She was garnishing two juicy steaks when he entered the kitchen door behind her and pinched her sides just below her ribs.
“Eek! Don’t do that when I’m cooking—it’s dangerous. Come to think of it, don’t do it at all.”
“You’re funny when you squeak like that.” He peered over her shoulder. “Hey—I’ve been conned.”
“What do you mean, conned?”
“You said it was ready. You’re only just dishing it out. You might have cost me the game busting in on my concentration like that.”
“Good. Concentrate on me instead.” She carried the plates over to the table. They sat down.
“Looks good,” Clifford commented. “Where’d it come from?”
“A cow of course. Oh, I forgot. They wouldn’t have taught you things like that in physics, would they?”
“Where’d you get it, you dumb broad?”
“Same place as usual. I’m just a good choose-ist.”
“I already know that. Look who you married.”
Sarah raised her eyes imploringly toward the ceiling. They ate in silence for a while. Then she said:
“I called Joan and Pete about those theater reservations while you were upstairs. It’s all right for Friday night.”
“Mm . . . good.”
“George is coming too. You remember George?”
Clifford frowned at his plate while he finished chewing.
“George? Who’s George?” He thought for a second. “Not Joan’s brother George?”
“That’s the one.”
“The one in the Army. Big guy, black hair . . . likes music.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
Clifford frowned again. “I thought he was overseas somewhere.”
“He was, but he’s home on leave at the moment. He’s with a missile battery in eastern Turkey.”
“Great.” Clifford attacked his steak once more. “He’s good fun. Haven’t seen him for . . . must be around a year now.” He didn’t pursue the subject further. Sarah watched him in silence, her face serious.
Eventually she said in a strangely sober voice: “Joan told me he’s been talking about the situation out there. They’re on stand-by alert practically all of the time now. They have combat patrols airborne around the clock, and the mountains are full of tanks ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
“Mmm . . .”
“She’s worried sick, Brad. She says he’s convinced there’ll be a showdown before long . . . everywhere. And now that she’s expecting, it’s really getting her down. . . .” Sarah’s voice trailed away. She continued to stare at Clifford, looking for some sign of reassurance, but he carried on eating stolidly. “What do you think’ll happen?”
“No idea . . .” He realized reluctantly that something more was called for, but was aware that Sarah knew him too well to be taken in by the clichés that immediately sprang to mind. “It doesn’t look too good, does it?” he conceded at last. “Our esteemed and inspired leaders have their righteous cause to protect. I’ve got mine.”
When Clifford and Sarah conversed, most of the dialogue was unspoken—and instantly understood. In these few words he had told her that as far as he was concerned, even one human life was too high a price to pay for any political or ideological crusade. In anticipation of her next question—whether he would go into the armed services if drafted—the answer was no. Doing so would help solve nothing. If half the world had been brainwashed into becoming zombies, the answer was not to go backward a hundred years and emulate them. Man had to move forward. Universal education, awareness, and knowledge offered the only permanent solution. Bombs, missiles, and hatred would only drag the agony out longer, giving people a tangible threat to unite against. If war came, he would find a way to survive and to be himself in whatever way was left open to him. That would be the only meaningful way of fighting for something that was worth preserving.
She looked hard at him for what seemed a long time, then her face softened into a wry half-smile.
“What would we do then—head for the hills?”
He shook his head and replied lightly, “Everybody and his brother would have the same idea. You wouldn’t be able to breathe up there. Death trap—right in the middle of the fallout zone from the West Coast. You’d need to get away from the wind system of the northern hemisphere completely. Head south—more privacy in the jungles.”