Classic Audiobook Collection - A Town is Drowning by Frederik Pohl ~ Full Audiobook [scifi]

Episode Date: April 8, 2024

A Town is Drowning by Frederik Pohl audiobook. Genre: scifi This novel takes you right into the heart of the new flood country, the Northeast United States which had generally been free of hurricanes and attendant floods. Now disaster has struck, more than once--terrible and grim. Although this novel will give you an accurate and brilliantly vivid picture of what it's like to live through a flood, even more importantly it will show you what the people are like who fought the catastrophe and how those who survived are still fighting. In the persons of Starkman the burgess, Groff the dynamic young executive, Sharon the shrewd opportunist, Mrs. Goudeket, the resort owner, and others, you will meet and understand the varying human elements that the flood unleashed and intensified. Through it all you will sense a growing feeling of pride--that despite the selfishness of some, the people of the town met the terrible onslaught with courage and a sense of mutual help. Already well known for their superb science fiction, Frederik Pohl and C. M. Kornbluth demonstrate here their equal power in the realistic contemporary novel. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 00 (00:01:39) Chapter 01 (00:18:30) Chapter 02 (00:37:52) Chapter 03 (00:50:59) Chapter 04 (01:09:46) Chapter 05 (01:17:05) Chapter 06 (01:31:49) Chapter 07 (01:51:04) Chapter 08 (01:55:53) Chapter 09 (02:12:46) Chapter 10 (02:33:28) Chapter 11 (02:44:25) Chapter 12 (03:09:02) Chapter 13 (03:23:14) Chapter 14 (03:45:00) Chapter 15 (04:03:41) Chapter 16 (04:20:09) Chapter 17 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Chapter 1 A Town is Drowning by Frederick Pole and C.M. Cornbluth The man in the filling station was clearly of two minds about it, but finally he buttoned up his raincoat and pulled on his hat and came out to Mickey Groff's car. Sorry to make you come out in the rain like this, Groff said. Fill it up, will you? He rolled up the window and picked out the least soaked wad of Kleenex to wipe the mist off the inside of the windshield. The car radio stopped playing show tunes and began to be.

began to talk about freezer food plans. Groff snapped it off and leaned back to watch the turning dials on the gas pump. By the time the man had put back the cap and sloshed around to the window, Groff had the exact change ready in his hand. How far is it to Hebrotown? Five miles, said the attendant, and went inside without counting the money. As Groff pulled out, he saw the lights go out on the pumps and the big sign overhead. You couldn't blame him, he thought.

There weren't enough cars out in this rain to make it worthwhile. He had been lucky to find even one station open. It was nearly impossible to see the road, no matter how hard the windshield wipers work. Rain was spraying in somehow. All the windows were closed tight, but Groff could feel the thin mist on his face. He rolled around a long-down-grade curve, and when he touched the break for a moment, there was a queasy slipping sensation. The rain was coming down faster than it could flow off the highway.

Foolish to drive all the way to Habertown, Groff reflected, but the only alternative, actually, was to do that. take a bus. The railroads didn't bother much with this little out-of-the-way corner of the state. And that was something to keep firmly in mind. When he talked to the Burgess the next morning, he reminded himself, an industry-hungry town could make you some tempting offers. There was a firm promise of a tax break and a bank credit and the suggestion that maybe a suitable factory building could be turned over to you for nearly nothing at all. But you had to keep the freight differentials in mind, too. And what about the labor supply? Well, no, he crossed that off. That was

whole point of the Burgess's cooperative attitude, Ebertown had plenty of available labor ten months of the year. It was only when the vacationers came up from New York and the other big cities that the local unemployment and the state local tax rolls ceased to be a problem. Still, what about that? Were you supposed to close down in the months of July and August? He shifted in his seat, forcing himself to lean back. It did no good to peer into the rain and tried to relax. Mickey Groff was a big man and not used to sitting. It gave him a cramped, unwelcome feeling of confinement. There was a light ahead. It turned out to be a store with a neon sign that said Sam's grocery, but it gave Groff enough encouragement to let him pick up his

speed to nearly 35 miles an hour. He had been nearly an hour covering the last 20 miles, he saw irritably. Of course, it didn't matter. It just meant one hour less to spend sitting in the lobby of Hebra House, since there wasn't a thing he could do until the next morning in this rain. But why did he have to pick this particular Thursday to come up. He passed the store, and at once the road was invisible in front of them again. He tramped on the brakes, slipped and skidded, and straightened out. That was foolish, he told himself. Carefully, he slowed as the road curved again. Not enough. It was the other car's fault, of course. He saw the lights raging at him down the middle of the road and automatically pulled over quickly. At once he felt the sideways slip and sway of the skid, but it was too late

to do anything about it. It could have been worse. Thank God there was a good wide shoulder right there. The only thing was, they seemed to be stuck in the mud. