center in Springfield. They want an estimate of damage; they want to know what help and supplies you'll need in the morning. And they've got instructions for you." He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over.

Burgess Starkman said to his chief of police, "What do you think? Should I send somebody back with him to talk to them?"

"Sprayragen," said Chief Brayer promptly. "He's too old for this anyhow. Let him sit down for a while." He went off to get him.

The dairy farmer looked around at the cars, the fire engine, the men with flashlights and electric lanterns moving around in the downpour. "Something happen?" he wanted to know.

"You could say that," the burgess said wearily. "There was a boy's camp a mile up the river. It's gone now, and eight of the kids are missing. We put a boat in the water, and all that happened was we lost a boat." He glanced at the dairy farmer. "How'd you know where to find me? Have you been in Hebertown?"

The dairy farmer coughed. "You haven't been in town for a while, have you?" He didn't look at the burgess. "The water was up to the corner where the Moose building is—you know? Somebody told me all the stores on Front Street are gone."

He went on from there. By the time the chief of police got back with old Sprayragen the burgess had pieced together an ugly picture.

As the jeep turned around, Burgess Starkman yelled, "Oh, by the way—thanks!" He looked blankly at Brayer. "Did you hear what he said?"

"Enough." Brayer looked sick. He burst out, "God amighty, Henry, we're doing this all wrong. We ought to be back in town, running the show, instead of out here trying to do everything ourselves. We ought to have two-way radio on the pumpers, and a first-aid emergency truck, and an organization set up year-round with volunteers trained for emergency work. Sure, it'd cost a little money, but what the hell, the taxpayers'll stand for it. Something like this will make godfearing citizens out of them for a while anyhow."

"Sure," said the burgess gently. "Sure, Red. You finish up here and come on back to town and we'll start over." He left the chief of police there, with his thick mustache running water and his old face worried and indignant. As he headed back to the car where the Chesbros were waiting, he thought: Red's a good man and he's right, only he hasn't finished thinking it through yet. We need all those things all right. But after this—what taxpayers?

Artie Chesbro was sulking. If that power-mad son of a bitch Starkman had been willing to give him two lousy minutes of his time, they could have got the whole thing over with and he'd be back in Summit by now, getting a good night's sleep, instead of catching pneumonia sitting in the car. He couldn't even help out in their lousy Boy-Scout act—they'd chased him back to the car the second time he'd fallen in, on the pretext that they didn't have another flashlight to replace the one he'd lost. So there went a fine chance to get Starkman's ear. Thank God, he told himself virtuously, nothing like this could happen back in Summit. For two cents he'd turn around and head back and the hell with the burgess—the old Swanscomb place wasn't worth all this trouble.

Or anyway, it wouldn't be, if it hadn't been for the signed option agreement he'd given the men from Chillicothe, Ohio.... "Shut up that damn humming," he snapped at his wife.

Chesbro didn't even notice the burgess until the door of the car opened. "How's it going, Henry?" he demanded cordially. "Hope you found those kids. Damn shame about the camp, but if they will build on low ground they have to expect something like this."

"Let's head back for town," said the burgess. He looked at the clock on Chesbro's dashboard. That couldn't be right! Two—three—four hours they'd been out here, he counted.

That was time enough to wash all of Hebertown away. He leaned back, and let himself be weary. He hadn't been up this late in—in—he couldn't remember.

Chesbro was at it again, he noticed abstractedly. It didn't take him fifty words to get from the flood to Topic A—why the borough of Hebertown should, ought and must give him the old Swanscomb place. But the burgess didn't mind. Chesbro was a saturation-talker; his tactic was to hammer, hammer, hammer away, never giving the other man a chance to get an adverse word in; and it wasn't too hard, after all, to listen to the rain on the car roof instead. He realized vaguely that that rain had been coming down awful hard for an awfully long time. Once, he remembered, they had had a big summer thunderstorm and Bess had read him out of the paper the amazing statement that more than four inches of rain had come out of that one storm. This had to be more than that. Much more.

What about Bess, by the way? Their house was high enough up, he calculated, there wasn't much chance of flood water reaching it. But had she stayed home? It wouldn't be like Bess to stay home by herself, especially when he didn't show up and the phones were down. She would have tried to cross the highway into the borough and found out that that was impossible. Then she would have—he checked off the possibilities—probably she would have gone to her sister's house. That was all right; good location. Barring some freak like a falling tree or a collapsing roof.

He leaned back, his mind slowly going blank and relaxed, under the soothing drone of the flapping windshield wipers and the pounding rain and Artie Chesbro's ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta. Mrs. Chesbro had let her head slump onto the burgess's shoulders. She was probably used to that maddeningly persistent voice. Maybe asleep.

She wasn't asleep. Her eyes were squeezed shut with anguish and her mouth was suffering. Not with physical pain. The burgess realized slowly that she was not used to the maddening voice at all and had infinitely more reason to hate its clacking than he.

"Cigarette?" Artie Chesbro said again. Now what was the matter with the old son of a bitch? He said more loudly: "Cigarette, Henry?"

"Uh, sure." Chesbro grinned wisely; the burgess had just come across Polly in one of her queer moods. He reached over to the glove compartment. "Matches? Here, here's my lighter."

The burgess spun the wheel of the lighter and held the flaming wick to his cigarette for a long second while he took three puffs. Mrs. Chesbro moved over a little. The darkness outside and the momentary brightness inside the car turned the windshield into a mirror; he could see her tortured smile.

The brightness inside almost wrecked them. As the burgess snapped the lighter shut and you could see through the windshield again, Chesbro gasped and tramped on the brake; fast as he was, the car was already nosing into a surging stream that cut across the road.

The engine chugged and died. There was a long moment of silence. How little we know our land, the burgess thought, too tired for panic, filled with resignation. The hills and valleys we know and name, but the little draws in the hills down which the heavens drain into our river, we glance stupidly at them in a dry season and see nothing. But this torrent before us is one of those draws. No doubt we paid just enough attention to it—only where it crossed this road—to bury a culvert that would guide it in time of rain and thought we were through with it for all time. But the rain began and first it soaked into the pasture and woodlot duff until they could hold no more; the rain went on and raced in a sheet across pasture and cropland until it found the draw and gurgled into it and raced down the hillside safely channeled, hit the culvert with a gurgle and poured through and tumbled down the hill on the other side, and still the rain sheeted down and the culvert filled, and when it was gorged to the full the rain still fell, and the water rose above the culvert and blindly poured across the road six inches deep, a foot, a yard, and here we are. Try to get through and blue sparks will snap from the sparkplug terminals to the wet block, the vapor in the cylinders will not fire and Artie Chesbro's pride, his joy, his car, will soon be a coffin for three drowned bodies, costlier than any bronze sarcophagus.

But Chesbro was swearing and tramping on the starter. "Stay in!" he yelled as his wife half-opened the door. "I'll get this son of a bitch started or know the reason why!"

There was a lopsided chugging. One terminal was dry enough; it had been only spray. And then the motor roared. The car backed violently up the hill in the dark. "There was a side road," Chesbro panted. "Headed uphill. Can't turn around on this damn thing, we'd go into the ditch, but I can flip onto the side road when we come to it."

He felt good; this was what he was good at. From high school on he had been a fast, hard driver who delighted in tricky maneuvering; for years now he had been in the habit of passing anything on the road; it made him feel good and he felt good now. He backed the car, roaring, twisted full around in the seat and peering into the dark. He remembered a straightaway and a left curve; as the car backed into the curve he slowed a little but not much. And then they came to the side road. "What did I tell you?" he cried happily. "There's the son of a bitch right where I said it would be!"

He shifted and roared into the right turn up the hill. "Where does this take us, Henry?" he snapped, as from the bridge to the chartroom.

The burgess smiled in the dark. "I don't know, Arthur," he said. "How little we know our land...."

"Eh?" The old man was tired and rambling. Too bad; now it was all on his shoulders. But when he got at him later he'd remind him that he had, in a way, saved his life, that he didn't expect anything for himself, but that he wanted to do something for the community—

It seemed to be a filling station; there were the pumps and there was a two-storey frame building behind them. One of those crossroads groceries, Chesbro thought as they swept past.

"Nonsense, dear," he grunted. "We started for Hebertown and that's where we're going."

How little we know our land, thought the burgess again. For there, ahead in the twin beams, was a sheet of muddy water. Their speed was such that they plowed into it with a tremendous gush of spray. "We'll make it," Chesbro cried. Water rose chillingly inside the car to their calves as they plowed heavily forward and then lurched to a stop.

Chesbro said between his teeth: "Like last time." He ground the starter three times; the fourth time he tramped on the button nothing happened. The battery was shorted out.

"It's rising, isn't it?" said the burgess. "Let's get out and wade before we have to swim."

Hating him, his wife and himself, hating the car and the water, Arthur Chesbro opened the door; more water swirled in, seat-high. "Let's go," he said gruffly. "Five minutes and we'll be in that filling station, grocery, whatever it was."

He gingerly lowered himself into the water; it came to his waist and chilled the bone. "I'll lead," he said. "Come on."

Surprisingly there was a strong current; he had thought it would be a sort of pond. Instead it was a temporary catch basin for the living water that was thundering down from the heavens on its way to the river and finally the sea. They were simply in a low spot where water was detained for a while before rushing on. The same cubic yard of water could wash out a power line running along a high ridge, wash out a dirt road lower down on the hill, pour through a farmhouse lower down smashing the windows and depositing stinking mud on the floor, short his battery here, trapping the three of them, and still rage on with a long career of ruin before it. It was the secret of the flood's destructiveness.

Chesbro inched his way forward, taking care to keep the current abeam of him, feeling for the hardtop with his feet. The burgess and his wife held the skirt of his raincoat, one to a side.

He stepped on something slippery and crashed face-forward into the muddy water; it was the burgess who, with unexpected wiry strength hauled him upright again while he floundered.

They trudged forward, dead-tired after fifty feet of it, the current and the sullen resistance of the water itself, but the level was dropping about them as they climbed the rim of the basin in the land.

In ten minutes they kicked through inch-deep water to the road surface, wet only with the pelting rain. Silently they splashed along the road.

"Wait," the burgess said abruptly. They stopped. He still had Chesbro's lighter; he crouched and snapped it alight. "The water's still rising," he said. "Following right along behind us." As they stood there it lapped at the soles of their shoes.

Ten more interminable minutes—hard walking, their weight increased fifty per cent by their sodden clothes—and Mrs. Chesbro said: "There's the light."

They shambled into a trot by unspoken agreement. It suddenly seemed very important to them all that they should get to a warm, dry place, shed their clothes, eat, sleep.

Sharon Froman shepherded the woman from the car, this Mrs. Chesbro, into the back room—a queer one, she was, but that could wait. "Take off what you can spare and hang it up," she said briskly, efficiently, and headed back for the front room. There had been something when the woman's husband and Mickey Groff met. Sharon Froman wanted to see.

They were comparing notes on the flood, and that was all right. If you didn't have an ear skilled in detecting the grace notes of conflict it might have sounded like any other strangers in common trouble, but Sharon's ear caught resonances beyond that. Take the woman's husband, for instance. He was chattering away to, of all people, sick-pup Dick McCue; but his eyes kept wandering to Mickey Groff.

"He can take mine," Sharon said—she didn't want to go back to the storeroom just then. She handed the holed, grease-spotted rag to the old man, then remembered and carefully draped it around his shoulders. "They stink," she told him cheerfully. "And I think they've got bugs; but they're better than pneumonia." She grinned at Mickey Groff.

"Thank you, Miss," said Henry Starkman. He had not failed to notice that the girl was playing up to Groff. Gold digger, he diagnosed, archaically and without passion. He was waiting for Chesbro to switch his attention from the kid to Groff. Starkman had sat enough hours in the law-offices of county politicians to smell the beginnings of a deal before it really existed. Chesbro wasn't ready yet; he hadn't even made up his mind to offer something to Groff—quite. But it was in the air. Pretty soon Chesbro would turn to the manufacturer and say something bluff and hearty like, "Well, I see we're going to be chewing each other's ears off in the ring tomorrow," and then, if Chesbro could find a private place to do it, the two of them would be talking quietly for a while....

Starkman hugged the smelly blanket around him. Shivering, he thought querulously: What's the matter with Bess? I want my cocoa.

He shook his head to clear it, and got up to look at the rain outside. He shouldn't be here at all, of course; what had the people made him burgess for, at that fat and sought-after salary of two hundred dollars a year, if not to be on hand when the community was in trouble? And if a flood wasn't trouble—

The Chesbro woman was standing in the doorway to the storeroom. In the light from the candles she had no eyes, the ragged blankets she wore were robes, she was blindly staring marble. She had swept the blankets spirally around her body and over her wet hair; a hobble skirt at one end and a turban at the other. She was striking, and she stood for a moment posed as though she knew it.

Mrs. Goudeket made a tongue-smacking sound. Artie Chesbro looked around vaguely. "Oh, hello, honey," he said. "Now, this thunderstorm we had in Summit in forty-six a couple of cellars were flooded all right, but—" Dick McCue nodded mechanically, his eyes fixed on the woman.

She came over to Starkman and sat down next to him. At close range, the costume didn't seem as extreme as half-lit by the candles, but the burgess felt uneasy. She was too close to him, that was it; she was sitting on the floor, looking up at him.

They managed to build a fire in the storeroom—there were a couple of sheet-metal soft-drink signs; they raised one, punctured for draft, on a row of bottles and placed another one underneath to catch the hot ashes. It worked. Mickey Groff had placed his bet on the normal air leakage around the window frames carrying off the worst of the smoke, and so it did. It didn't pay to sit too close to it. You had to watch it minute by minute to keep it fed and keep it from setting fire to the shack. But it served to dry out their clothes, and besides it felt more cheerful.

The men settled among themselves a plan for rotating guard duty—guarding against fire and flood. Sam Zehedi and Dick McCue took the first shift, one to keep the other awake; they sat and looked at each other. They had nothing to say; and besides, it was hard enough for the others to sleep without their talking.

Artie Chesbro, sharing a double pad of newspapers with his wife, schemed feverishly: He hasn't said a word, he's waiting for me to make the first move. How much should I cut him in for? Or for that matter, do I have to—?

Well, yes. He'd seen enough of the burgess by now to know that the deal he had optimistically outlined in the newspaper was out. Starkman wouldn't cave in; you could use the anti-outsider theme just so far, and then you had to come across with something tangible for Starkman himself, or for the borough of Hebertown. On the other hand, what about this: Suppose Groff cooled off on the location after being stuck in this crazy flood they had down here? Maybe it wouldn't be too hard to convince him Hebertown was a lousy idea—maybe even, this was a chance to do something with the old Ackerman tract north of Summit. He doubted that; Groff would know a swamp when he saw one; but suppose, an hour and eight minutes from now, when they went on guard duty together as he had carefully arranged, he merely suggested it to the manufacturer and made it sound good.... He wished his wife would stop that damn humming in his ear. God, why couldn't they at least be home, where they could be decently asleep in their own individual rooms?

Asleep, Mrs. Goudeket's face was curved in a smile. She was dreaming of 1926, a bride, the rooming house at Brighton Beach. Between her and Mickey Groff, Sharon's face was smiling too, sweetly and trustfully, as she nestled obliviously against the manufacturer, but of course she wasn't asleep.

Sam Zehedi sat torpidly over the fire, waiting for the last of it to burn itself out. He'd nearly dropped off three times, and he and McCue, consulting, had decided it was more dangerous to leave it burning than to put it out. It did stink pretty bad, he thought fuzzily; putting water on it had been a mistake. It smelt a little oily.

He swallowed and rubbed his stomach. That lousy candy bar, he didn't like it, he didn't want it, why had he eaten it? He wistfully turned his thoughts to pickled mussels wrapped in grape leaves, now farther out of reach than ever, and a nice, plump black-eyed girl to serve them.

McCue had dozed off, he noticed. A kid. Well, let him sleep. What difference did it make?

Funny, he thought dizzily, not even broiled lamb seemed attractive right now. He shouldn't have drunk that cream soda either—he gulped and wrenched his thoughts away from that cream soda. The smell of the dying fire was getting pretty strong and he felt nauseous, as if the floor were moving about underneath him.

Now the sleepers were turning and coughing. There was something wrong, Sam Zehedi fuzzily thought. He swayed to his feet and lurched toward the door. Clear the air, he thought. The last embers of the fire winked out and he thought for a vague moment that he had lost his eyesight. He flung the door open with his last strength and took a deep sobbing breath. Images of white-tiled walls, green-painted corridors swirled through his head; he was ten again and they were wheeling him along the green-painted corridors to have his tonsils cut out, Morrisania Hospital—

Groff sat up slowly, choking. His head thudded as if with the hangover to end them all.

"Gasoline fumes!" he yelled. "Get up! Up the stairs! Move!" He staggered through the dark room, kicking at them and yelling. The stairs were in back—back. And this was—a wall. He leaned against it. It would be good to slump down and rest for a moment, just a moment—

He lurched along the wall to the corner, to the open stairway that let to the upstairs room. "Over here!" he choked at them. "I'm standing by the stairs. Come on! Come on!"

One by one they stumbled to the sound of his voice and began to drag themselves up the shaky stairs.

Two more to come. Two. More. Some fool was striking a light, a blue-green light to blow them to hell. But no; it was his eyes, glazed and burning, that made the light. Two more to come.

His raw throat and bursting lungs silenced him. He lurched across the floor and stumbled over something soft. He knelt, took it under the armpits and dragged it to the wall, followed the wall to the corner, to the stairs. Feet on the stairs.

A young voice in the darkness choked: "Mr. Groff. Come up. I'll get him. Can you make it?" Young McCue. Strong arms took his burden over and it bumped up the steps. That was seven. One to go. He headed back into the thick sweetness of the fumes and crashed to the floor. He never felt McCue come to his aid and heave him up the steps, but through it he was muttering: "One more."

In the dark upstairs, cluttered with boxes and cans Mrs. Goudeket was saying: "The water, it seeped into the gas tanks underground, it must be. The gas floated up and all around us on top of the water. God be thanked, nobody lit a match and the fire was out. As it was we were almost poisoned in our sleep, thanks to that Arab." There was hatred in her voice, fifteen centuries of it.

Burgess Starkman's voice emerged from an attack of coughing. "He's dead, Mrs. Goudeket. You shouldn't—" He broke into coughing again.

Mickey Groff grunted, trying to talk. It was important to clear that up. His head was pounding, but Mrs. Goudeket didn't understand. "He was a Syrian," he croaked. "A civilized Christian people."

