Chapter 7
The high school’s gymnasium was designed to hold 1,500 people. Looking around, Mike estimated that twice that number were packed into the place. Almost the entire population of the Grantville area was present, with the exception of a handful of men at the power plant and perhaps two dozen members of Mike’s mine workers.
The disaster—what everyone had taken to calling the Ring of Fire—had occurred three days ago. Since then the UMWA had become, willy-nilly, the area’s impromptu defense force. There was no other body of armed and well-organized men available to patrol the area. Grantville’s police force consisted of only five officers, including its chief. Even if Dan Frost had not been wounded, he couldn’t possibly have handled the problem of overall defense. Grantville’s police force was more than busy enough as it was, maintaining order in the town itself.
There had been no major problems with the townsfolk themselves, beyond an initial run of panic buying which the town’s mayor brought to a halt by a quick and decisive order to close all the stores. The police department was patrolling the town, to make sure the order was obeyed, but there had been no significant opposition. Privately, everyone admitted that the mayor’s decision had been sensible.
The real problem—which was developing very rapidly—was the influx of refugees who were beginning to creep into Grantville’s outskirts. It appeared that the entire countryside was being ravaged by undisciplined mercenary soldiers. So far, none of the soldiers themselves had come near the town, but Mike’s men were alertly watching for any sign of trouble.
Mike was standing on the floor of the gym, next to one of the tiers of seats near the entrance. Frank Jackson, along with a small group of other miners, were clustered about him. To his immediate right, perched on the edge of the lowest tier of seats, sat Rebecca Abrabanel. The Jewish refugee was still in a bit of a daze, confused by the strange people—and stranger technology—around her.
Perhaps fortunately, Rebecca had been too preoccupied with her father’s medical condition to panic at the bizarre experiences she was undergoing. Most of the other refugees were still cowering in the woods surrounding the town, fleeing from any attempt to coax them out of hiding. But Mike suspected that the woman’s steadiness was innate. While Rebecca had all the earmarks of a sheltered intellectual, that did not automatically translate into cringing helplessness. He chuckled ruefully, remembering their conversation in the library. He had barely understood a word, once she plunged into philosophy. But he had not sneered—not then, not now. Mike decided he could use some of that philosophical serenity himself.
Still, Rebecca was hardly blasé about her situation. Mike watched as, for the tenth time in as many minutes, Rebecca self-consciously smoothed her long, pleated skirt, tugged at her bodice, touched the full cap which covered her hair. He found it mildly amusing that she had adjusted well enough to her circumstances to be concerned about her appearance.
The person sitting next to Rebecca, a small gray-haired woman in her sixties, reached out and gave the refugee’s hand a little squeeze of reassurance. Rebecca responded with a quick, nervous smile.
Mike’s amusement vanished. Understanding Rebecca’s fears concerning her Judaism—if not the reasons for it—he had asked Morris and Judith Roth to take Rebecca and her father into their house. The town’s only Jewish couple had readily agreed. Balthazar Abrabanel had been there ever since. He had survived his heart attack, but both James Nichols and Jeff Adams, Grantville’s resident doctor, had agreed that he needed plenty of bed rest. Balthazar had barely survived the experience as it was.
The next day, when Mike dropped by for a quick visit, Rebecca seemed calm and almost relaxed. But Judith had told him, privately, that the Abrabanel woman had burst into a flood of tears when she spotted the menorah perched on the Roths’ mantel. She had spent the next half hour collapsed on a couch, clutching Judith like a drowning kitten.
Mike glanced again at Rebecca. The woman was listening intently to what the town’s mayor was saying. He was relieved to see that her expression was simply calm. Intent, curious. Wondering, at what she was hearing. But without a trace of panic.