He returned shortly. “No soap. Stands to reason that there isn’t anything left of the fixed antenna. So we’ll try the emergency one.”
Hugh took a wrench and removed a cap from an inch pipe that stuck down through the ceiling. He tested the opening with a radiation counter. “A little more count.” He got two steel rods, each five feet long; with one he probed the pipe. “Doesn’t go up as far as it should. The top of this pipe was buried just belowground. Trouble.” He screwed the second rod into the first.
“Now comes the touchy part. Stand back, there may be debris-hot both ways-spilling down.”
“It’ll get on you.”
“On my hands, maybe. I’ll scrub afterwards. You can go over me with a Geiger counter.” He tapped with a sledge on the bottom of the joined rods. Up they went about eighteen inches. “Something solid. I’ll have to bang it.”
Many blows later the rod was seated into the pipe. “It felt,” he said, as he stopped to scrub his hands, “as if we passed into open air the last foot or so. But it should have stuck out five feet above ground. Rubble, I suppose. What’s left of our home. Want to use the counter on me?”
“Hugh, you say that as casually as ‘What’s left of yesterday’s milk.”
He shrugged. “Barbie girl, I was broke when I joined the Navy, I’ve been flat busted since; I will not waste tears over a roof and some plumbing. Getting any count?”
“You’re clean.”
“Check the floor under the pipe.”
There were hot spots on the floor; Hugh wiped them with damp Kleenex, disposed of it in a metal waste can. She checked his hands afterwards, and the spots on the floor.
“Well, that used up a gallon of water; this radio had better work.” He clipped the antenna lead to the rod, switched it on.
Ten minutes later they admitted that they were getting nothing. Noise-static all over the dial-but no signal. He sighed. “I’m not surprised. I don’t know what ionization does to radio waves, but that must be a sorcerer’s brew of hot isotopes over our heads. I had hoped we could get Salt Lake City.”
“Not Denver?”
“No. Denver had an ICBM base. I’ll leave the gain up; maybe we’ll hear something.”
“Don’t you want to save the battery?”
“Not really. Let’s sit down and recite limericks.” He looked at the integrating counter, whistled softly, then checked the thermometer. “I’ll give our sleeping beauties a little more relief from the heat. How well are you standing it, Barbie?”
“Truthfully, I had forgotten it. The sweat pours off and that’s that.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, don’t use more oxygen on my account. How many bottles are left?”
“Not many.”
“How many?”
“Less than half. Don’t fret. I’ll bet you five hundred thousand dollars-fifty cents in the new currency-that you can’t recite a limerick I don’t know.”
“Clean, or dirty?”
“Are there clean ones?”
“Okay. ‘A playful young fellow named Scott-‘” The limerick session was a flop. Hugh accused her of having a clean mind. She answered, “Not really, Hugh. But my mind isn’t working.”
“I’m not at my sharpest. Another drink?”
“Yes. With water, please, I sweat so; I’m dry. Hugh?”
“Yes, Barbie?”
“We’re going to die. Aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. Before morning?”
“Oh, no! I feel sure we can live till noon. If we want to.”
“I see. Hugh, would you mind if I moved over by you? Would you put your arm around me? Or is it too hot?”
“Any time I’m too hot to put my arm around a girl I’ll know I’m dead and in hell.”
“Thanks.”
“Room enough?”
“Plenty.”
“You’re a little girl.”
“I weigh a hundred and thirty-two pounds and I’m five feet eight and that’s not little.”
“You’re a little girl. Put the cup aside. Tilt your face up.”
“Mmmm- Again. Please, again.”
“A greedy little girl.”
“Yes. Very greedy. Thank you, Hugh.”
“Such pretty ones.”
“They’re my best feature. My face isn’t much. But Karen’s are prettier.”
“A matter of opinion. Your opinion.”
“Well- I won’t argue. Scrunch over a little, dear. Dear Hugh-”
“All right?”
“Room enough. Wonderfully all right. And kiss me, too. Please?”