"Mr. Groff!" said Mrs. Goudeket. "You're better! We were afraid—You're a hero, Mr. Groff. You saved our lives. Except—"

He knew that she was nodding in the darkness, just as he knew that she was bitterly ashamed of her outburst. "Too late," she sighed. "Ai, too late. Dick went down with the handkerchief around his mouth and pulled him up the stairs. His heart was going, and then it wasn't. Maybe fifteen minutes. Too late."

A plump arm slid around him and Sharon Froman's voice said in his ear, "Try to sit up. We all felt better after we sat up." She supported his back and eased his trunk upright; he thought his head would explode. He leaned against her dizzily and felt her cool palm against his forehead. "Better," he grunted. "Thanks."

The burgess's old voice said abruptly, "Sing a psalm for Sam Zehedi, the sad Syrian. Bess? Bess?"

"To the poor old man," she said. "Maybe I can talk him into signing the lease before he takes wing."

Now, what did she mean by that? They didn't have a pen, there would have to be witnesses, Groff was right there to break things up if they tried to pressure him, it wouldn't work in a million years. The stupidity of that woman was sometimes absolutely astounding.

She found the bony bundle that was Burgess Harry Starkman. "How little we know ..." he was mumbling. "I was at Belleau Wood, you know. Leatherneck couple wars back. They poured gas shells in for forty-eight hours, but the leathernecks didn't have gas casualties. Court-martial for gas casualties. Not like the doughboys, threw away their masks. Got through Belleau Wood and here I am a gas casualty anyway, thirty-seven years later. Ambushed in Hebertown Township. The boys at the Legion'll get a kick out of that." He sat up abruptly and anxiously called out: "Bess?"

She soothed him and urged him down. "Rest," she said. She felt and unbuttoned his shirt, loosened the blanket around her and spread it over the two of them, pressing herself against his bare chest.

"I remember," he said. "King Solomon. Old reprobate. But don't go away, child." He fell into an uneasy doze, his breath rattling in his chest. She pressed herself against him and lay still and silent.

Groff said slowly, "I think it's all right. Gas fumes are heavy; they hug the ground. If we hadn't been sleeping on the floor—"

"I guess I'd better not," McCue said uncertainly. "You can't smell much up here but—I wonder where the water level is now."

"We'll know in the morning," Chesbro said. "Couple of hours. My God, who would have thought it yesterday?"

Sharon Froman said, "It's bad, Mr. Chesbro. It means a permanent loss of industry—unless we move fast."

"What permanent loss?" Chesbro snapped. "We shovel out the mud, we replace the machines, we get going again. The government'll help any sound business in a case like this."

"This is the godsend they've been waiting for! Think, Mr. Chesbro! They've spent millions on advertising and promotion to attract industry—to steal it, if you like. Tax exemptions. Rent-free plant. This flood is worth a billion dollars to them, Mr. Chesbro. If it's as big as it looks from here, it's worth all the sixteen-page ads they'll ever run in the Sunday Times. Believe me, I know. There are going to be task-forces from the Bureau of Industrial Development of every southern state calling on every manufacturer and distributor in this area. 'Frightful about your tragedy,' and 'Us Delta folks want to he'p you any way we can,' and 'Don't get us wrong, friend, we ain't out to steal industry from the No'th at a time like this, but—' And then it starts. They'll woo them with sites, with tax write-offs, with cheap labor rates. They'll strip the area of industry, clean as a whistle. Unless."

Nor, he reflected self-pityingly, would he get any such offers. What did he have that would attract a Mississippi chamber of commerce? It was all intangibles that his fortune was going to come from—was almost coming from already, he assured himself panickily. He had come pretty close; it was only a question of time until the legislature authorized the trotting track, until the money borrowed from his wife's father and invested in that promising Geiger-positive tract north of Summit turned up real pay dirt, until—

Until never, now. Not if this frighteningly plausible young woman was right. And she sounded right.

He said slowly, "You're a very smart young woman, Miss Froman. Have you had any experience in this field?"

She smiled candidly. "Only enough to get the feel of it, Mr. Chesbro. I'm a writer. You might say I've made a study of everything." (And besides, I typed Hesch's thesis for him, didn't I? The War Between The States, Round Two: A Study in Industrial Dynamics.)

She said composedly, "Unless we get there first. Unless we form an organization immediately—on a regional basis—to hammer home our side. Skilled labor that's been through the birth-pangs of organizational strikes. They're the roughest kind, and they still lie ahead for the South. Access to the markets. A good life for the management and supervisory workers. Bracing climate. Sound Republican territory."

She had him. She could feel it, and she was never wrong. Let him nibble at the bait a while; let him taste it and want it, and bite down into it all by himself—bite down on that buried "we" that would hook him, deep and clean and gasping.

It had looked like a mighty dull autumn, but things were looking better, thought Sharon Froman contentedly. True, if she was going to help this interesting Mr. Chesbro with the curious wife it would mean deferring work on her novel again. Too bad. But she didn't mind the sacrifice. She had made it often enough before.

Regional organization. Hammer hard. Grants from the government? Sure. Tax breaks from the northern states, panicky attempts to match whatever the South might offer? Sure, thought Artie Chesbro; he could arrange that easily. And then?

No more waiting for the legislature to approve or for the assayers to report or for any of the other soul-killing delays that had been the sum of his life; he would be in, he would be at the top of something big. Where he had always wanted to be. Where he deserved to be.

He looked across to where his wife had gone. And her, he thought, satisfied, she would learn at last! Everything he had had to put up with from her, over. Just because her father had a little money she'd thought she owned him—him! Artie Chesbro!

He cleared his throat. "We'd better get some sleep, Miss Froman," he told the girl. "We've got to talk about this in the morning. I think there's a good deal in it—for both of us."

Mrs. Goudeket almost pounded the floor with her fists. Again on her feet! Always this Miss Froman would land on her feet! Without hard work, without virtue, always by black magic being in the right place, always by the smiling face and the straightforward look fooling the one person she had to fool. And this time it wasn't one man, it was two. So let Mickey Groff slip through one snare, she had Artie Chesbro caught in another. God, you call this fair? she demanded.

Better she should have left her at Goudeket's Green Acres. What could she have caught there? That star of stage and screen and brissim, Dave Wax? The horse-wire expert, Mr. Semmel? But no! She had to throw the girl out—into this!

Mrs. Goudeket moaned and put her fingers in her ears to shut out the maddening words.

That star of stage, screen and brissim shouted fuzzily at the door: "Go to hell! Let me sleep!"

"Dave!" It was Mr. Semmel's voice. "There's some men here. They want to talk to you."

Dave Wax made an obscene suggestion to Mr. Semmel. He was a tummeler, not the manager of the hotel; let Mrs. Goudeket come back and talk if somebody should do it—"Wait a minute. What'd you say, Semmel?"

The concessionaire repeated it. "The flood's over?" demanded Dave Wax. "The roads are dry?" He staggered over to the window to see the miracle for himself.

"Oh." But it was no surprise. It was still raining. "All right. I'll come down."

He found himself hurrying in spite of himself. It was only a couple of minutes before he was hurrying through the lobby. He saw with a shock that the sofas and chairs in the lobby were occupied—guests too panicky to sleep in their rooms, too exhausted to stay awake; they were sprawled and snoring.

The men from the boat were in the kitchen drinking coffee that the cooks had somehow contrived to make. "I'm Brayer—Hebertown police chief. You people all right here?"

"All right?" You call a hundred and sixty scared, sore guests all right? You call wondering if the whole damn place is going to float away all right? "I guess so," Dave Wax said slowly. He was almost afraid to ask: "How—how is it outside?"

The man rubbed at his mustache. "It's a flood," he said succinctly. "Ask me in the morning. Anyway, we're beginning to get a little organized." His voice took on a mechanical, rehearsed quality. "Don't let anybody drink water unless it's been boiled for ten minutes. Use up everything you can that's in the refrigerators tomorrow morning. What's in the freezers ought to be good till tomorrow night, if you don't open them too often. What you don't eat by then, don't eat. Throw it away. You probably don't have any water pressure, do you? Your own electric pump, I guess? All right; you'll have to set up latrines—use chamber pots if you have to. Dump them in the river to empty them—you're far enough away from everything here."

"Wait a minute." Dave was a little slow to grasp the implications of it. "You mean even by tomorrow night we won't have the power back?"

"I'll consider us very lucky," the police chief said heavily, "if Hebertown ever has power again."

He got up. "They say that by daybreak the weather will be clear enough for helicopters. If you need anything—a doctor if there's an emergency, anything like that—hang a white sheet out of a window and keep somebody standing by. When a helicopter or boat patrol comes by they'll see it and investigate; then you wave another sheet at them and they'll see that somebody gets here."

Dave Wax and Mr. Semmel watched Brayer and his boatman chug away. "Hebertown Chief of Police," said Wax. "Isn't he a little out of his jurisdiction?"

"He said they were looking for somebody. Wanted to know if we'd picked up any refugees. God forbid." Mr. Semmel shook his head firmly. "A mess. Now, in New Hampshire there would never—"

It was cracking daylight when Brayer got back to Hebertown. He sat down in the police station, now an emergency shelter with men, women and children sprawled all over everywhere, and dazedly pushed away the coffee somebody offered him. He hoped he would never see another cup of coffee again.

He said heavily, "Henry'll turn up. I have a lot of confidence in Artie Chesbro's instinct for self-preservation; he'll find a place to hole up in."

"Sure, Red." The head of Hebertown's Civil Defense Squad, an organization with an honorable history extending back nearly four hours, dug his fingers into the bags under his eyes and tried to stay awake. He owned a ready-to-wear establishment on North Front, and he had once allowed the Red Cross to use his second-floor storeroom as a fund-drive headquarters, a record of achievement which had done very little to fit him for staying up all night. "I went down at eleven o'clock to look at the water," he said meditatively. "I didn't want my cellar flooded again, like in thirty-nine, so I shoveled dirt up against the windows, and then I went home to bed." He laughed. He had gone by his store again two hours later—in a boat—and had had to bend down to look through the windows of the loft the Red Cross once had used. "I heard on the radio a list of all the cities that were hit—the worst ones. They didn't even mention Hebertown.... Say, what are you going to tell Bess Starkman?"

Gray light filtered through the dirty panes of the second-floor window. Arthur Chesbro woke slowly, aching in every bone. When he opened his eyes stickily and peered across the grimy little room he could not at first believe what he saw.

"Polly!" he choked, amazement and outrage blended. His wife, apparently unclothed, was snuggled close to old Harry Starkman, under a single blanket.

She looked up, smiling. "Hush," she said. "I finally got him to sleep. His chest sounds terrible and he has a fever, but if he sleeps he can't be too bad—for now."

She got up gracefully, managing to swirl the blanket around her without showing, Chesbro hoped, too much. Then he noted that the youngster from the hotel was gawking. He cleared his throat loudly and the kid looked away.

Mrs. Goudeket grunted to her feet. "Fever?" she asked. "Let me." She went to the sleeping old man and felt his forehead. "He's burning up," she announced grimly. "An old man to walk through the rain and then he got his lungs full of gasoline fumes. I suppose it's pneumonia."

"Excuse me," said Mrs. Goudeket. "I'm going downstairs, nobody should follow me until I come back."

Mickey Groff thought: sensible woman. Somebody had to speak up. He stood for a moment over Sam Zehedi. The poor guy had died hard, fighting it; his eyes were ugly and his mouth contorted. His face in the dim light was bluish, the hue of a swimmer's lips when he's been in too long on a cool day.

Groff went to the window. Some time during the night the rain had lightened; it pattered now instead of drumming. There was mist. He struggled with the window and managed to inch it open against the swelling of its frame and old incrustations of paint. Fresh air swept gratifyingly through the storage room—and then he thought of the burgess.

Sharon Froman understood his glance. She threw her blanket over the old man and said, "He'll be all right." She stretched stiffly. "The old woman's taking forever," she said.

Arthur Chesbro said firmly, "Mrs. Chesbro will be the next to go downstairs. To find her clothes and put them on."

Groff leaned out and peered through the mist. All he could tell was that there was water below; how much of it the enigmatic surface did not say.

Mrs. Goudeket puffed up the stairs, a big carton in her arms. "Cheese wafers," she announced. "Somebody open them."

Polly glided to the door, sculptural in her improvised robe, and went down the stairs.

McCue, with the appetite of youth and an athlete, tore open the corrugated cardboard and began gobbling wafers from the first carton he came to.

"Manners, Dickie." Sharon Froman smiled. He swallowed his mouthful convulsively and eyed her.

"I don't know what she's talking about," McCue said. The tone automatically indicted, tried, convicted and sentenced him for unlawful cohabitation. "I'll talk to you later," Mrs. Goudeket promised grimly.

Dick McCue found the cheese wafers were ashes in his mouth. He chewed mechanically and wondered how he had managed to get simultaneously on all these s.o.b. lists when all he wanted was a little innocent fun for free—

He glanced at Sharon sullenly and saw she was chatting animatedly with Chesbro about a publicity campaign enlisting all media, the possibility of newspaper and magazine space and radio-TV time being donated if they played their cards right. "Tear their heartstrings out," she urged. "Get editorials; I've got some contacts in New York. You'd be The Man Who Saved the Valley, Mr. Chesbro."

"Call me Arthur," he said. "We're going to be working closely together; I can see that. My prestige and your ideas—"

Polly Chesbro came upstairs in her suit and raincoat; they were wrinkled and damply steaming out the smell of wool but they were no longer sopping. She was carrying her blanket; she draped it over the sighing form of the burgess. His breathing was almost a crow. "He'll never make it without penicillin fast," she commented, helped herself to a box of the wafers and began to eat methodically.

Mickey Groff looked around; nobody was making a move for the stairs. He stepped over the body of Sam Zehedi and went down. First outside into the drizzle, where water was ankle-deep. He attended to his needs and went back into the store. A bottle of pop caught his eye and he was suddenly burning with thirst. He tore off the cap on a wall opener and gulped it down as fast as the stuff would gurgle from the narrow neck; after a queasy moment he ran for the door and made it in time. The pop gushed up again violently. He sat down, swaying, on the wooden step up to the door and retched a couple of times experimentally. He'd have to be careful eating and drinking for a while. He had got a stiff dose of the fumes.

Zehedi's blue-green, well-worn panel truck was just visible down the road in water to the hubcaps, looking bulky and competent. The goddam thing. And there stood the two gas pumps, goddam them too, and if you could only get the pumps to work you could pump gas from their underground tank into the truck and away they'd buzz, getting somehow into town where the old man could be pumped full of penicillin and dosed with oxygen as needed instead of dying like a sick dog in this kennel.

"Did you leave anything?" Sharon asked, wide-eyed. Arthur Chesbro laughed a laugh which turned hastily into a cough when Mrs. Goudeket glared his way.

McCue said suddenly, "I think the rain's stopped." They crowded to the window; he was right. The drizzle had ended and the mist was clearing.

"Good," Chesbro said. "They'll be able to get helicopters up. It's only a matter of time now until they spot us."

Chesbro said soothingly, "I don't think that'd be practical, Mickey. We're all exhausted, we've all had a touch of gas poisoning. We know more or less where we are and we know which way the town is, but we don't know what lies between us and the town. We may just circle around until we drop from exhaustion. There's a better chance of us being spotted if we stay in this place."

"We're three able-bodied men," Groff said, his temper rising. "We can take turns. A helicopter's just as likely to spot us on a road as it is to spot us here. Chesbro, I'd like to sit here and wait to be rescued too; I don't have a yen to go sloshing through the water with Starkman on my back either. But I don't think he can wait. We've got to do everything we can."

"We'll do everything we can," Chesbro said reasonably. "But what's the sense of endangering all of us uselessly? The trip wouldn't be good for him. And the women—my wife isn't strong, Mickey, she shouldn't be subjected to—"

She smiled pleasantly at the gathering. "Who's going to be the first to pack him?"

Naturally that's me, of course, Dick McCue thought sourly, sliding in the mud. I'm an athlete, so they figure I'm Superman or somebody. He missed his footing and nearly fell. They might just as well have carried him pickaback as on this door, wrenched out of the upper rooms.... From behind him Mickey Groff called: "Time for you to take over, Chesbro."

McCue relinquished his end of the improvised stretcher to Artie Chesbro. His arms felt wrenched out of their sockets, and they had covered five hundred yards, at the most.

The rain hadn't really stopped, not quite. There was still water to be wrung out of the scudding stratus, and it came down in little bursts of droplets. Polly Chesbro stumbled along beside the sick man, trying to keep the rain off him when it came, ready with a smile when his eyes jolted open and, for a moment, he stared wonderingly about him.

It was going to be a long trip. They had had to skirt around a sort of contour line instead of following the road. Polly wondered briefly if there would come a point where the road dipped down into the streaming water, and there wasn't any useful hill handy. She didn't know this road at all; had seen Hebertown only once or twice before last night; had only the vaguest impression of what the terrain might be like. For that matter, none of them knew much about the country they were hiking across. On this Day, her mind inscribed in a crabbed hand, our Party suffered the Loss of Its two Aboriginals, reposing our Destiny to the care of the Greatest Guide of All.

Mickey Groff was remembering the Ligurian coast of Italy. The American bombers had smashed it flat from Anzio to Genoa, and Groff had thought proudly, a little selfishly, that no such destruction could ever come to his own country. But this was as bad, at least as bad. They had come across few houses, but there were ominous objects sailing down stream that once had been houses and barns and all the other structures man builds and his enemies sweep away. He tried to reconstruct the terrain as it must have been before the flood, but there was a rightness about the broad sheets of water that made it impossible. They were there; they must always have been there. Why did people build their homes down near the water, anyhow? Was a burbling brook in the back yard worth having if suddenly, unpredictably, it could destroy your home?

He wondered if the War Department was able to look itself in the face that morning, remembering the careful charts the colonels had shown him that called for dispersal, concealment, removal of such essential industries as his own. Suppose, they had said gravely, New York should take a bomb; you'd be out of commission; you must move out of the city to where you can be safe, since the production of your shop is of great importance to the country's defense. And they had showed him the maps, marked "Secret," of the instrument plants in Connecticut, the explosives factories in the Delaware valley, the electronics laboratories along the Jersey streams.

Two-forty-eight, two-forty-nine, two-fifty. "All right, Dick," he told the golf pro, "you can take over for a while." He surrendered the back end of the stretcher and looked around.

There was a private dirt road slanting down toward them, and something was moving. They all set up a waving and bellowing, and a group of horsemen appeared on the rim of the highway and came toward them, three or four of them, picking their way through the mud.

