appeared on no map, by a dry rock route which was intended to puzzle even a
blood-hound. They crawled through the tunnel, were able to raise their
heads when they reached the armory, and stepped out into the common room of
the colony, the largest chamber, ten by thirty feet and as high as it was
wide.
Their advent surprised no one, else they might not have lived to enter. A
microphone concealed in the tunnel had conveyed their shibboleths before
them. The room was unoccupied save for a young woman stirring something
over a tiny, hooded fire and a girl who sat at a typewriter table mounted
in front of a radio. She was wearing earphones and shoved one back and
turned to face them as they came in.
“Howdy, Boss!”
“Hi, Margie. What’s the good word?” Then to the other, “What’s for lunch?”
“Bark soup and a notch in your belt.”
“Cathleen, you depress me.”
“Well . . . mushrooms fried in rabbit fat, but darn few of them.”
“That’s better.”
“You better tell your boys to be more careful what they bring in. One more
rabbit with tularemia and we won’t have to worry about what to eat.”
“Hard to avoid, Cathy. You just be sure you handle them the way Doc taught
you.” He turned to the girl. “Jerry in the upper tunnel?”
“Yes.”
“Get him down here, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” She pulled a sheet out of her typewriter and handed it to him,
along with others, then left the room.
Morgan glanced over them. The enemy had abolished soap opera and singing
commercials but he could not say that radio had been improved. There was an
unnewsy sameness to the propaganda which now came over the air. He checked
through while wishing for just one old-fashioned, uncensored newscast.
“Here’s an item!” he said suddenly. “Get this, Dad — ”
“Read it to me, Ed.” Dad’s spectacles had been broken on Final Sunday. He
could bring down a deer, or a man, at a thousand yards — but he might never
read again.
“‘New Center, 28 April — It is with deep regret that Continental
Coordinating Authority for World Unification, North American District,
announces that the former city of St. Joseph, Missouri, has been subjected
to sanitary measures. It is ordered that a memorial plaque setting forth
the circumstances be erected on the former site of St. Joseph as soon as
radioactivity permits. Despite repeated warnings the former inhabitants of
this lamented city encouraged and succored marauding bands of outlaws
skulking around the outskirts of their community. It is hoped that the sad
fate of St. Joseph will encourage the native authorities of all North
American communities to take all necessary steps to suppress treasonable
intercourse with the few remaining lawless elements in our continental
society.’ ”
Dad cocked a brow at Morgan. “How many does that make since they took
over?”
“Let’s see . . . Salinas . . . Colorado Springs . . . uh, six, including
St. Joe.”
“Son, there weren’t more than sixty million Americans left after Final
Sunday. If they keep up, we’ll be kind of thinned out in a few years.”
“I know.” Morgan looked troubled. “We’ve got to work out ways to operate
without calling attention to the towns. Too many hostages.”
A short, dark man dressed in dirty dungarees entered from a side tunnel,
followed by Margie. “You wanted me, Boss?”
“Yes, Jerry. I want to get word to McCracken to come in for a meeting. Two
hours from now, if he can get here.
“Boss, you’re using radio too much. You’ll get him shot and us, too.”
“I thought that business of bouncing it off the cliff face was foolproof?”
“Well . . . a dodge I can work up, somebody else can figure out. Besides,
I’ve got the chassis unshipped. I was working on it.”
“How long to rig it?”
“Oh, half an hour — twenty minutes.”
“Do it. This may be the last time we’ll use radio, except as utter last
resort.”
Okay, boss.
The meeting was in the common room. Morgan called it to order once all were
present or accounted for. McCracken arrived just as he had decided to