But was Mr. Farnham playing by the book? Or was he bidding a shut-out to grab the rubber and nail down that preposterous bet?
If she passed, then game and rubber-and four hundred dollars-was certain. But grand slam (if they made it) was, uh, around fifteen dollars at the stakes Duke and his father were playing. Risk four hundred dollars of her partner’s money against a chance of fifteen? Ridiculous!
Could she sneak up on it with the Blackwood Convention? No, no!-there hadn’t been background bidding.
Was this one of those bids Duke had warned her about?
(But her partner had said, “Play by the book.”)
“Seven no trump,” she said firmly.
Duke whistled. “Thanks, Barbara. We’re ganging up on you, Dad. Double.”
“Pass.”
“Pass,” Karen echoed.
Barbara again counted her hand. That singleton king looked awfully naked. But . . . either the home team had thirty-eight points-or it didn’t. “Redouble.”
Duke grinned. “Thanks, sweetie pie. Your lead, Karen.”
Mr. Farnham put down his hand and abruptly left the table. His son said, “Hey! Come back and take your medicine!”
Mr. Farnham snapped on the television, moved on and switched on the radio, changed its setting. “Red alert!” he snapped. “Somebody tell Joseph!” He ran out of the room.
“Come back! You can’t duck this with that kind of stunt!”
“Shut up, Duke!” Karen snapped.
The television screen flickered into life: “-closing down. Tune at once to your emergency station. Good luck, good-bye, and God bless you all!”
As the screen went blank the radio cut in: “-not a drill. This is not a drill. Take shelter. Emergency personnel report to their stations. Do not go out on the street. If you have no shelter, stay in the best protected room of your home. This is not a drill. Unidentified ballistic objects have been radar sighted by our early-warning screens and it must be assumed that they are missiles. Take shelter. Emergency personnel report to their-”
“He means it,” Karen said in an awed voice. “Duke, show Barb where to go. I’ll wake Joseph.” She ran out of the room.
Duke said, “I don’t believe it.”
“Duke, how do we get into the shelter?”
“I’ll show you.” He stood up unhurriedly, picked up the hands, put each in a separate pocket. “Mine and Sis’s in my trousers, yours and Dad’s in my coat. Come on. Want your suitcase?”
“No!”
Chapter 2
Duke led her through the kitchen to the basement stairs. Mr. Farnham was halfway down, his wife in his arms. She seemed asleep. Duke snapped out of his attitude. “Hold it, Dad! I’ll take her.”
“Get on down and open the door!”
The door was steel set into the wall of the basement. Seconds were lost because Duke did not know how to handle its latch. At last Mr. Farnham passed his wife over to his son, opened it himself. Beyond, stairs led farther down. They managed it by carrying Mrs. Farnham, hands and feet, a limp doll, and took her through a second door into a room beyond. Its floor was six feet lower than the basement and under, Barbara decided, their back garden. She hung back while Mrs. Farnham was carried inside.
Mr. Farnham reappeared. “Barbara! Get in here! Where’s Joseph? Where’s Karen?”
Those two came rushing down the basement stairs as he spoke. Karen was flushed and seemed excited and happy. Joseph was looking wild-eyed and was dressed in undershirt and trousers, his feet bare.
He stopped short. “Mr. Farnham! Are they going to hit us?”
“I’m afraid so. Get inside.”
The young Negro turned and yelled, “Doctor Livingston I presume!”-dashed back up the stairs.
Mr. Farnham said, “Oh, God!” and pressed his fists against his temples. He added in his usual voice, “Get inside, girls. Karen, bolt the door but listen for me. I’ll wait as long as I can.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes.”
The girls went in. Barbara whispered, “What happened to Joseph? Flipped?”
“Well, sort of. Dr.-Livingston-I-Presume is our cat. Loves Joseph, tolerates us.” Karen started bolting the inner door, heavy steel, and secured with ten inch-thick bolts.
She stopped. “I’m damned if I’ll bolt this all the way while Daddy is outside!”