"The United States Cavalry," said Polly Chesbro clearly, "is charging to the rescue."

Two of the riders were men in chaps and sombreros and the third was a thirteen-year-old girl. They goggled unbelievingly at the litter bearers. They were from a dude ranch up in the hills, and they were on their way to Hebertown to complain because their lights and phone were off.

"Jesus! We knew there was some rain last night, but we never had any idea—" The cowboys stared at each other.

"How about giving us a hand?" Mickey Groff requested. "This man's in bad shape. If we don't get him to a doctor I don't think he'll make it."

The cowboys scratched their heads for a while, and finally Mickey Groff showed them how to sling the stretcher between two of the horses. "Hold them tight and walk them slow," he ordered, putting a cowboy at the head of each horse. "The ladies can take turns riding the other horse, I guess."

But he got no customers for that; Mrs. Goudeket was scandalized, and the young girl was too excited, and Polly Chesbro wouldn't get that far from the sick man. Finally Artie Chesbro said off-handedly, "Hell, no sense in wasting the horse." He was in the saddle before anybody could object.

It didn't make things good, but it made them better. Mickey Groff, walking ahead, reasoned that he had disposed his forces well. According to the cowboys, they had a good three miles to go on the road—if they could follow the road even approximately. An hour and a half—double it because of the weather—maybe double it again, he thought worriedly, if there were too many detours. He looked back at the motionless figure between the horses. That was stretching it, but there was a chance the old man might hang on that long.

Maybe the cowboys' first idea—slinging the old man across a saddle bow and galloping away—was the right one after all. But no; they had to stick together, at least until they found out if the road would take them all the way. And besides, thought Mickey Groff, aware of his limitations but also aware that he had succeeded to the command of the party, you have to make up your mind and stick to it.

The girl came prancing up beside him. "You look like a good guy," she commented. "Here."

He took the bottle from her; it was a pocket-sized half-pint of whiskey. It was like a gift from God. He took two measured swallows and put the cap back on; he could feel it biting in his throat, invading the back of his nose, spreading warmly through his chest.

"Sure. But don't tell on Charley, will you? I knew he had it, but if Mrs. Koontz ever finds out she'll pulverize him." He started to hand the bottle back to her. "No, you keep it. You might want some more, and if Charley gets his hands on it again, good-by whiskey."

"Thanks." He slipped it into his pocket; then, remembering the rest of the party, turned and glanced at them. McCue was plodding along head down; Chesbro was glaring at him; Mrs. Goudeket was watching but she caught his eye, smiled faintly and shook her head. Good enough, thought Mickey Groff; we'll save what's left. He tried to remember what the current position was on giving liquor to old men dying of pneumonia. If it looks bad enough, he decided, we'll try giving him a shot; otherwise better not.

The girl was chattering: "Won't the old lady plotz when she hears about all this? That joker on the horse back there says he thinks the whole town's washed away."

The girl was disappointed. "Well," she said, "I bet there's going to be plenty of excitement in Hebertown, anyway. I always wanted to be a nurse—you know, not in a hospital, a Red Cross nurse or something like that, going away in the wars and all like that. My sister was a nurse's aide, only they wouldn't let me in because I was too young."

They plodded on and came to a blacktop. "I know where we are," one of the phony cowboys said. "Straight on in to Hebertown, two miles. It's a ridge road; it ought to be clear sailing."

A car was buzzing in the distance; frantically they flagged it down as it closed up on them. It was a late-model suburban with a New York plate in the rear, man and wife in the front seat, three kids rioting in the back. They all looked very strange to Mickey Groff, and he realized at last what the strangeness consisted of. They were clean, fed and rested.

The man hit the lock button on his door and cranked the window up a little. "It's only a little way on," he said evasively. "We aren't going any place special, we just heard about it on the radio and thought we'd come and see what was up—"

Arthur Chesbro was swearing and trying to remember what the license-plate numerals were.

A helicopter came from the west as they marched, dipped low above them and hovered for a moment while they yelled and waved. The pilot pointed back into the body of the chopper with big exaggerated gestures after they had pointed at the burgess on his litter. Then he buzzed on eastward.

Mickey Groff said: "I guess he was telling us he was full up." He rubbed his back for a moment. "Maybe he meant he'll be back for us." But he didn't really think so, and the helicopter didn't come back their way.

When they topped the rise and stood overlooking Hebertown there was a moment of silence and then a groan of horror burst from them all.

"Gutted," Arthur Chesbro said succinctly. "Not a thin dime left in town; not a nickel."

The true flood crest which they had missed in the hills had left a plain wake through the town. It was dark brown and even from their height they could smell its stink. Sewage, chemical waste, mud churned up from river bottoms where it had been rotting for a century. The brown smear lay over two-thirds of Hebertown, and there was something worse at its center, a long streak scores of yards to either side of the river. It seemed almost to have been bulldozed clean.

The river still boiled many feet above its normal height, and flotsam rolled past, dotting its swell. There were tree trunks, chicken houses, timber and swollen things you didn't want to guess at. The bridges were out, the stout PWA bridge and the two rickety county bridges.

Chesbro studied the view. "Gramatan Mills are wrecked," he said. "They'll never come back. They rebuilt on the river in ninety-seven right where the old waterpower mill was. Half their plant's—torn away."

McCue volunteered: "I'd try the school—if it's standing. That's where you always set up cots and aid stations."

Chesbro said: "The junior high's standing. Built well on the outskirts. Lucky it's on this side of the river."

First they came to frame houses with picket fences and vegetable gardens in the back. The porches were full; exhausted people looked dully at them. At the third or fourth house a man came to his gate to watch them pass.

Groff said, "We've got your burgess here. He seems to have pneumonia. Can we make him comfortable in your place and get a doctor for him?"

The man said tiredly, "There's no room in my place. I have twenty-five, thirty people. And the doctors won't make house calls, not today. All three of 'em are down at the school. Take him there."

Mrs. Goudeket said, "Could you maybe put me up, mister? We've been walking and walking—?"

"No room," he said. "I'm full up. Everybody's full up. Go to the school. They got stretchers there. The Air Force dropped 'em in the athletic field. I hope Henry gets better. Go down to the school. They'll take care of you there."

"Money's no good," the man said. His voice began to rise hysterically. "Nothing's no good. I work at the Gramatan Mills and look at it. I worked there twenty-seven years, I was going to get my pension in 1958, and now the mill's gone. My father drove down into town before it hit to see if he could help and he isn't back yet and I don't know if he's alive or dead." He took sudden hold of himself. "I have to go and tend the cookstove. You have to boil your water now. Thirty people drink a lot of water, we keep boiling it all the time. Take care of Henry." He went back up his path and inside.

Past the rustic houses on the fringe they came to a belt of substantial older places, the homes of the borough petty aristocracy. Here the smear of brown had reached; the horses picked their way uncertainly, fetlock-deep in stinking mud. A mad-eyed woman in a housecoat was on one of the handsome porches shoveling and shoveling; the silt plopped into the silt that covered her lawn.

They passed a house with a broken back. A towering poplar, surely the pride of the owner once, had stood in his front yard. The flood water had come; it had loosened the soil to the consistency of porridge; the tree had tilted a little, leaned; its wide shallow root system had given way and the trunk had crashed across the roof, caving and crumpling it in.

There was a house with black, dead eyes. Somehow fire had started; candles, or a fireplace carelessly laid for warmth when the electrically fanned oil heater clicked silent. The innards of the house had burned, and the fireman had not come. There was a pathetic pile of furniture outside, but where the people were you couldn't tell.

There was a house that, in all that chaotic destruction, had survived unscathed. Its windows had their glass, its doors were neatly locked, there were two spindly iron chairs on the porch. And then you looked and saw that it rested in the middle of a road, where the water had let it drop.

But it was the smell that hurt. You could imagine a hurt town mending itself and growing again. But this stench from the river bottoms was the stink of death. "I'll bet," said Artie Chesbro with a dreamer's eyes, "you could pick up any mortgage in town for five cents on the dollar today."

Dr. Soames was the town's only specialist. He had built a white Georgian house and a three-car garage out of something less than a quarter of a cubic foot of the human female anatomy. He was an expert on every fold and canal from the labium minus to the hydatid of Morgagni, and of the hundred and four babies born in the borough of Hebertown and surrounding territory in the past twelve months, he had delivered ninety-three. They told scandalous anecdotes about his extra-official life—"Mrs. Hoglund? Hoglund? Oh, I didn't recognize you with your pants up"—and there had been a suggestion at the County Medical Association that some of his most profitable pregnancies were not permitted to come to term. But there was no human being in Hebertown and environs who doubted that Dr. Soames was the greatest doctor on earth.

And what good was he doing now, he demanded silently, swabbing alcohol on the morning's twenty-fifth rump to ready it for the needle.

He sighed and jabbed home the needle of yellowish fluid. The kid jumped and howled; Dr. Soames's hand was not as dexterous with injections as it might once have been. They were working themselves into a coma, all three of the doctors, with routine shots against typhoid and penicillin to keep the sniffles of the kids from getting worse; but any ambulance driver could have done as much. What these people needed—homes; help; money—was not in their little black bags.

"Dr. Soames!" Chief of Police Brayer was coming into the school's gym. The tired old face looked worried—almost panicked; Soames had thought the time for panic was over. "They're bringing Henry in, Doctor. He looks bad."

The burgess came in, under clean blankets, on an aluminum-frame stretcher at last. Soames took a quick look. Fever; coma; and the unmistakable racking, hard-fought breaths. Pneumonia? "Wake up Doctor Brandeis," he ordered; but he found a hypodermic and loaded it without waiting.

The other doctor's eyes were bleary when he staggered in, but there wasn't much doubt. "Pneumonites, all right," he said, auscultating the burgess's chest. "We ought to have oxygen, Frank." Chief Brayer listened to the doctors. He cut in, "Don't we have any oxygen?" Soames shook his head; and Brayer remembered. The oxygen was there, all right, in the firehouse, where it was handy for the pumpers to take along in case of drowning or asphyxiation or any of the other things Hebertown called out its fire department for; but it wasn't handy at all in case of floods, since the firehouse was in the Borough Hall. You couldn't even see the roof yet, though the water had gone down.

He blundered out of the room and buttonholed one of the other volunteers. "Who've we got who can swim underwater?" he demanded. "We have to get the oxygen out of the firehouse—Henry needs it."

They found a couple of high-school kids, on the swimming team, and they went down to survey the drowned-out hall. The water had slowed enough to put a boat out; they rowed down Front Street, over the back yards of the cottages, into the River Road. "Must be around here," Brayer said doubtfully, staring at the muddy water. "Some of the houses got moved, I guess...."

It wasn't there. One of the boys eventually went down, but only for a moment. He came up sputtering and grunting, his eyes squeezed tight; when they got him into the boat and he could talk coherently again he said, "Sorry, Mr. Brayer. Maybe there's still some of the firehouse down there. But that isn't water, it's plain mud. Even if I had a face mask, I couldn't see—and I don't have a face mask." They took him back to the school to have his eyes looked after. Chief Brayer leaned dizzily against the door frame, watching Dr. Brandeis bathing the kid's eyes. What, he wondered, was Hebertown going to be like without Henry?

Mickey Groff woke up. They must have given me a shot of something, he thought clearly, and sat up.

A girl in a white uniform with gold bars at the collar leaned over him and said, "You ought to go back to sleep. You've only had about two hours."

"Starkman—the burgess." But she didn't know the name. Groff stood up and staggered to a chair. What was an army nurse doing here, he wondered. Wings and a bar; maybe they'd flown in help from outside.

Somebody helped him to a garage, empty of cars, with duckboards laid over the mud on the floor; there was a sort of emergency feeding station organized there and he got hot coffee laced with thick canned milk, syrupy with sugar. He went out in the sunshine and drank it gratefully.

He slowly accepted the fact that it wasn't raining any more. The sky was spotty with clouds, but there was a lot of blue.

"Mr. Groff." He tried to get to his feet; it was Artie Chesbro's wife. She stopped him.

"Sleeping, mostly. Except my husband, who is out looking for orphans to rob. Have you seen Henry?"

"The burgess. Mr. Starkman." He shook his head. She said gently, "I've been with him all morning. If they don't get help for him soon—"

He noticed that her eyes were unaccountably filled with tears. "I thought I saw an army nurse—"

"Yes. But they didn't have oxygen, and that's what he needs. It's on its way, I guess, or anyway they say it is." She looked at the coffee. "Wait a minute. I want some of that."

Mickey Groff looked after her and sighed. Now, why was she mothering the old man? And what was that "orphans to rob" remark? It had been fairly obvious that she and her husband were not cut from the same bolt, but was it possible for her to see her husband that clearly, and keep on living with him?

He was beginning to wonder whether he shouldn't get up and start somehow helping out when she came back and sat beside him. She was humming to herself, he noticed, and glanced at her curiously; evidently she wasn't so upset after all.

"I knew," she said, dreamily swirling the coffee around in the mug to stir it, "that two of us would go. It is the difference between six and eight."

She laughed as if a child had done something clever. "I knew you weren't a student of the Great Science," she said cheerfully. "There are perfect numbers, and imperfect numbers; the imperfect numbers are—imperfect, and the worst of them are the deficient ones. Eight is an imperfect number, you see." She grinned at him. "You think I've flipped," she commented.

"But you'd think it. No matter, Mickey—do you mind if I call you Mickey? I'm quite sane—I have the advantage of you, you see, because I have my diploma to prove it." She sipped her coffee. "That's what makes Artie so mad," she said pleasantly. "He got me committed to the Haven, and they kept me there for nearly a year; and now when he threatens to tell people I'm crazy I don't have to worry, because six perfectly fine psychiatrists agree that I'm not."

She said seriously, "You mustn't think that the Great Science is one of these crackpot cultist affairs. I know gematry has a bad name, but you'd be astonished at the great minds that have worked on it. Fermat, Bachet—back as far as Diophantos, in fact. Why, if you'd just—oh, please, Mickey." She touched his arm as he started to move. "I'll stop. This isn't the time to talk about important things."

"This," she said, "is a time for shallow, surfacy affairs, a time when distractions come crowding in and cannot be ignored. One such distraction is that Mr. Starkman is dying and needs oxygen."

There was a boy of fourteen standing by with a handkerchief tied around his left arm, an improvised brassard. "Son," Groff said, "do you go to the junior high?"

"The burgess, Mr. Starkman, needs oxygen and they can't get at the firehouse tanks. It occurred to me that there might be some in the school—those little tanks they call lecture bottles that they use for demonstrations in chemistry classes."

Groff approached Holtz, a small, harried man. Holtz listened and said: "Not in the junior high, no. No lecture demonstrations, just recitation and lab. But the senior high across the river would have some. My good friend Mr. Anderson lectures there and he believes in making it spectacular. Yes; they would have lecture flasks. I'd guide you there if I weren't assigned. Perhaps you can find somebody—"

Groff decided he would not. These people were working at top capacity now. He could do the job on his own.

Groff and Polly picked their way through the silt to the river bank. A rowboat manned by two husky youngsters with the improvised brassards was unloading a weeping woman and a silent child.

"Get to the school," one of them told her in an important, basically uncertain voice. "They'll take care of you there. They've got nurses and everything."

The kids looked after her, round-eyed. They told Groff: "That's Mrs. Vostek. Her husband drowned. We just found her sitting on her porch crying. Maybe she's gone crazy."

"Can you get us across the river? We want to get into the high school and look for oxygen bottles. The sick cases need it."

On the other bank, perilously attained, the kids pointed Groff and Polly in the right direction and took aboard two grim brassarded men who carried a limp, moaning girl of ten between them.

The other side of the river was the older part of town; the inevitable slum had grown up there. Here in the streets and on the steps they saw drunken men and women with blank despair in their eyes tilting bottles skyward. One of them drained his bottle and yelled: "To hell with it!" and hurled the empty through the plate-glass window of a silt-choked little magazine-and-candy store. A man, not young, sitting in the store came charging out with a sawed-off ball bat in his hands, swinging. "You cheap rotten bum!" he yelled. "Things aren't bad enough, you have to make them worse!"

While the drunk stared stupidly, Groff rushed between them and caught the wrists of the man with the bat. "Easy," he said. "For God's sake, you'll kill him with that thing."

The drunk came to life. "Let him kill," he yelled. "What's the damn difference now? No job, no house, no furniture. Let him kill!" But he reeled off down the street while Groff held the furious man.

"Stupid bastard," the proprietor swore. "I'll give him bottles. Three-fifty he owes me, I'll give him bottles!" Then the fight suddenly evaporated out of him. Groff let go and they walked on, looking back to see him shamble into his store again and sit down with the bat across his knees.

They passed a bar, and there was no nonsense about that. Two men who looked like brothers stood grimly at the door. Each had a shotgun over his arm. When Groff and Polly walked by they shifted the guns a little and said nothing.

A corner grocery had become a sort of involuntary relief station. There was a long unruly line leading to the door. The grocer stood there; behind him in the store his wife was bringing up canned goods, bottled pop, everything. The grocer, sweating and afraid, was handing out the food and drink to the sullen people as they passed.

"Please," he was saying, "I haven't got time to write this down. Please remember what you take and come around and settle when things clear up."

The high school was an old red brick building, smaller than the new junior high across the river. Groff marched up the steps and tried the door. "Bloody hell," he said. "Locked, of course."

They climbed in and found themselves in the principal's office. Three men with sledge hammers and crow-bars were knocking the knob off the safe. They turned menacingly.

"We came to get some oxygen," Polly said. "For the sick people across the river."

They went into the corridor and wandered from room to room; on the second floor they found an old-fashioned lecture theater, bowl-shaped with steep rows of seats focusing on a laboratory bench piped for water and gas. There was a promising-looking door behind it.

It was locked. Groff kicked at the door and swore with pain; the building was old-fashioned brick and its woodwork was old-fashioned golden oak, the stuff you can hardly drive a nail into. He trudged down to the office again. The three men were gone; the door of the safe swung open. They had left one sledge; somehow he had expected to find all the tools dropped, but apparently they were going to work their way methodically through every safe they could find.

He returned with the sledge and bashed at the golden-oak door until its latch sprung and it swung open. It was the storeroom for lecture supplies and the gas flasks were neatly stacked on the top shelf. There was a complete carton of a dozen twelve-inch cylinders marked O₂ and another carton with eight cylinders.

As they retraced their way to the river bank they were stopped three times by loungers collected in groups of half a dozen and had to show them the cartons' contents and explain that it was for the sick people across the river.

There was a long wait before they could hail one of the boats passing back and forth; finally a rowboat with a roaring outboard motor pulled up. Two men with American Legion caps manned it. They explained their mission and were taken aboard. One of the Legionnaires asked: "How are things in Old Town?"

The man understood perfectly. "The goons," he said, nodding. "There's talk about sending in the National Guard," he said. "Meanwhile I guess it's our problem."

He took the heavier carton from Groff when they reached the river bank and Groff took Polly's; together they walked to the gymnasium where Harry Starkman lay.

One of the doctors—Brandeis?—looked at the lecture bottles dully, took one and shambled over to the burgess's litter. He drew the blanket over Starkman's face, slipped the bottle under and cracked the needle valve for a few hissing minutes, then checked the old man's pulse.

"Very good," he said at last to Groff and Polly. "There's something to hope for now. Now clear out, you two. Find something useful to do."

"There's going to be trouble in Old Town tonight," Groff said. "And it may spill over here."

Polly, preoccupied, said, "The number is still imperfect. Two of us will have to go. I do hope it won't be you, Mickey."

There was a solid line of cars, bumper to bumper, on the northbound side of the highway. It ended against a roadblock consisting of two state troopers, one standing in the middle of the lane with a double-barreled shotgun over his arm, the other by the roadside where he could look into the cars. Their patrol car was pulled over on the soggy shoulder, its motor idling.

"Why do you want to get through, mister?" the trooper demanded. He had long ago given up the time-consuming request for registration and operator's permit.

The man was flustered. "I have some friends in Newtown," he said. "I thought maybe there was something I could do for them—"

The trooper glanced into the back of the car. Empty. "You haven't got anything they need," he said. "Turn around and go home."

The next car was a tired, top-down convertible with two young couples who might have been high-school seniors, college freshmen or young working stiffs. The driver explained, too glibly, indicating the girl by his side: "Her mother lives in Bradley, so she got me to drive her in. You know the railroads and buses aren't running, officer."

"Where does she live in Bradley?" asked the trooper. The girl hesitated and took a deep breath before beginning to lie. The trooper gave a weary shushing gesture. "Skip it," he said. "Turn around and go home. This is no circus."

"Turn around and go home," the trooper said. "If you keep arguing I'll run you in for obstructing traffic. If you're stupid enough to proceed down that road, Schultz there will fire one warning shot and will then blow your goddam head off. Move."

The boy roared his motor spitefully to say the things he didn't dare say, let up suddenly on his clutch and spun around the patrolman with the shotgun in a U-turn.

The next car was black and driven by a man in black. Its rear and the seat beside the driver were filled with cartons; the trunk lid was half-up, tied by a rope to the bumper over more cartons.

"I'm from the Beaver Run Meeting of the Society of Friends," the man said quietly. "We've gathered some things they may need in there. Medicine, bandages, Sterno, flashlights."

The trooper hesitated. "We're supposed to accept contributions and turn you back, then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven't seen any truck and I don't know whether there's going to be one or if it was just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, mister. Go on in and don't get hurt." He called to the trooper in the road: "Let him through."

"Thank you," said the Quaker, and drove on at a careful thirty-five miles per hour.

Down the southbound lane, the deserted left strip of the highway, a big car purred, slowing obediently to a stop at the outraged shout of the trooper. The old man who was driving said nothing; the young woman with him put out her head and called, "Dr. Buloff, Factoryville, New York. Are there any instructions?"

The trooper backed around the car and read the New York plates. The second two characters were MD. He said to the old man, "Just go in and free-lance, doc. They can use you."

"Thank you, officer," the old man said with a good trace of German accent, and the car purred on.

In rapid succession three imbeciles followed the doctor's example of using the southbound lane. All were sightseers, and all were turned back with curses.

The next car in line was a '39 Ford driven by a white-faced young man with the jitters and a narrow mustache. He had identification papers ready in his sweating hand. "John C. Barshay," he said precisely. "As you can see from the address on this envelope I live at 437 Olney Street, Newtown. I work in New York City and come home weekends. My wife—I haven't been able to get through on the phone." His voice was rising hysterically. "I demand to be let through, officer!"

"Calm down," the trooper said gently. "Of course you can get through. We're not here to stop people like you. I hope everything's all right."

The young man fought his way back to composure. "Thank you, officer," he said precisely, and drove on.

Then there was a phenomenon, a car coming from the flooded area. It was coming fast until the driver, presumably, could see that the hassle up ahead was a roadblock and then it stopped and began to wheel around.

"Hold 'em, Schultzie!" the trooper yelled at his partner with the shotgun. He leaped into the idling patrol car, spun its wheels for an instant in the soft shoulder and then zoomed free down the highway. The other car had barely finished its turn; he had it crowded off the road in seconds. He got out with his gun drawn and a casual bead on the head of the unshaven, slack-jawed man in the driver's seat. "Get out with your hands up," he said, his body shielded behind the front of his car.

He did, and the trooper frisked him. There were things in his pockets, none of them gun-size. The trooper, from behind, pulled out watches, a costly new spinning reel and some rhinestone rings and necklaces.

The back of the car was filled with new suits and dresses, some crumpled and mud-stained. The trooper lifted the trunk lid and found shiny new appliances—a pressure-cooker, a steam iron, a handsome floor fan, a sandwich grill, a rotisserie.

"You'll be sorry for this day's work, boy," the trooper promised. "Keep your back turned."

He rolled up the windows, took the car keys from the ignition and locked it up. With the man beside him he drove back to the roadblock and prodded him out with his gun.

"Looter," he said to his partner. "Stolen car locked up down there, full of plunder. Watch him." To the man he said: "Stand over there and don't try to run or you'll get killed. Now, who's next?"

"Do that again," the officer requested. Reluctantly the young man did. The officer read aloud: "The Zeidler News Service requests that police and fire officials extend all press courtesies to its representative George E. Neumann." He grinned. "Back to Pittsburgh, Mr. George E. Neumann."

The next two cars were, or appeared to be, driven by legitimate relatives of people in the flood area; at least they were filled with sensible supplies. The trooper passed them. The next was a year-old Dodge sedan with an oldish driver and a youngish passenger. "Haggarty," the driver said. "New York Daily Globe. This is Vince Ruffino, my photographer. The press card." It was a little green folder with picture—an embossed city seal through it—thumbprint, description, and the signature of the police commissioner. "Fire badge," said Haggarty, flipping open a leather folder. "Okay?"

The line of waiting cars was beginning to break up. The number of people turned back and the sour replies they had called as they passed those still in line explained it.

Another vehicle coming away from the flood area, fast. It had a cardboard sign with a red cross on it stuck in the windshield. A station wagon, full.

The trooper at the checkpoint paused to watch. The driver of the station wagon stopped by the trooper with the shotgun, spoke to him for a minute, nodded and slid into gear again. The trooper at the check point stared at the faces inside the station wagon, some drawn, some nervously exuberant, as it went past.

The trooper with the shotgun was walking down the road toward him. "Transients," he said. "They're getting them out."

"Yeah. They haven't found anybody answering your wife's description, not that the driver knew about anyway. She'll be all right."

"Sure. Thanks." The trooper with the shotgun turned and walked back. His partner sighed and moved on to the car at the head of the line. It was stretched out of sight again.

The photographer said, "Nope. I'll wait until we get in the town. But jeez, it's pretty beat up, isn't it?"

Jay Haggarty nodded and concentrated on his driving. One of the beat-up elements of the landscape was the road they were on. Water had scoured gravel out from under the surfacing in places, and there were potholes; water had rushed across the road in a flood in other places, and left mud and debris.

A man in a leather windbreaker yelled at them to slow down, and Haggarty obediently put his foot on the brake. He followed the man's instructions and they crawled across what had recently been a four-million-dollar toll-bridge. It seemed to be vibrating as they crossed it, Haggarty had to remind himself that they wouldn't have been allowed on it if it weren't safe. The river was within two feet of the surface of the roadway, and there was an uneven thudding as flotsam rammed into the accumulated tangle on the upstream side.

Haggarty said, "I was here just before the war, Vince. Nice, quiet little town. It doesn't look as if it's been built up much since then."

Ruffino said, "Who the hell would want to build a house around here? You wake up some morning and you're under water. Give me Passaic."

There was a second roadblock just before the sign that said: Entering Hebertown. Haggarty showed his card and leaned out of the window to ask where the emergency relief headquarters was. The directions turned out to be pretty complicated: It's straight down Center Street, only you can't get through there—trees across the road. So turn left on Maple, but you won't be able to take the bridge at White Street because it's blocked off; go three blocks further and cross on the highway bridge. Then you'll have to watch out for soft pavement on Locust....

Ruffino said, unbelievingly, "Jeez, Jay, it's worse here than it was down by the river. Do you mean that little creek had enough water in it to do all this?" He stared at the little gray stream that flowed under the highway bridge, and at the twisted, half-collapsed warehouses and storefronts that were easily five feet above water level.

"It's the little streams that do the damage," Haggarty told him. "Once the water gets into the rivers it's all right. It can flow away. But you see how close these buildings are set to the creek here? As soon as the water came up a couple of feet it clobbered them."

He stopped, because the photographer was opening the door of the parked car and no longer listening. It was as good a place to get started as any. Haggarty pulled over to the curb, locked the ignition and got out.

Mrs. Goudeket caught up with Polly and Groff. "So long I slept," she said, panting. "They wouldn't wake me up. How's Mr. Starkman?"

"They think he'll be all right for a while, anyway," said Mickey Groff. "There's a whole field hospital coming in, somebody said. If he holds out until then he's got a good chance."

Mrs. Goudeket looked at her appraisingly. All she said was, "I guess he's pretty busy."

Mickey Groff coughed. "Uh, the diner up the hill is in business, Mrs. Goudeket. We were just about to go up and get something to eat. Would you like to come along?"

"Why not? Then I got to find a car to get back to the hotel. Imagine," she laughed. "One hundred and sixty guests, and the only one there to keep an eye on them is Dave Wax. Believe me, Goudeket's Green Acres is one place they'll never come back to again!" She was very gay about it, Groff thought.... If you didn't look too closely. He had a sudden picture in his mind of what the last twenty-four hours meant to Goudeket's Green Acres and to Mrs. Goudeket herself. One hundred and sixty guests. At, say, five dollars per day per head. Over eight hundred dollars a day; and out of that you could pay for the putting green and the swimming pool, pay the salaries of the cooks, trumpet player and chambermaids and busboys, pay the installments on the mortgage and the electric bill. And squeeze out a profit; enough to keep you for a year on what you made in a summer. But, although your one hundred and sixty guests could cancel themselves out overnight, reservations or no reservations, you couldn't cancel the trumpet player or the mortgage or the putting green....

They had to wait in line, but they finally got a booth in the diner. The menu was soup, sandwiches, and stew—apparently slapped together in a hurry out of what would otherwise have spoiled in the refrigerator. There still was no power; evidently the diner was operating its stoves on bottled gas.

But it tasted good to all three of them. Outside the diner again, with coffee in cartons for Groff and Polly Chesbro for them to drink at their leisure, Mrs. Goudeket said, "Listen, what are you going to do now? You still have business here, Mickey?"

Groff shrugged. "That's what I came up for. But I doubt I can do anything about it today."

Groff looked around. There were a lot of cars, and not many of them were going. As he watched, a big sedan chugging down the road with a load of dirty-faced children coughed and stopped. A man in a Legion cap, red-eyed and bearded, got out and wearily opened the door for the kids. They apathetically began to trudge down the hill to the temporary hospital.

And then one car that was not out of gas, a low-slung sports job, came rocketing along the road, took a turn too fast and skidded on the mud-slick street. Its fishtail swerved left into a fire hydrant with a crash that made the dishes behind the diner counter rattle. On the rebound the car's remaining energy sent it nosing to the right through the plate window of a clothing store. By then it was burning fiercely from the tail. Two figures, dark in the glare of burning gas, spilled frantically from the bucket seats and flailed their way through the smoke and jagged glass.

"Come on!" Groff yelled, a general invitation to perhaps half a dozen weary, red-eyed men standing about with coffee cartons of their own. They ran for the smoky blaze; it beat fiercely against Groff's forehead and cheeks. He found himself almost racing crazily into the flames before he stopped. Groff peered into the holocaust and saw nothing.

A man tugged his arm, drawing him back a couple of yards. The man said, preoccupied: "That was Ed von Lutz's little car. A Porsche. Ed's got a garage, he had that thing for advertising."

"Oh, that wasn't Ed," the man told him. "Ed got killed in his garage hours ago. Water undermined the sills and footing, he was in there trying to straighten up and then the floor gave way and his air-compressor storage tank rolled over him. That wasn't Ed. That must of been some crazy kid that's been hanging around thinking about the little sports car ever since he got it in, and he thought this was his chance for a free ride. I guess that was his girl with him."

The quick, fierce gasoline flame was burning itself out; now the blaze had passed to the clothes on display, the fixtures, the shelves. The building was a long brick row, not battered by the worst of the current but horribly soiled. The clothing store was the central one of seven shops; there were apartments upstairs.

"Let's get the burning stuff out before it spreads," Groff said grimly. He walked into the smoke and, holding his breath, came out with a smoldering armful of suits off a rack. He dumped them in the gutter, where they charred and stank.

"I'll get 'em," shouted Mrs. Goudeket, trotting off. "Save the man's stock. Don't let the fire spread."

The next half hour was a nightmare of chopping and prying at burning wood, dashing out for smokefree air when you had got a little ahead of the flames. Groff burned his left forearm when he brushed once against the still-blistering frame of the car. Midway through the job somebody covered the two charred figures from the car with a pair of topcoats each and they carried them out and laid them on the curb. Later they were gone; somebody, Groff never knew who, had taken them to the temporary morgue in the M.E. church basement.

He woke once from his daze of chopping and prying to find Polly Chesbro pulling on him. "They're stealing everything, Mickey," she said insistently. "Can't you stop them?"

Groff looked around. The store was gutted, the fire only an evil smoulder here and there. He coughed and walked out, sidling around the twisted, blackened little car with the bashed-in tail. He breathed fresh air outside; to his surprise it was late afternoon.

The pile of clothes from the store was dwindling before his eyes. People were picking it over and grabbing; Mrs. Goudeket was screaming at them: "Leave the man's stock alone! I'll—I'll—" She took an axe and made a feeble pass at a man in mechanic's coveralls. He shoved her hard and sent her sprawling. Polly Chesbro began to curse the man fluently; he ignored her as if she were a buzzing fly. Groff went and picked up the gasping old woman. "You hurt?" he asked.

She rubbed her behind and shook her head, glaring murderously. "Loafers," she said. "Bums without brains to run a business themselves. Look at them!"

Groff looked at them. From the wrong side of the tracks—river in this town. Sick, neurotic faces, shrill neurotic voices as they squabbled over tidbits like carrion crows. Feeble slum types, most of them, but a few of the gorillas that every slum produces in defiance of malnutrition. Men, women and gorillas, there were about a dozen of them. This was his cue to deliver a ringing oration on the rights of property and shame them away from the only chance most of them would ever have at an eighty-five dollar suit or topcoat.

He took up Mrs. Goudeket's axe and walked purposefully toward the carrion crows. "Break it up!" he yelled hoarsely. "If you can't do anything useful you can go home and not make any more trouble."

The gorilla who had shoved Mrs. Goudeket looked at him appraisingly, picked up the bundle of clothes he had neatly laid aside and walked off with them in his arms. There was a nice charcoal-gray single-breasted suit on top.

"Put those down!" Groff snarled. The man just kept walking. There was a crackle of laughter from the others around the pile. Where were the decent people, Groff wondered angrily. They were on the fringes and they were waiting. Their world was balanced on a razor's edge, and they dared not breathe. Let it tip one way and looting would tilt again to law and order; let it tip the other and looting would tilt over into murder.

Groff balanced the doubled-bitted axe in his right hand and hurled it at the departing gorilla. It flew like an arrow; its flat top thudded into the small of the man's back. He fell, howling, on the soft bundle of clothes he embraced. Groff walked up to him and rolled him over with his foot. The man cursed him and Groff drew back his foot for a kick at his bullet head. The man stopped instantly, glaring. "Go home," Groff told him.

The decent people on the fringes had come to life. They cried to the carrion crows: "Go home. Leave the man's stock where it is. Get back where you belong."

On the way back to the school, the GHQ of the town, Groff and Polly Chesbro and Mrs. Goudeket saw again the ruin and the despair, and something new: hatred. A couple railed at a man standing on his porch that he had plenty of room, that they had to have a place to sleep, they knew he had plenty of room—but the man grinned hatred at them and calmly shook his head.

"That," said Polly Chesbro in a low voice, "could be the paying off of an ancient score. The couple in the mud could be Mr. and Mrs. Town Banker, suddenly poor because they haven't a bed, and the man on the porch could be the village bum, owes everybody in town, brink of financial disaster, but suddenly rich because he has a bed. This is the day of jubilee, Groff, the day of leveling."

They passed a house canted off its foundations; they saw a man calmly building a rubbish fire against one corner of it and almost went on, so natural did it seem. His eyes were bright when he looked up, and he seemed only a little offended when they kicked his fire apart.

"It's the insurance," he explained. "Twelve thousand dollars, fire with extended coverage. You know what it'll cost me to get this straightened up? Rent a crane, a big gang of men with hydraulic jacks, a week's work easing the house back on the footings, and then everything will be sprung, the whole house'll have to be replastered. Five thousand dollars, easy, and I haven't got it. So I figured, we're covered for fire, make a clean start, the kids are grown now and we don't need a place this size—" Of the adjoining houses he had not thought at all.

They walked him down to the school; he chattered volubly all the way, quite unhinged. Polly efficiently vanished in search of a doctor with a needleful of morphine, and eventually she led one of the army medics toward them.

The arsonist snapped to and said crisply, "Sir, these civilians tried to prevent me from carrying out my mission. If you ask me, they're Krauts."

Artie Chesbro said worriedly, "Sharon, are you sure Akslund's coming here? None of these dopes seem to know anything."

Sharon Froman said, "Positive. This is the only road in from the north. He'll have to stop at the check point even if he is a congressman." She paused, added, "The captain who told me was the detachment communications officer. He got it right off the radio himself." She gave Chesbro a smile of good fellowship. It never hurt to remind a man how helpful you were being.

Chesbro sighed, "I'm getting tired of waiting here, all the same. These tinhorn heroes are getting under my skin. The next idiot that wants to know if I'll help out with the salvage squads or let them take this car for emergency duty gets a tire-iron across the face."

Sharon said sympathetically, "You'd think they'd know enough to leave you alone, wouldn't you?" There was a siren scream from down the road, and they both sat up straight to look. But it was only an ambulance; it slowed briefly at the roadblock, the troopers waved it by and it sped away.

Sharon took out a cigarette and pressed the dashboard lighter; then she remembered it didn't work and lit the cigarette with a match. It wasn't much of a car they were in; but it was the best car Chesbro had been able to rent for what money he had in his pocket. And naturally he wouldn't have been able to do it by himself, she thought comfortably. She was the one who had learned that Representative Akslund was coming into the disaster area on an inspection tour; she was the one who had located the car; and she was the one who had put the idea in Chesbro's head of meeting the congressman and riding with him. Nicely done, Sharon, she told herself; and the best part of all was that she had succeeded in making him think it was his own idea.

Sharon permitted herself a frown, her face turned away. She said gaily, "Probably loving every minute of it, Arthur. It must be pretty exciting for her. Anyway," she added blandly, "Mickey Groff's probably taking good care of her."

Chesbro shook his head. "Oh, no. You don't know Polly. Believe me, men aren't her—" He hesitated, and said, "Believe me, she has too much sense to get involved with a two-bit operator like him. She's loyal, Sharon. Absolutely loyal to me." He was silent for a moment and then, without looking at the girl, he said, "Polly's a funny kid. She isn't, uh, normal, if you know what I mean, like you'd think a wife would be—but she's loyal. Absolutely."

Sharon Froman took a deep, quiet breath. Ah-ha, Mr. Chesbro, she thought to herself with satisfaction, the wife isn't quite normal, eh? Somehow or other she doesn't respond when you get that urge, and the years go by, and then you notice that you aren't getting the urge as often—as far as she's concerned at any rate. So after a while you don't even worry when she's off with another man.

Sharon nodded wisely to herself. Just the way it had been with Hesch and his first wife. She'd made a man out of Hesch, even if he had finally let her down, and she could make a man out of this unpromising lout too—

The unpromising lout sat up sharply. "Hey," he yelled, "something's coming! It's got a state-police escort. Maybe it's Akslund!"

The congressman was on the best of terms with the Air Force—possibly because he held appointments on three appropriations committees. The Air Force had been delighted to fly him up from Washington that morning, and had been eager to fly him right into the disaster area in a helicopter; but Representative Akslund himself had put his foot down about that. Transport planes were one thing; helicopters were something else. So the last fifteen miles of his trip were in a car furnished through the courtesy of the state police.

"Unbelievable," he murmured—but enunciating every syllable crisply and clearly. "It looks as if a war had been fought over every inch of this lovely countryside. I estimate the damage I have already seen is in the millions." Out of the corner of his eye he observed that the AP man who had tagged along wasn't writing anything down. Disappointing; but Akslund was too old a hand to try to hint about it. The AP man would be with him for a good many hours yet. There was plenty of time for direct quotes.

But they didn't. The driver of the car ahead stuck out his arm and semaphored a stop; the congressman's chauffeur braked sharp and smooth, and stopped a yard away from the other car's bumper.

A state trooper on point duty walked over and said, "Sorry to hold you up, sir. You can pass, of course, but there's a man here who says he—"

Artie Chesbro appeared, panting. He stuck his hand in the open window. "Good to see you again, Halmer," he said. "I'm Artie Chesbro. State delegation. Perhaps you remember our little chat at the Waldorf last year—the fund dinner."

Representative Akslund opened the matchless filing case in his head and riffled through the cards. He remembered. "Glad to see you again, Chesbro. Are you in this mess?"

"Up to my eyebrows. From the very start. There were eight of us trapped in a building all night long; one was killed by gasoline fumes, another's in the hospital with pneumonia this minute. But that's not the point. I've been thinking heavily about relief and reconstruction, Halmer, and I've developed some ideas I'd like to share with you. Mind if I come along?"

Representative Akslund noticed that the AP man was scribbling at last. Eight trapped all night, one dead, one dying. This Chesbro knew what he was talking about. His interests were medium-big and diversified, said the Chesbro card in Akslund's head; he'd be able to give him the sound businessman's viewpoint. Akslund knew he had to move fast; the first public figure to hit the headlines and newscasts with a formal plan would skim the publicity cream. How to be a statesman-humanitarian in one easy lesson. Chesbro would save him time.

She reached into the back of the car for her manuscript briefcase and gaily ran for the limousine. She didn't even bother to lock up the car, which Artie had rented with a solemn promise that he'd return it to the garage in exactly two hours. It would get back to the man somehow, she thought contentedly. Big things were happening now; no time for trivia.

"Right. Arthur Chesbro, of Summit. I own a piece of the Hebertown newspaper, I have some real estate, I'm interested in broadcasting. Thirty-nine years old."

"Ah, I was a consultant to the War Manpower Commission; I wasn't actually in the service."

"Sam Zehedi, Z-E-H-E-D-I, I think it goes. A grocer, about thirty. We were holed up in a filling station on State Highway 7, just two carloads of people who couldn't get through the flood. The sick man is, I'm sorry to say, my very dear friend Henry Starkman, the Burgess of Hebertown. In the morning when we realized he had pneumonia we carried him about twelve miles into town. He's in that improvised hospital they have there. When I saw him last his condition was poor. He is about sixty-five. He was in my car when we got stopped; we were looking at conditions and making plans. On a small scale, what Mr. Akslund is here for." Cue to Sharon!

Sharon said to the congressman, "The networks are probably trying to get mobile broadcasting units in right now. They should be set up and sending by midnight. By morning they'll have all they need to lead the disaster strong in the breakfast newscasts."

It was a reminder that they had better get down to brass tacks on a concrete proposal for relief and reconstruction. Dramatically issued from the site of the flood, it would be unbeatable.

Sharon added: "Drop me off at the school. I'll get the police chief to find a room for us somehow. We'll have work to do."

"Lots of it," Akslund said thoughtfully, looking through the window at the wreckage.

Mrs. Goudeket rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. She had tried two garages, and no cars for rent. Chief Brayer, they said. He had commandeered them, if you please, had them driven to a "motor pool." The couple of cars going through the streets that she had flagged down were "on missions." See Chief Brayer.

Well, she would see this new dictator, this Hitler of Hebertown. She reached the schoolhouse, and there, sure enough, was the motor pool in the teachers' parking lot across the street—a strange collection of vehicles ranging from a two-ton farm truck to somebody's little Rambler. There was a man with a clipboard at a table, on guard.

She sniffed and walked into the marble lobby of the school, which was crowded and noisy with the talk of fifty busy people. There were two uniformed men at card tables; one was in a fireman's queer, boxy uniform cap and the other must be this Brayer.

He was talking to a boy scout—at a time like this!—but she waited until he was finished. Then she burst out, "I've got to have a car. I'm Mrs. S. Goudeket of Goudeket's Green Acres. I've got to get back to my place. Now."

The mustached old man looked up. "Sorry, ma'am," he said. "We need all the cars for public service. Maybe later after some help comes in. Why don't you—"

"I don't give a damn who you are," he yelled back, standing up. "The town is drowning. People are sick. People are looting and burning. We're trying to hold it together for a few hours until help comes. Don't come here grabbing for a car. Go and find something useful to do. They need help in the hospital, people to make beds and carry slops. You can do that, or if you don't want to do that you can at least get out of everybody's way!"

He sat down and turned to a man wearing a handkerchief around his arm and immediately was in thoughtful, intense conversation with him.

She said to the girl, "No cars. We should go work in the hospital they set up for a while, Polly. They need help."

Polly Chesbro nodded. Together they walked to the improvised excuse for a hospital.

Mrs. Goudeket was thinking: Mr. Goudeket wouldn't have stormed up to that busy old man. He would have seen that making beds in the hospital right now is more important than whether Green Acres is in the black this year. Mr. Goudeket may have been right about more things than I ever knew before....

She wondered idly how the orange groves in Palestine for which they had donated year after year were growing.

Ten minutes later Sharon was at the desk, telling Chief Brayer: "You've got to. He's the head of three committees. He can turn the faucet and a million, five million dollars runs into Hebertown. Or he can leave the faucet shut. Think of your town, Chief!"

Brayer sighed and wished Henry were there. At last he beckoned to one of the deputies and said, "Take two men. Go to the new Fielding place, that little ranch-house thing on Sullivan. Turn everybody out. We need it for Congressman Akslund and his, uh, staff. Leave a man there to see that nobody sneaks back in. Better leave a man there as long as the Congressman's there, for a guard and in case there are any messages."

"Thanks, Chief," Sharon said warmly. "You're doing the right thing. I'll just wait here; they'll pick me up. And can you let us have a guide to show us the way to the house?"

They had dropped off the AP man, and Artie could talk freely. "Another thing I didn't want to say in front of him, Halmer, is the Southern angle. Those Democrats from Dixie are going to be swarming around the valley offering sites and tax write-offs and hell knows what to persuade damaged industries to relocate. This means you build up the Democratic South and drain strength out of our state. Unemployment and discontent. We're G.O.P. here, but not by such a margin that a sharp local depression couldn't put the state over the line. The cities, frankly, we lost last time but we have the counties as of now. If the valley isn't saved, Halmer, it might cost us a senator—and you know what that would mean. Knocking off Bolling and his sixteen years of seniority and the committee appointments that go with it would be a very serious thing for us nationally. I'm not exaggerating when I say that a large, prompt injection of cash is vital to everything you and I stand for."

Polly Chesbro went through the ranks of litters to the one on which the burgess lay. A nurse in the pinstriped cotton fatigue uniform had shoved a thermometer under his tongue and was looking at her watch.

The nurse whipped out the thermometer, read it, jotted down a figure on her clipboard and said, "Holding his own. Excuse me." She shook down the thermometer, popped it into a glass that held many thermometers, picked out another one and slipped it under the tongue of the person in the next litter, a girl of ten with a dry, burning face and dry, burning eyes.

In the marble lobby of the schoolhouse Mickey Groff was studying an extraordinary organization that had sprung up within a very few hours. Card tables had been set up and conference tables dragged from offices and classrooms. For an ad-hoc government with the wires out you wanted everything under one roof, in one room, instead of scattered through a town hall. When a man came to you with trouble you could fix, this way there was no phone to pick up; this way you called across the room and things happened fast.

There were two main centers around the fire chief and the police chief. They retained roughly their old jurisdictions, respectively over the destructiveness of nature and the cussedness of man. While Groff watched, a woman came coolly to the fire chief in her turn to say that her undermined house was beginning to sag and she had twenty refugees. They had gone out into the street, could he find places for them? And, as an afterthought, could they do anything about the house? The fire chief called to three boy scouts, part of his combined field force and housing records. One knew a big thirteen-room place on the outskirts which, when he last checked, had only twelve people in it. Thirteen rooms. Space for twenty more. And the house?

"George," the fire chief called to a brassarded man, "get some people, a dozen if you can, and see if you can do anything about Mrs. Comden's place. She says it's beginning to lean badly. Be a pity to see it go now."

George, an electric-company rigger, said, "What kind of a house, Mrs. Comden? How big? Which way's it going?"

"Frame. Two-story, eight rooms. It's going into the street, maybe gone by now, I don't know."

She passed her hand vaguely across her forehead, brushing back her hair. "Back yard? Just a back yard. A vegetable garden..."

"Good," said George with satisfaction. "I know where there's some wire rope and oil drums. We'll dig in the drums for deadmen and anchor the house to them with the rope. I'll need a truck, Chief."

"You get a car," the chief said. "Sorry." He scribbled a note which would go to the guardian of the improvised motor pool outside. George walked off with it slowly, collecting waiting men. He picked them big and burly. The woman trailed apathetically after. The chief was already engaged with a man who wanted a gang to clear away snapped and fallen electrical cables which would set his house afire—and, as an afterthought, the neighborhood it was in—the instant current came through again. He got two men with axes and a felling saw to cut away the fallen tree that had brought down the cables.

It was getting dim in the marble lobby, in spite of the tall windows. On a couple of the card tables candles stuck in their own wax were being lit; across the room somebody was pumping up a Coleman lamp. It lit, in a dazzling green-white flare, and the gloom was gone for a while.

On the police chief's side the reports were more bitter. "Goons from across the river, Red. So far they're just hanging around and talking it up, but they've got bottles. It's just a matter of time before they get brave enough to smash my window and grab the furs. There's a dozen of them and I've got to have at least six men. So help me, if I don't get six men I'm going to kill the first drunken s.o.b. that makes a move at our place. I've got my brother there with the shotgun now—"

"Skip the rest, Pete. You and your brother are two able-bodied men and you've got a shotgun. You don't need any help."

"I don't want to blast 'em!" the furrier wailed. "Why do we hire you guys, anyway?"

"We're spread too thin, Pete. We'll send the patrol car past and put a scare into your friends, but don't expect us to tie up six men for every shop on Broad Street. We're spread too thin and we have to keep moving. Matter of fact, I ought to let your brother handle the store himself and deputize you right here and now."

A wide-eyed scout darted up and gave old Red the three-fingered salute. "Big fight, Chief, down on the river, foot of Sullivan. I don't know what it's about, maybe one of the boats—"

The chief yelled at two waiting men in Legion caps: "Take a car. They're trying to take over one of the ferries at Sullivan Street. Break it up and keep patrolling the river. We've got to keep the boats in our hands." The men stolidly moved off to the car pool.

Mickey Groff knew by then where he'd be useful. He went up to the chief's table and said, "I'd like to be deputized."

The old man stared at him. "And go looting with a badge? Who're you, mister? I haven't seen you in town before."

"Mickey Groff. From New York. I came in to see your burgess about taking over the old Swanscomb Mill for a factory of mine."

"Groff. Henry talked about your offer. All right—Groff." The old man suddenly grinned. "Think I'll even trust you with a gun. Know how to use one?"

The chief snorted. "Army! I hoped you might be a hunter. Well, maybe you'll do. Put up your hand."

In a rapid mumble the old man asked him whether he swore to uphold and defend the laws and constitution of the State of Pennsylvania, so help him God. Groff said he would, and the old man said he hereby appointed him a special deputy policeman of the Borough of Hebertown. "And," he added, "I sure hope this is legal because I've been doing it all day. Sign your name on this list. Clarence, give this man a thirty-eight. Have you got a handkerchief, mister? No? Clarence, give the man a clean handkerchief to tie around his arm."

"Army!" the chief snorted. "The chamber under the hammer is kept empty in civilian life, Groff. Let me see you load it."

Fishing in his memory, Groff broke the revolver, set the safety, loaded it and closed it, being very careful where he pointed the thing.

The chief said, "I guess I won't have to take it back after all. Now you stick around and wait. Talk to Murphy over there. He's been a deputy before this."

Murphy was small and quiet. He volunteered that he was a plumber and that there'd be a lot of work for him after all this was over. He showed Groff how to carry his pistol in the waistband of his pants and said cautioningly, "Of course we ain't going to use them, you understand."

Groff, who had his doubts about it, said he understood and watched while a battery-operated receiver-transmitter on another of the card tables came to life under the ministrations of a sixteen-year-old boy. The fire chief and the police chief both charged over; so after a while did a doctor from the outside when the word reached him. The three tried simultaneously to dictate messages to the bulldozed teen-ager.

The fire chief wanted chemical trucks sent in, as many as could be rounded up. The police chief wanted National Guardsmen, at least a battalion. The doctor wanted to know where the hell the goddam army field hospital was. It was an interesting fight and Mickey Groff was sorry when a trouble call came in and he and Murphy missed the end of it.

The man in the Legion cap said, "You best give me that gun, fella. I can handle it."

"So can I," said Mickey Groff. He wasn't nasty about it; but the man in the Legion cap shrugged and let it go. "This the place?" Groff asked as the car stopped.

"This is the place." The Legionnaire scowled worriedly. "They took all the boats across the river. You see anything over there?"

Groff got out of the car and looked. It was full dark now, and the river was wide. There were lights of some kind on the opposite bank, but he couldn't have told you what they were. Flashlights and electric lanterns, most likely.

Groff ordered, "Turn the car to the right. Put the brights on." The Legionnaire cramped the wheels around and inched forward. He kicked the button of the highway-beam headlights.

"They're coming, all right," said Groff. Shapes were lying on the water, punctuated with hand lights.

"Sons of bitches," said the Legionnaire bitterly. "Now there'll be hell to pay. Four of us against every goddam goon on the river—and Harry and me ain't even got guns."

"Take it easy, Walt," Murphy said. But in the reflection from the headlights Groff could see his face was worried.

Murphy, who had appointed himself in charge of the detail, sent the Legionnaire named Walt after the Legionnaire named Harry; and he disposed them as best he could. Groff got the place of honor—he had a gun. He was put on the end of a little loading jetty; Murphy took a position on a floating landing platform; Walt and Harry were left to stand by the car, to keep the lights on the boats.

And the boats came on, four of them, put-putting through the water in convoy formation. Funny, thought Groff abstractedly; if I were them I'd come ashore upstream a little way. This is the natural place for deputies to be waiting for them. If they used their heads they'd know that, and they'd come ashore somewhere else—

Harry, behind the wheel of the car, was making a fantastic amount of racket grinding gears, racing the motor, shifting back and forth to pick out one boat after another with the headlights. Damn fool, thought Groff aggrievedly. He could hardly hear the deputy named Murphy shouting at the approaching boats. There was some kind of answer from them, but he couldn't make that out at all.

Groff carefully dropped to one knee, rested his hand with the revolver in it on the railing of the jetty, and took aim at the lead boat. How long had it been since he'd fired the pistol-dismounted qualifying range? Nearly fifteen years, he guessed; it was in the first few months of basic training, and always after that it had been a carbine or an M-1.

It was the man Walt, grabbing for the gun. "Leggo, you!" he panted, clutching at the revolver. "If you're too yellow to shoot let me have it!"

Walt was no kid; he was in his late fifties at the least. But he was big and solid, and Groff was off balance. For a moment he staggered at the end of the jetty, Walt leaning on him....

The water was cold and the current was fast. What became of the revolver Groff didn't know. He broke surface, spluttering and choking.

Walt was splashing right beside him. "Help me!" he bawled. "For God's sake, help me! I can't swim!"

Groff had one bitter moment of temptation—let him drown! cried his subconscious. But then the decision was out of his hands. Walt flailed toward him and caught him. Groff went under, choking; he struggled upward, carrying the panicky man with him, got a breath, went under again—

The goons! Instinctively he tried to fight free, but somebody in the boat had a good grip on his arm. They hauled him in, and another boat had Walt.

"You all right?" one of the men in the boat demanded anxiously. Groff said dizzily, "Sure. But—"

"Take it easy," said the man in the boat. "We'll take you up to the emergency center. We figured you people'd need some help, so after we got things under control on our side we came on over." He said proudly, "They thought I was nuts, keeping after everybody to join the Civil Defense squads. I guess they'll change their minds now!"

Chief Brayer was looking a little ashamed of himself, but he recovered quickly. All the men from the other side of the river had guns; all of them were personally vouched for by the Civil Defense man; they made valuable reinforcements for the exhausted deputies Brayer had been swearing in.

They found dry clothes for Groff, and Brayer put him in charge of the dispatcher's desk to give him a chance to warm up. It had turned windy with nightfall.

There was a commotion outside, and a couple of state troopers came in. Groff looked past them; there was a dignified-looking old man, somebody of importance, by the way the troopers stood by him.

Groff stood up to get a better look. Chesbro glanced around the room, caught Groff's eye, looked away, gave him a fishy smile, spoke to the dignified-looking old man, and shepherded him out of the room, along with Chief Brayer and a couple of other top men.

Something didn't smell good. Groff called another deputy over and asked him to take care of the desk. He walked over to one of the troopers and said: "Who's that you came in with?"

The trooper said, "Congressman Akslund, that's the old guy. The other fellow's some kind of local big shot, I guess. You ought to know him better than me."

Mickey Groff looked thoughtfully at the door Chesbro and the congressman and the village elders had gone out through.

Back at the filling station. The night Zehedi had died. What was Sharon Froman selling Chesbro? "A big regional organization to fight back against the inroads of the South. You and me, Mr. Chesbro."

Mickey Groff shook his head, half-enraged, half-admiring. You had to hand it to Chesbro; he always kept his eye on the ball.

It involved a number of things, starting with a phone call at noon from the White House to Fort Lowder, New Jersey. A major general commanding a division in training there said to the phone call, "Yes sir," and after he hung up, to his one-star assistant commander, "Excellent training for the 432nd, Jim. Get it done." The brigadier made some calls and then he and the C.G. finished their lunch serenely. The calls whipped Fort Lowder to a froth of activity that looked senseless at first; an engineer officer took off like a bat out of hell in one of the division's light planes and soared over the flood valley 175 miles away, swooped low over promising field after field, and returned. Leaves were canceled for the division's quartermaster battalion of two-and-a-half-ton, six-by-six trucks. Ordnance mechanics of the division's heavy maintenance company swarmed like maggots around a dozen red-lined vehicles under orders to get them rolling at any cost. Warehouses were skillfully looted of parts by ordnance sergeants while ordnance lieutenants engaged guards in casual conversations that ended when they got the high sign that all was well. And the cause of all the activity, the 432nd field-hospital battalion, which had almost forgotten that it was a field-hospital battalion, got the pitch by early afternoon. Long broken up into their training-camp formation, scattered through dispensaries and the base hospital, they were abruptly reminded of their battle mission by an announcement over the base PA system by the division surgeon, their commander.

Wonderingly, the six hundred officers and men formed on the parade ground, many still in hospital whites. They were young M.D. first lieutenants grinding out their drafted service wearily. They were male R.N.'s with their big perennial bitch that they were lucky to get a rocker while a woman of equal training automatically got a gold bar. They were corporals who knew one end of a hypodermic needle from another, pharmacists who ached to inventory their own stock of trusses, penicillin, candy bars, yo-yo's and bulk vanilla ice cream in their own corner stores again, privates and recruits who could swing a sledge or mop a corridor. They were a handful of majors and lieutenant colonels who were honest-to-God career military surgeons passionately interested in the problems and possibilities of their work. On the parade ground the division surgeon reminded them of something. It was that they were trained to move into a given bare field and turn it, in two hours, into a functioning, five-hundred-bed hospital.

They dispersed to almost-forgotten warehouses where they broke out field medical chests of instruments and medicine. They found again the long coiled snakes of green treated canvas, tons of it, the 500 litters, and the thousand tent pegs, big and small, and the jointed tent poles and the miles of rope, each piece in its place, and the sledges to drive the pegs, and the Coleman lanterns to hang on the poles. The trucks of the quartermaster battalion backed up and the tiny handful of field-grade officers buzzed everywhere, yelling and cajoling and consulting loading lists, and trucks were unloaded and reloaded a dozen times in some cases to get the right load in its right place in the line of convoy.

The engineers had finished an overlay strip map of the route by then, and mimeographs began to spin out copies for the quartermaster drivers. An MP platoon moved out in a truck and one man was dropped at each tricky intersection to wave the convoy through. Each MP had a couple of K-rations with him, because he'd be busy long into the night; as the convoy went past the rearmost men they'd be picked up in the truck and leap-frogged ahead of the foremost men to the next tricky intersections.

The water trucks went as a matter of course, but it took a flash of genius for somebody to realize that the area would be short of gas, and this got the infantry into it. A puzzled rifle company found itself yanked off the firing range and assigned to the mysterious chore of filling five-gallon jerry cans with gas from the pumps of the division motor pool and stacking them solid in three six-by-sixes.

It took a flash of West Point tradition for the division band to be massed at the camp gate when the 432nd rolled off shortly before sunset. The division commander was there; the band oompahed and he impassively took the salute from the startled doctors in the command cars. A few of the enlisted men of the battalion rolling past remembered vaguely about crossing the arms and sitting at attention. There wasn't a man there who was not, though they'd hoot at the word, inspired by the ancient tradition of the field music and the ancient greeting they were exchanging with the tough old pro who was sending them on their way.

They rolled for six hours, until their tailbones were bruised and their bladders ready to burst, along highway and detour and miserable blacktop. It was dark soon, but the sound of some of the bridges they rumbled over scared them silly. K-rations and canteen water staved off the boredom, and so did banter when they crept through the towns.

They arrived eventually at the field the engineer officer had spotted from his division plane and stiffly went about turning the field into a five-hundred-bed hospital. It took cursing and coaxing, and five men, utterly out of condition, doubled up clutching at brand-new hernias while they manhandled the tons of canvas and pegs and poles. Another was doping off in the dark and a truck backed over him, killing him. The casualty rate for the operation was one per cent, which was not bad.

While the tents rose in the headlights' glare the officers in their jeeps and command cars were spreading out to the stricken communities. One of them found Hebertown, two miles away.

The young lieutenant, for a few hours not wearily grinding through his period of drafted service, said to Chief Brayer, "We're prepared to take over your entire medical load. Who's in charge on the medical side?"

The police chief said to one of his men wearily, "Get Dr. Soames. Good news for him."

But Soames had seen the jeep and medics in it. He burst in and roared: "Tench-hut!" Automatically the lieutenant popped to. "Suck in that gut!" Soames snarled, and then broke into relieved, hysterical laughter. "My God, you looked funny as hell," he wheezed at the officer. "Haven't had so much fun since we bribed the cooks to serve the division surgeon fricassee of haemoangioma!"

The lieutenant looked a little green and asked stiffly, "How many cases have you, doctor?"

"Ninety-five, shavetail. Take 'em away. We're all beat to our socks here. The town medics, the emergency people they flew in—we're beat." Dr. Soames sagged into a chair and seemed to lose interest.

The lieutenant went outside to his jeep and told the signal corps man with the SCR 6300: "Ambulance-fitted trucks for ninety-five cases. I'll check 'em over and get them classified."

Mrs. Goudeket and Polly Chesbro had, semi-automatically, fallen into the routine of the improvised hospital. For hours they had been doling out rationed water, mopping brows, jumping to the "Here-you" of the handful of nurses and doctors, cleaning up vomit and blood, dumping and washing ducks and bedpans. Mrs. Goudeket first saw the brisk new lieutenant talking crisply to an exhausted nurse.

Polly said wanly, "That's nice." She wasn't listening, particularly. She'd come to the hospital in the first place to keep an eye on the burgess, but he was off in an upper room, what they humorously called the "quiet" ward because there was, in fact, fractionally less noise and confusion there than on the lower level. She hadn't seen him for hours.

Mrs. Goudeket insisted, "Look, darling. There's another one. Maybe another ambulance came in?"

"That's nice," said Polly, escaping. They were moving two of the patients again, and it was her sector of the floor. The patients were carried off in litters—new green ones, Polly noticed wearily; maybe there was another ambulance in. Strip the cots, bundle the bedding, scrounge through the stacks of afghans and torn sheets and quilted comforters for something to make a new bed with, turn down the covers and help the new patient in.

Two pink-faced kids in clean green fatigues brushed by her and set a litter down next to the bed with the eleven-year-old boy in it. Polly started to warn them about his probable fractured ribs; he had been under most of a frame dwelling for eight hours before he was found. But they seemed to know what they were doing; they rolled him gently to one side, slipped the litter under, rolled him gently back.

She watched them carrying him away. Funny. A lot of the patients were going away, carried by these frighteningly expert, incredibly fresh new people.

It had to be true. Help had arrived—help in quantities, enough to meet the need.

Polly stood up straight. "That's nice," she said dizzily, and pitched headfirst across the bed she was stripping down.

Dick McCue, young and healthy and very tired after toting the burgess in, had slept twelve hours, awakening in darkness in the school gymnasium. A child was crying on one of the other litters and a weary mother was trying to soothe it. McCue was enormously hungry; his last "meal" had been a cup of syrupy coffee before he staggered into the improvised dormitory and passed out; his last before that had been breakfast on cheese crackers in the gas station. His stomach was actively growling.

He headed for a dim door, stumbling over litters and bundles of personal possessions; he was cursed a couple of times.

The dark corridor outside was lighted at its end, and he emerged into the school lobby full of men with homemade armbands. From somewhere came a tantalizing smell of coffee.

He asked one of the brassarded men. "Just coffee here," the man said. "Nearest food's the diner up the hill. Can't miss it; it's lit."

And the diner did stand out like a bonfire by virtue of one pressure lamp. He found a cop there to keep order and a chipper waitress who looked at him, grinned and set out a bowl of breakfast food, crunched open a can of condensed milk with the corner of a cleaver and poured the whole can into the bowl. "Sugar," she said, and shoved the dispenser at him.

"Thanks." He poured sugar on and began to spoon down the cloying mixture as fast as he could.

He patted his stomach experimentally. "I guess not," he said. "You have any coffee?"

"For free," she said. She assumed a Greek accent. "Mr. Padopolous says, America's so good to him this is his chance to say thank you."

He walked out into the dark and bummed a cigarette from the cop. After a deep drag he told him, "I'm a transient. In town by accident."

The cop shrugged. "Not much. Help's getting here, lots of it. The army rolled in a hospital and the governor sent a battalion of National Guards. One of them's supposed to show up here and relieve me so I can get some sleep." He yawned tremendously and sat down on the diner steps. "My advice to you, get some sleep and in the morning they'll have something fixed up for you. Maybe those army trucks'll get you where you want to go."

Dick said, "Thanks," and walked off. Well, he'd missed it. Slept right through it.

The cop called after him, "Hey, kid. Not toward River Street. The Guard sent a sound truck around. Unsafe buildings, wide-open warehouses and stores. They're patrolling with guns. Got it?"

"Got it," said the too-late hero. "Thanks." He turned right and walked on. He'd be able to find the school again; it was the only place in town, maybe the only place for miles, with two lights in front, one shining through the door and the other hung to a spike in a phone pole outside where the motor-pool man guarded a weird collection of vehicles.

He rambled down one dark street cursing inwardly. He was sure the big, dynamic Mickey Groff hadn't slept through it, had seized the chance for leadership and heroism.

Quite suddenly his chance arrived and he almost walked right past it. Two writhing figures in a doorway, a woman and a man in a silent, deadly struggle. He had one arm around her head and his paw over her mouth; her dress was torn down the front.

It flashed through his head. He was about to Defend the Virtue of a Maiden against the assault of a Lust-Maddened, Drink-Crazed Human Beast. Chivalry stuff.

A fist flailed from nowhere and smashed him high on the right cheek, hard enough to make an icy area of numbness for a moment and then—hell's own pain. From that moment his heart was in it. While the woman, shoved aside, lay on the ground panting, he waded into the man. After the first few blows it was no longer a fight but first-degree assault. He battered the man to the ground and stood over him grimly, his chest heaving. "You want any more?" he croaked.

He looked around for the woman; she was reeling down the street, one arm propping her against the wall. A couple came scurrying past, stared at her and gave her a wide berth. He hastened after her. "Can I help you?" he asked.

She said sluggishly, "Went to see if my sister was—no. Jus' go away. Thanks, and everything. But leave me alone. Please."

He backed off and watched her slowly make her way down the street. She turned a corner and he crossed the street to see. She painfully climbed the steps of a frame house with a porch, went inside and the great adventure was over.

In Hollywood, he thought sourly, it would have been just the beginning. The boy and the girl meet cute and you take it from there. In real life you save them from rape and they don't want to have anything to do with you. She was probably embarrassed, horribly so, and wanted no part of anybody who had seen her with her dress torn, about to be violated.

As he walked he constructed a face-saving fantasy about another maiden who might be less preoccupied and more grateful, but it was uphill work. His cheek was very bad, and it occurred to him that it might be more than a bruise; people did get fractures there. Also he seemed to have broken a knuckle.

He turned around and headed back for the school. Maybe he could find a doctor there to take a look at his face; he was by then almost sure he could feel bones grating when he worked his jaw.

It was a panel truck, like any other panel truck you might see except for the name on the side and the thirty-meter whip antenna sticking up from the roof. It parked out in front of the schoolhouse and Mickey Groff stepped outside to see what was going on. Federal Broadcasting System Mobile Unit Four, he read. One of the men in the front seat wore headphones, was talking into a hand microphone.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Hell of a fat audience they'll have to listen to them now, thought Groff. It didn't occur to him that all over the country listeners were staying up past their bedtimes for just such eyewitness, on-the-spot accounts as this.

It was good advice for the chief too, Groff thought. He was too old a man for this sort of carrying-on. The national guardsmen had taken over the problems of patrolling the flooded-out, burned-out areas, and most of the temporary deputies had turned in their guns and armbands. But Groff wasn't sleepy. He was tired, dead-sick tired, but he wasn't sleepy.

Brayer rubbed his chin. "I forgot you and him were competitors," he said, almost apologetically.

Brayer looked at him thoughtfully and shrugged. "You think Chesbro's horning in on something? Maybe you're right. He's thick as thieves with old Akslund, all right, and I'd swear they never saw each other before today. The congressman's all hotted up about a regional disaster-relief agency. He's been sending out statements and messages—right through our own radio; I read some of them. One of them went right to the White House, boy. He's asking for a billion dollars grant."

"No!" said Groff, suddenly hot. "What's the matter with you, Brayer? You know this Chesbro—Starkman knows him. He's a cheap angle-shooting county politician. Not even your own county, for God's sake! I came up here to start a factory—maybe not a very big factory, compared to Ford or R.C.A., but the biggest damned factory I ever tried to start; and Chesbro was in on the ground floor ahead of me, trying to steal my factory site for some two-bit deal of his own. You think he cares about Hebertown? You think he's going to worry about whether the right people get the right money, or whether the area makes a recovery from this? He cares about Artie Chesbro, and that's all!"

"Hold on, hell! If Henry Starkman wasn't half-dead, he wouldn't let Chesbro get away with this! What right have you got to—"

"Hold on, boy!" The old man was suddenly erect, forceful. "You don't have to tell me what Henry likes and doesn't like. Forty-one years we've been friends, and between us we pretty near run this town. And you know what's been happening? Every year a couple more buildings off the tax rolls, every year another couple thousand dollars short in collections. Chesbro? Sure, boy. He's out for number one. But I saw that message that went to the White House. It said a billion dollars. God, man—do you know what any part of a billion dollars would mean to Hebertown?"

He glared at Groff without speaking for a moment. Then he leaned back and rubbed his eyes wearily. "A billion dollars," he said, and it was like a prayer.

The little ranch house had been perfectly untouched by the flood; it was well uphill on Sullivan Street. Representative Akslund worked comfortably through the day in the pine-paneled den. His work consisted mostly of conversation with Artie Chesbro while Sharon sat by and took notes by candlelight. Agreement was reached, a statement was signed, the old man yawned politely and shuffled off to the master bedroom. "You release this to the network," he said from the door. "The wire services can take it off the air. Good night."

"Damn it," said Chesbro peevishly. The mobile broadcasting truck was gone. They scurried around with flashlights; Sharon found a state trooper who thought he remembered seeing it heading down toward the roped-off area at the foot of River Street. The houses there were either down or abandoned, and the only permitted persons were national guardsmen, theoretically patrolling against looters.

She said, projecting throatily, "Mickey! Thank heaven. It's good to see you, Mickey. We were worried."

Artie Chesbro caught her eye and slid away. Sharon said gaily, "Hasn't this been a day? We haven't slept ten minutes altogether since we saw you last. Luckily I'm a writer." She lifted her briefcase with a smile.

"We writers have our little secrets," she said. She put her hand on his shoulder, strolling him away.

"He'll be back," Sharon assured him. "Buy me a cup of coffee and tell me what's been going on."

"Buying" a cup of coffee consisted of rinsing out a cup and ladling black coffee out of the tarry stew that had been bubbling over a gasoline flame for six hours. Groff let himself be steered and took a sip of the coffee. It was awful, but it was coffee. He said, "I've been helping out around here as best I could. So has Chesbro's wife, and so has Mrs. Goudeket. And you?"

Sharon said with a quiet pride, "We've been doing our share, believe me. We've spent the whole day with Congressman Akslund. He just went to bed a few minutes ago."

Sharon looked at him with cold resentment. "That's an unpleasant remark, Groff," she said thinly. "If that's the way you intend to talk, I'll leave you alone." She turned her back on him and walked haughtily away.

Anyway, Artie Chesbro was already out of sight; there was no chance that Groff could find him before he reached the mobile unit.

Poor Mickey Groff, thought Sharon with deep and sincere sympathy, he would take it hard when he heard Chesbro had Congressman Akslund's backing to head the Emergency Relief Committee. But he had had his chance. He had seen her first, but he had chosen to throw in his lot with Mrs. Goudeket and that fantastic Chesbro woman; and she had gone over to the better man.

Mrs. Goudeket tottered into the marble lobby of the schoolhouse. A flaring pressure lamp threw grotesque shadows against the polished walls and the room was almost empty. Some men dozed over their card tables and desks. Outside the last of the ambulance-fitted six-by-sixes was rolling noisily away with the last of the casualties.

"Chief?" Mrs. Goudeket said timidly. "Just a few hours since I asked, but I think things have changed a lot, hah?"

He focused on her with difficulty and said at last, "Oh. The lady from the hotel."

"Goudeket's Green Acres," she said automatically, with pride. "I was thinking that now maybe things are more under control, hah? So maybe you could spare me a car, some gas. I have to get back, look over my property—" If it still is my property, the thought came, unwelcome.

Mrs. Goudeket was exasperated. "You heard. A car! Look, if it makes you feel better, I could take some people with me. You need shelter? I have room. Believe me, by now I bet I have more room than you can imagine. We have food, too." Food for the booked-solid week, which would now be a week of hundred-per-cent cancellations and empty tables.

Chief Brayer looked wearily interested. "Yes," he said absently, "you would have food. All right. I yelled at you before, didn't I? I'm sorry—"

She shrugged. "No apologies, please. Your language—But you meant well. You were busy."

"We needed the cars," he said doggedly. "We had to keep them for an emergency, you see. That's all that counted. In case there was a fire or a burglary, the cars had to be here."

"Don't explain. Please, do I get a car? I'll be careful. I could write out a check, leave a deposit—" She had almost said five hundred dollars. "A hundred dollars?"

"Don't have to." Like a man in a slow-motion movie he hauled a memo pad across the desk, hoisted a pen from his uniform coat pocket. He wrote painfully. "Give this to Mr. Cioni—you know where the cars are? Across the street? All right. How far do you have to go?"

She threw up her hands. "Who knows? Always before it was seventeen miles. Now we have to go around and around—who knows?" There was an edge to her voice.

Across the street, three trucks and four pleasure cars, one of them with the tires flat. The motor pool. A civilian in charge, and in the back a national guardsman with a gun.

The man in charge of the motor pool studied the note with a flashlight whose beam was fading to orange. He looked at her doubtfully. "You going to drive it?"

"Me? Nah." He pottered over to a '47 Dodge sedan and copied the plate number on the chief's note. "Give me your address, lady?"

She did. He copied it down with the license number. "Sign," he said, and she did. Mr. Cioni copied the data onto another sheet, signed it and carefully put the original chit in his pocket. He gave her his copy. "This is your trip ticket," he said. "In case you get stopped by a state trooper, this proves you didn't steal the car. We hope."

Now garrulous, he added: "She's yours. I don't know if this is legal, but it makes sense, doesn't it? At least we got records. After things are straightened out I guess somebody'll get in touch with you to return the car."

She misread his fatigue and his nerves as suspicion. She said haughtily, "Young fella, at Goudeket's Green Acres we have a fleet of late-model cars and station wagons. And to be very frank with you, if a guest should drive up in a forty-seven car in this condition, the room clerk would discover that his reservation had not been received, believe me." Almost she believed it, in the heat of the moment. Almost Goudeket's Green Acres was the Concord or the Grossinger's they had meant it for.

"Please, you should give me a half a tank of gas. Mr. Brayer said so." She looked pointedly at the stack of jerry cans that had been dumped by one of the quartermaster trucks.

Mr. Cioni wearily climbed into the car, snapped on the dash light and turned the key. The gas needle stayed on zero. Mrs. Goudeket inhaled triumphantly.

He banged the dial with the heel of his hand and watched it creep joltingly up to the halfway mark. He said to nobody, "I know these babies." He said to Mrs. Goudeket, "You got your half a tank. Good luck."

Her feet were killing her. Across the street, back into the schoolhouse, up the stairs.

She hiked wearily into the deserted "quiet ward," where Polly Chesbro was sprawled on one stained cot and Dick McCue, looking like the returned stray cat he was, on another.

He sneered experimentally. "I guess so." He yawned, and that did hurt; but not too much. "I thought maybe it was a broken bone, but it just hurts on the skin now. I'll live." He was feeling pretty cheerful. The disappointing parts of his Rout of the Drunken Beast were dropping out of his recollection. He said, "Did you get the car, Mrs. G.?"

"Of course," she said, surprised. "Why not? Things have quieted down. They have time for a reasonable request from an important local business proprietor." He looked at her sharply, but there was no expression on her face. For the first time it occurred to Dick McCue that here was a woman, not so very smart, not so very young, capable of being wrong, capable of having foolish hopes. She thought she was still an important local business proprietor. A ramshackle summer hotel. They folded by the hundreds, year after year; it didn't take a flood to put them out of business. The flood was only the mercy bullet through the blindfold, after the man was down.

Polly was awake. She said, "Mrs. Goudeket, it's nice of you to offer to take us in, but—"

Mrs. Goudeket snapped angrily, "He's your father, maybe? A whole hospital they bring in on trucks to take care of him, and you can't trust the doctors to fix him up? So stay, Mrs. Chesbro! Hang around the old man some more, make a fool out of yourself. But I have to get to work!"

She glared furiously at the other woman, trembling with anger. Polly Chesbro was wiser than she; Polly felt the anger, and knew it was directed not at herself but at something inside the old lady. Polly said perceptively, "Don't worry, Mrs. Goudeket. Everything always works out."

The old lady was crying. Dick McCue stared in wonder as Polly Chesbro put her arms around the woman and protected her from the harsh surrounding world.

After a moment Mrs. Goudeket pushed herself away, sniffing. "You have a Kleenex?" she inquired, embarrassed. "I don't know what got into me, Polly. Please, you have to excuse—"

"No, not worn out. Tired, yes. Sick, maybe." Mrs. Goudeket wiped her streaming nose and said dismally, "Ever since Sam died it's slave, slave, slave. You know what Sam said? Every year. 'Next year we go to the Holy Land, why not?' And always I found a reason. So we kept on with the hotel, and it killed him." She patted Polly's arm absently. "Worn out is from a summer with the guests complaining about the food and changing their rooms. From something like this flood you only get tired."

Mrs. Goudeket pulled herself together after a while. Polly left her, and then came back. "Mr. Starkman's wife is with him," she reported. "I suppose I might as well go with you, Mrs. Goudeket—if the offer's still open."

"Much better. They think he'll be all right now." Polly Chesbro's expression was grave and joyous. They'd pulled the old man through; and Bess Starkman had been more than grateful for Polly's help to her husband. Polly said, "Let's get the others."

Mrs. Goudeket looked mutinous. "Mr. Groff is perfectly welcome to come if he is so inclined," she said. "Likewise Mr. Chesbro. But as for Miss Froman, believe me, Polly, I know her better than you. She'll get along wherever she is, trust her, but it isn't going to be at Goudeket's Green Acres."

Polly was stubborn and silent, but she went down the stairs with them uncomplainingly.

They found the three in the ground-floor cloakroom where coffee had been dispensed through the day. Mickey Groff was the gray-looking one. Sharon and Artie Chesbro seemed to have tapped some source of strength and wakefulness not given to ordinary humans.

Mrs. Goudeket announced flatly, "I've got a car, to go to my place, Goudeket's Green Acres. I think it is a good idea if you all come with me. Here is finished; they have the army now, and plenty of doctors, National Guard, everything. Why should we be a burden? I have plenty of room for—"

She hesitated; the words didn't want to come out. She glowered at them: Big, solid Groff; big, sly Chesbro; soiled, amused-by-it-all Sharon Froman. Yenta, she thought scathingly. Dirty, low female—but still she needs help. As I may need help some day. As from the Mountain we were told to give help.

So full of energy and joy! Mrs. Goudeket muttered angrily to herself, but all she said out loud was, "Well, yes or no?"

Artie Chesbro said cheerfully, "That's very nice of you, Mrs. Goudeket. I think I'd better stay in Hebertown, though—some important things to take care of. There's a radio truck around somewhere and I want to—"

Sharon interrupted loudly, with a warning look, "Mr. Chesbro means Congressman Akslund has left him some work to do. Anyway, Mrs. Goudeket—"

Oh, she was arch! And no sleep, marveled Mrs. Goudeket—"much as I'd love to join your little party and share the finest of accommodations for which your hotel is noted, there are big things to be done. So thanks, but no thanks."

"Fine," said Mrs. Goudeket. "Stay here with your big things. Now before somebody steals my car, we better go." She folded the trip ticket from the motor pool and put it down on the table next to Dick McCue. Mickey Groff said, "Wait a minute, Mrs. Goudeket. What are these 'big things?'"

Chesbro laughed. "Groff, does Macy's tell Gimbel's? I tell you what. You want the Swanscomb place, right?" He shrugged generously. "It's yours. I won't buck you."

"If you won't buck me it's because you don't want it any more," Groff said. "You're after bigger game. What would that be, Chesbro? A finger in a billion-dollar pie? A chance to spread federal funds around the way you want to? Maybe the break you've been waiting for?"

Chesbro said fretfully, "Now Mickey, please. Why can't you be reasonable? You're an outlander here, you've got nothing to do with the community. You want to move in with your nickel factory? Go ahead. I won't stand in your way. I'll even help you. But you can't do anything with the federal grants, because you don't have the connections, because you don't have the information about who needs what, because you aren't local and wouldn't be allowed to come within smelling distance of it in the first place. Why not live and let live?"

He was open and honest, Groff saw—as open and honest as the likes of Artie Chesbro ever knew how to be. You work your side of the street, he was saying, and I'll work mine. Under the ethical stands of Artie Chesbro he had made an honorable proposal. It would never have occurred to him to entertain propositions like—

A businessman who opposes what you want to do is not necessarily a jealous rival.

There simply was no handle, Groff thought, by which you could get hold of the man. He was completely out of touch. Off in a kind of a dream. It was almost as if he was drunk; but that, of course, was impossible—liquor would have put him out on his feet in seconds.

She said, "Artie, I know how your mind works. Did you think if you got on the radio and told them that you and the congressman were handling relief here, that would keep him from backing out? Did you think everybody in the country would be listening—at this time of the morning!—and that would make it official?"

"They're recording," Artie Chesbro said sullenly. "They're going to rebroadcast in the morning. I already talked to one of the men from the network."

Dick McCue said, "Mr. Chesbro, it's nothing to me one way or another. But there's a curfew, you know. You can't go running around out there tonight."

Artie Chesbro's expression was petulant. "Leave me alone, will you? I know what I'm doing!"

Polly Chesbro folded her hands and looked at him. "Artie, don't you ever learn?" Her expression was gentle, her voice was calm—even warm, Groff thought, with a sudden shock that was almost jealousy. "Remember the television station?"

"You were all set to make a million dollars out of television," she said. "Remember? Only you wouldn't wait for the F.C.C. to grant the license. 'We'll start building,' you said, 'and then they won't have the guts to turn us down.' Only they did. You never got that construction permit. What was it my father put up? Fifteen thousand dollars? And you lost it all, remember?"

"Then there was the drive-in theater. You only got five thousand out of my father for that. But that went down the drain, too, like all your other million-dollar ideas. What was it that time? You figured you could buck the motion-picture projectionists' union? And then—"

Mickey Groff cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, Polly. You're embarrassing everybody."

Polly laughed gently. "I'm sorry. But really, I hate to see my husband go off like this again."

Groff said to Chesbro, "Like I say, I don't want to butt in; but remember what McCue said about the curfew, Chesbro. I happen to have been around when the national guardsmen got their orders; I wouldn't go out there if I were you."

Mrs. Goudeket said heavily, "That's right, Mr. Chesbro. I was down by the motor-pool place, and they've got guns and—"

"Now you just listen to me!" It was Sharon Froman, her eyes flashing, her face a Valkyrie face. "Arthur Chesbro knows what he's doing, and it isn't up to any of us to try to stop him! You make me sick, all of you. I spent the whole day with Arthur and Congressman Akslund and, believe me, the congressman knows Arthur understands how to do things. And if Arthur's all right with the congressman, I don't see why he shouldn't be all right with a wet-behind-the-ears kid—" Dick McCue's jaw dropped open—"or a fat old biddy—" Mrs. Goudeket began to sputter—"or a mental case—" Polly Chesbro only nodded judiciously, but Mickey Groff sat up straight and cut in.

"Just a minute, Miss Froman!" he started; but he couldn't make himself heard. They were all talking at once—

He closed the door quietly behind him and walked out the main door, nodding pleasantly to the guardsman, across the street to the car pool. It was all going so well, he thought dreamily, so very well. He even managed a little wry chuckle of amusement about the silly spectacle his wife had made of herself. That silly old business of the television station! That ridiculous story about the drive-in theater! But he could afford good-humoredly to overlook her raking up those long dead scores, because everything was going very well indeed.

Curfew? Not a problem, he thought with satisfaction, not as long as he had been wise and clever enough to pick up Mrs. Goudeket's trip ticket. The car was his now—he'd just have to say Mrs. Goudeket had sent him. He wouldn't be on foot for any length of time, and no one would bother him in the car, with a regulation trip ticket. The whole world was well within his grasp, he realized with satisfaction and joy.

And it was due at least in part to Sharon Froman. He nodded to himself in the darkness, picking his way carefully down the slippery street. She had written the official announcement of the plan for a Tri-State Emergency Allocations Supervisory Board that he and the congressman—with Sharon Froman—had cooked up.

Artie Chesbro chuckled out loud. Why, it was even Sharon who had been so resourceful about the matter of the benzedrine. He had been pretty near passed out with fatigue early in the day, even before the congressman had arrived; and she had produced, out of what she gaily called her "kit of writing tools," the little bottle of ten-grain tablets that had waked him up, sharpened his brain, made it possible for him to work on through the endlessly exhausting day.

A fine girl. A great acquisition. They would go far together, thought Artie Chesbro, stumbling dreamily down the misty street, filled with the sense of power, alive with the joy of achievement—coked to the eyebrows.

Mr. Cioni saw the man approach jauntily. Who, he wondered, can be full of bounce at this hour—one of the new people from the field hospital? But as the man came into the cone of light from the shaded Coleman lantern he saw that the fellow wasn't army, that he wore in fact the uniform of an old-timer who had been through the day and a half on the spot. The uniform was a stained and shapeless suit, mud-caked shoes, red eyes and a growth of beard.

"I'm Mr. Chesbro," the man said to Mr. Cioni. "I've come to pick up the car allotted to Mrs. Goudeket."

Chesbro smiled and handed over the trip ticket. "She's exhausted. I'll pick her up and drive."

Artie almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of advice from this nobody to him, confidant of Akslund, Johnny on the most wonderful spot imaginable.

He drove off. River Street? Yes; the broadcasters were at River Street. He turned left and heard faintly a shout from the little nobody of the motor pool.

A fragment of the Rubaiyat—now there was a poem, not like those jumbled things Polly wrote!—drifted by. Would we not shatter it to bits, and then remold it closer to the heart's desire? Which was exactly what was going to happen. He had never really had a big chance before, but by waiting and building and sending out his lines of communication he had survived until the big chance came along. The county was shattered to bits, and he would remold it. It wouldn't look like much to an outsider—Akslund. To Akslund and his staff he would seem a disinterested and patriotic businessman working his guts out with no hope of personal gain to reconstruct the smitten area.

The five walked into the motor pool. Mrs. Goudeket stared blankly at the empty space where the Dodge had been. She said to Mr. Cioni hopefully, "You moved it? Into the street?"

"Just resourceful," grinned Sharon Froman. "He'll be back. Let's wait. He just wants to get the statement out to the country. Time's important, you know. He's got to hit the morning papers and newscasts." And I, she thought comfortably, pointed that out to him. The boy's geared to a country-weekly tempo, but he's got talent all the same.

Mrs. Goudeket said something long, eloquent and heartfelt in Yiddish. Groff, the New Yorker, got the gist. It was a prayer that Artie Chesbro die of cholera upside-down with his head stuck in the ground like a radish and worms eating out his ears.

His lists. There would be two of them, one of people to get the nod and the other of people to get the nix.

"A sound businessman and a hard worker, that boy. Built his place up from nothing. Guts and brains, the kind of man we want to help first—fast. I know his stock and his turnover, and I'd say fifty thousand would set him on his feet again. Of course he's the kind who'll consider it a debt of honor, won't rest until it's clear...."

And the other. "Um. Yes. Know the man well. We've got to help him, of course, but I wouldn't put him at the top of the list. The vital services have got to be restored first, of course. I know people need (shoes, gasoline, bread, hardware) but it's my feeling that a more efficient man should be assisted first. We don't want any free riders and we don't want to subsidize chaotic competition in the first month."

No indeed. We want to organize the area. A nod to Flaherty, the fuel man whose note I hold. A nix to Greenlease, the hardware man who unpatriotically carries his current obligations and improvement loans in Philadelphia. A nod to Erpco Feed, who buy their sacks from my very good friend and associate Don Rider, who is under my thumb because of his lease. A nix to Fowling, the appliance wholesaler who won't use my trucks when he's in my territory. A man who doesn't encourage local business is asking for trouble, and this is his chance to get it. An emphatic nod to Rorty and his skinny new wholesaling business; in a year he'll pass Fowling and I'll be in the driver's seat.

Turn nobody down, he cautioned himself. Merely postpone, and postpone, and postpone. And eventually there will be no more money left and the nixed will find themselves in a poor competitive position and a little later they'll find they're broke and out of business. And the people in business will be my men.

I will have approximately one hundred operations tied to me, covering every phase of manufacturing, real estate, wholesaling, retailing, distribution and finance in the area. I'll trade with myself, supply myself, transport myself and finance myself and anybody who tries to move in will never know what hit him. It will be positively pathetic if anybody tries to compete with Artie Chesbro.

The car crept slowly along the littered road toward River Street. His thinking had never been so clear and lightning-fast—and his heart had never thudded so alarmingly. The benzedrine, he supposed. Well, you use things for what they're worth and take the incidental consequences like a man.

A big man. First the valley area, perhaps a year to consolidate it. Then move down- and upriver, slowly at first. But he knew the pace always accelerated. The bigger you get the faster you grow. Rockefeller, Morgan, Zeckendorf, Odlum—they all had started somewhere. This was his somewhere. Artie Chesbro considered quietly that he'd be running the state by 1959. If there was a war, knock a year off the timetable. Wars were good business for a good businessman.

And, he thought quietly, with the clarity of benzedrine, they pruned the human tree.

An eighteen-year-old sprig of the human tree, Luther G. Bayswater, was walking slowly down River Street with a feeling of intense unreality enveloping him.

It seemed frightfully queer that he should have a helmet on his head, heavy boots with two-buckle flaps on his feet and around his waist a full cartridge belt with a first-aid kit, a bayonet and a canteen hitched to it. Queerest of all was the rifle slung on his right shoulder, whose sling he held in the fork between thumb and fore-finger like a hick eternally about to snap his gallus.

Luther was a private in the National Guard because his mother had a confused notion that this would keep him from overseas service, ever. Somebody had told her so. She missed her little boy, she said, when he was away on summer training and she didn't like the idea of him going through the dark streets—so late, and in strange neighborhoods!—for his armory sessions, but she comfortably reported that it was all worthwhile for her to have her peace of mind about Luther not having to go overseas.

His mother was at that moment in bed with a high fever induced by the phone call from the company clerk that had mobilized Luther.

His mission—unreal!—as given him by the hardware merchant who was his platoon leader was to cover two blocks of River Street like a cop on a beat.

"It isn't interior guard duty," the lieutenant explained. "None of that halt-advance-officer-of-the-day-post-number-four stuff. Just make like a cop and don't let any monkey-business happen. Fire a warning shot if you have to. And, ah—" The lieutenant was embarrassed. "If you have to, uh, shoot at anybody, aim for the legs. Any questions?" There were questions, a world of questions, but Luther wasn't sure what they were. And besides the hardware-lieutenant was in a hurry to get back to Company, where the captain was waiting for an explanation of why the platoon sergeant had been found to have his pockets stuffed with half-pint liquor bottles.

Private Bayswater saw lights and heard a motor running and, in his state of acute disbelief in what was around him, stood stock-still for most of a minute, staring at the vehicle. It was parked at the foot of Wharf Avenue, a panel truck. By and by he made out that it was a radio broadcasting truck, and remembered that the lieutenant had told him it was in the area. Perfectly all right.

He stayed near it; it was less lonesome there. Until by and by Private Bayswater became conscious of a nagging yearning for a smoke.

Luther didn't smoke much, because his mother had proved to him, with graphs and charts and doctors' reports, that terrible things went on in the lungs of men who smoked cigarettes. But he wanted a cigarette bad. And anyway, there wasn't anyone around. Everybody in town knew that the National Guard was patrolling, with orders to shoot if they had to. Nobody would be stupid enough to try anything. Nobody had—and he'd been on duty for nearly an hour.

He leaned against a sagging warehouse-front experimentally, and it didn't sag any more than before. He bounced on the steps, and though they shook it didn't seem likely he would fall through. He stepped inside, closed the door as nearly as it would go, and greedily tore the paper on the pack getting a cigarette out.

Cupping the cigarette, he looked out of an unglassed window and was pleased to find that he could observe the streets as well from in here as from outside. Fantastic! It was the first good chance he had had to look over the damage done to Hebertown. He wondered briefly about what kind of people were crazy enough to build their houses in a place like this, where the water could come up and do what had been done to these, but Luther Bayswater was not much given to worry about other people's troubles—

It sounded like a door slamming. Car door? But he could see the panel truck. Nobody was moving there. The two men were still inside, busy about whatever they had to be busy about, or else just waiting for daybreak and their first direct broadcast. A door in one of the buildings?

Maybe. Luther Bayswater wished he had been listening more attentively. A door slamming in a building—that might be just the wind, of course. But if it wasn't the wind, it was one of the hazy mythological figures called looters that he was supposed to be on the lookout for.

He swore a tepid oath, ground out his cigarette and opened the door. It made a frightful racket; he hadn't noticed anything of the kind when he came into the building.

The noise scared him. He unslung the rifle and gripped it in the approved port-arms position, crosswise over his chest, one hand comfortingly near the trigger guard; and he stepped out into the inimical street.

Somebody was moving, not near the radio truck but in the other direction; someone who seemed to be trying to stay out of sight, moving in and out of the shelter of the buildings.

Luther Bayswater pulled the bolt of the rifle back. It made a tiny, unmenacing sound—he'd hoped it would crash through the streets like a thunderbolt and send the terrified criminal fleeing. He raised it to his shoulder and called waveringly: "Halt! Who's there?" Perfectly safe; there was no chance the gun would go off and make him appear an idiot, not as long as he didn't close the bolt.

The figure stumbled and ducked out of sight. Baffled, Luther lowered the rifle, which was wearingly heavy. Almost absent-mindedly he shoved the bolt home—still perfectly safe, still nothing that would make him look ridiculous, for he knew enough to keep his finger off the trigger. He cleared his throat and called again: "Come out of there! I see you!"

Fantastic cowboys-and-Indians scene! Luther couldn't help feeling embarrassed at how badly he was doing his part of it. Suppose the man did come out? Suppose he came running at him, with a knife or a pistol, and Luther was standing there flatfooted and gapmouthed, trailing the gun? He brought the butt up to his shoulder, snapped up the range leaf, curled his finger lightly through the trigger guard—perfectly, perfectly safe; these Springfields took a good heavy tug to go off—and as meticulously as on any qualifying range laid the bead of the front sight between the V-edges of the rear, just at knee level, just where the man had been. He waited.

Good-humoredly, Artie Chesbro shrugged and parked the car. He got out and started to walk down the rubbly street; there was no sense trying to drive down here, where the river had swept beams and bottles and cinder-blocks helter-skelter across the pavement; he had decided that the third time he had spotted something in his way and wildly swerved the wheel, and hit something else instead. He thought detachedly that perhaps his reflexes were a touch overstimulated by the benzedrine. Amusing. But it didn't in the least matter, not when he could see everything in the clear luminous light the benzedrine gave.

He tripped over something, stepped down on something else that rolled, and stumbled almost into one of the buildings. Careful, he warned himself, suppressing a chuckle. Why, it was almost like getting a load on! But without any of the disadvantages, because he certainly wasn't slowed down or incapacitated in the least; he could feel it.

Somebody yelled at him. Artie Chesbro paused thoughtfully to listen—what had the man said?—and became conscious of the deeper, louder thudding of his heart. Possibly that fourth tablet had been one too many, he admitted; better get this over with and rest for a while. A touch concerned—after all, he didn't want to be too exhausted for the big day tomorrow—he stepped forward to see what the man wanted.

He ran right into something he hadn't seen. It shoved him back on the ground, brutally strong, remorselessly hard. Damn it, he thought, gasping—It didn't hurt, though, not for a moment. And then it did hurt, very much. And then neither it nor anything else ever hurt again....

The private was sobbing: "I did aim for the knees, Lieutenant! He wouldn't stop! I told him! I thought he was a looter, like you said, and I did aim for the knees...."

The company commander leaned in front of the lights of the weapons carrier and crooked a finger at the lieutenant. He was holding the private's M-17, pointing to the sights. The leaf was set for a hundred yards; the shot had been not more than twenty-five.

A bullet leaving a rifle goes up before it goes down; the line of sight is straight, the line of trajectory curves in a parabola; an aim that would be dead-on at a hundred yards will strike high at twenty-five. Not very high. About as high as the difference between a man's knees and the middle of his chest.

The company commander looked significantly at the lieutenant, and snapped the sighting leaf closed. "You did your duty," he told the private. "All right. Let's clean up here," he told the others gathered round.

"The skunk's never coming back," Dick McCue said bitterly. His face was hurting again. He wanted to lie down again in his comfortable room at Goudeket's Green Acres, horror and fatigue far behind.

Mrs. Goudeket didn't even hear. She had taken her place on the one good chair, near the door, and she was waiting for the moment when Artie Chesbro, the thief of cars, should walk back inside. That, thought Mickey Groff, would be a moment to watch. Chesbro had been asking for it for a long time. It would be a pleasure to see the old lady taking him apart.

The old lady sighed and said, "How long now? A day and a half I been away from Goudeket's Green Acres, and all the time I been worried sick. You know something? Now I'm not worried."

Mickey Groff said, "That's right, Mrs. Goudeket. There's nothing to worry about. Everything's all right there, you'll see."

She looked at him surprised. "All right? Nah." She shook her head. "All wrong, you mean. Believe me, Mickey, I know what can happen to a place like Goudeket's Green Acres when it should only rain three days in a row, much less something like this. Goudeket's Green Acres is finished. What's the sense trying to kid myself? I should know better."

Groff looked at her uncomfortably. But she didn't seem panicky, didn't seem on the verge of despair. She was calm enough for six. He said, "What are you going to do?"

She leaned forward and patted him. "I'm going to sell, Mickey," she announced. "You think I'm doing the right thing? No, don't tell me—I'm going to do it anyhow. My husband, Mr. Goudeket, he was always after me to sell and go to Palestine. 'Sell, Mrs. Goudeket,' he'd say—always I kept the hotel in my name, you see—'sell and let's live a little.' And every time I'd say next year, next year. Now—it's next year. I'm sixty-three years old, Mickey. It's time I took it easy for a while." She brooded silently. "Why should I lie?" she asked. "Sixty-six."

Mickey Groff said reassuringly, "I think it's the right thing to do. You'll like it in Israel. Nice climate, plenty of things going on, a whole new country rising out of the desert—"

She looked at him incredulously. "Mickey, a nice climate? Nice with the Egyptians raining down out the sky like clouds in their jet airplanes? Please, I'm not a child; if I go there I give up nice things in order to be with my people. But it's what Mr. Goudeket wanted, and I stole it from him, so now I'll go. I can sell Goudeket's Green Acres like that." She snapped her fingers proudly. "Only—why didn't I do it while Mr. Goudeket was still alive?"

A light truck banged past the schoolhouse down toward the river, and almost immediately another followed. Dick McCue said curiously, "Something going on? I thought I heard shooting."

"There's plenty going on, Dicky," Sharon Froman informed him kindly. "Things are very busy around here tonight. But you wouldn't understand."

No one paid any attention to her. After a moment she laughed and lit a cigarette. Clods, she thought with gentle contempt. Naturally they were jealous of her and of Artie Chesbro. There were two kinds of people. One kind was the doers—herself, that is; and along with her such other persons as she temporarily dragged along to heights of accomplishment and success. The other kind was everybody else. Not even her worst enemy, she mused, trickling smoke out of her nostrils—not even Hesch, or Paul, or Bert, or any of the others she had temporarily blessed with her help and presence before withdrawing—not any of them could deny that she had moved fast and successfully this day.

Polly Chesbro got up and crossed over to Mickey Groff. "May I have one of your cigarettes?" she asked.

She said, "What are you going to do now, Mickey? After things clear up a little, I mean."

He hesitated. The question had not occurred to him for some time. "Go ahead as planned, I guess. Chief Brayer said the Swanscomb place wasn't damaged, and your husband seems to have given up the idea of making a warehouse out of it."

She laughed, not maliciously. "I wonder if he remembers that he signed a lease on it," she said.

She nodded. "There were a couple of men from Ohio in to see him last week. He drew up a lease on the spot, and they paid him a binder."

Groff said, "Hell. Well, that was pretty stupid of him, but if it's a matter of getting—him—in trouble I suppose I could find some other—"

"Get Artie in trouble? Small chance, Mickey. He lands on his feet. And if he doesn't, he always has the family money to bail him out—my family, that is. What you really mean is you'd back out in order to do me a favor, isn't it? Don't answer. It wouldn't be a favor, Mickey. I decided a long time ago that I couldn't mother Artie. I had to let him get in his own scrapes and get out by himself, if he could get out. It hasn't made a man of him yet, but there's always the chance it may."

She tipped the ash of her cigarette neatly into a thick china saucer. "Stay around, Mickey," she said. "All of us need people like you around here. For much more than business."

A quality in her voice touched him, deeper perhaps than she had intended, deeper than he could remember being touched before. Responsibility. That was the word. Someone had to help. And it was something very different from ego that made him think too: Someone has to lead.

Dick McCue heaved himself to his feet. His whole head was hurting now, and he was feeling savage. "I'm going to hit up the chief for another trip ticket, Mrs. Goudeket," he announced. "Half an hour's long enough to wait for the b—for Mr. Chesbro."

"Why not?" said Mrs. Goudeket. She went with him. Groff could hear the discussion clear from the cloakroom; but they won their point. They came back with another scribbled slip of paper, and the whole party headed for the motor pool—even Sharon, though no one had asked her.

As they drew close another little truck came up, making a convoy of three of them, and the driver of one of them hopped out, heading for the motor pool's Coleman lamp. The driver was a captain, and upset about something; he said to Mr. Cioni, "I understand there's a temporary morgue somewhere around here."

"Basement of the Methodist Church," Cioni said, absently walking over to the open jeep. "That's at—"

He had leaned over to peer at what was huddled in the back of the jeep. He crossed himself and stared at Mrs. Goudeket. "Here's the guy that got your car, lady!" he called.

"Artie!" gasped Polly Chesbro. She sped to the jeep and unbelievingly lifted the head on its stiffening neck, staring into the blank face.

The captain, his nerves twanging through his voice, snapped, "Please don't give us any trouble, lady. This is no business of yours."

The officer lamely said, "I'm sorry. Very sorry." And then, defensively, "A warning shot was fired. He didn't stop. This area is under full martial law and the sound truck announced it to everybody—" He saw that she wasn't listening, was staring in disbelief. He got out of the jeep and lit a cigarette and waited.

"Shot for looting," the captain said brusquely. "He was in a roped-off prohibited area. He didn't halt. The kid was absolutely right."

"Kid?" asked Groff. The captain had told him more than he had intended to, and realized it now. "Somebody panicked?"

The captain was shocked and reacted with the truth. "As a matter of fact," he said in a low voice, "maybe it shouldn't have happened. But we're legally in the clear. Was he important?"

The captain took a deep, relieved drag on his cigarette and flipped it away. "What about his wife?" he asked. "Is she going to keep this stuff up?"

"I'll do what I can," Groff said. He went over to the jeep and the staring woman.

She turned and told him in a dry, controlled voice: "I'm all right. It's just so strange to think that it's—over. Him and his bragging, him and his plans, him and his tramps. It's over. I suppose you miss a tumor when they cut it out of you. That's the way I miss him." She sagged against Groff in a half-faint. He led her to a chair where she sat like a stick. The captain, in a businesslike way, asked Cioni, "Just where's this church?"

Then she smiled and said to Groff: "Girl backed the wrong horse, didn't she? Mickey, how'd you like to meet Congressman Akslund first thing in the morning? Artie's gone, one with the martyrs, but Akslund's still going to need expert advice on the reconstruction. I've got an in there."

She turned to Dick McCue. Her smile was becoming ghastly. She said, "Got a kind word for an old friend, Dick? We've had some fun together. Shall bygones be bygones?"

"No," said Dick McCue. "If you keep bothering me I'll take out your upper plate and step on it."

Her hand flew to her mouth. There was a bark of laughter from Mrs. Goudeket. "You thought nobody knew? You thought you could see through everybody, Miss Sharon Froman, but nobody could see through you? We all know you have an upper plate. We all know you'll never finish your book or hold a man. We all see through you because we all see through each other, but we know also that we're seen through. That makes us sometimes kind to each other—we have to be. But you, you have to think you're perfect and that if anybody sees anything less than perfect in you it's because they're fools."

The '47 Dodge rolled slowly into the motor pool. A scared young voice asked: "Is this the place I'm supposed to leave the car?"

The young soldier climbed out wearily. "Boy," he said, and wiped his brow. "I'm supposed to wait here until they come by on patrol and pick me up."

Groff moved out of earshot of the women. "Hear about the shooting?" he asked quietly.

The soldier shuddered. "Heck, I'm the guy that did it. Had no choice. A cop shoots if somebody runs and doesn't stop, doesn't he? Well, I was supposed to be a cop." And he added defensively and illogically, "How could I check the sighting leaf in the dark?"

That told the story. Of course he could have checked the sighting leaf in the dark by the clicks if he had known enough about it. Artie Chesbro, struck down in full career by a quarter-trained child who had not meant to kill. Something—God? Chance? Compensation?—had laid a finger briefly on the balances and dressed them. The world was saved from Artie Chesbro—until the next one came along.

"Come on, Polly," Groff said. She leaned against him on the short walk; a certain excitement—compounded of a feeling for her and of a sense of challenging opportunity—began to tingle through him. She sensed it and smiled; it would be nice, she thought. In the back of the car she dropped her head on his shoulder and was asleep.

Mrs. Goudeket snorted, put the car in gear and ground off down the road to Goudeket's Green Acres.

"Bitch," said Sharon softly. She walked over to the motor pool man. "You're Mr. Cioni, aren't you? Somebody said you were a plumbing engineer."

"Oughtta do pretty well out of it. The shop's hardly touched. My wife, thank God, hardly knew it was happening. She's an invalid."

"How terrible! But shouldn't somebody be taking care of her? I'm a sort of practical nurse, you know—"

Sharon Froman was very tired. Even while she moved through the pickup ritual for perhaps the twentieth time a crazy, spinning maggot grew in her head that she really ought to throw herself on the ground and scream; it was the only sensible thing to do. With a great deal of effort she resisted and forced out the foolish idea, knowing it would come back.

Mrs. Goudeket twisted the wheel of the car hard, to avoid a fallen telephone pole. "Such a thing, such a thing," she muttered as she avoided the muddy shoulder.

"No, I meant that no-good, that Sharon, that there should be a girl like that." She shook her head.

"And always will be," said Groff, with Polly's head pleasantly pressing his shoulder, her nearness making him feel confident and quiet. "But that's not what's important. The Sharons and the—the—"—he didn't utter Chesbro's name because Polly might not be asleep—"the others, they're the ones the pessimists and cynics are always thinking about, pointing at, making a thing of. But I'm going to remember something else out of all this. Starkman. That doctor almost ready to drop on his feet. The kids who did the diving. All the dozens and dozens who were there when they were needed. Fast. With both hands and with everything they had."

"It's a fact," said Dick McCue. "It's as if when things are okay, everyone just sort of buys and sells and takes care of his own and locks the front door. But when there's a real jam they, I don't know, they get bigger. Most of them, anyway."

"Yep," said Groff quietly. "That's why, in spite of the unholy mess, this town isn't licked. That's why, even though I could forget Hebertown and locate somewhere else, I don't think I'm going to. Maybe I ought to have my head examined, but I'm sort of—proud of this place."

"You going to be welcome," said Mrs. Goudeket, smiling at the clearing road ahead. "You going to be very welcome."

It was a pleasant little town in the Northeast. It had never been hurricane country. When they heard that Diane was coming, they couldn't really believe it would harm them. And the hurricane itself didn't touch them.

But the rains caused by the hurricane ravaged their little town as viciously as the worst artillery attack could have done.

This is a powerful and tremendously graphic novel of people trapped in that town: and how they learned what a flood really means.

A TOWN IS DROWNING

by FREDERIK POHL and C. M. KORNBLUTH

by
FREDERIK POHL
and
C. M. KORNBLUTH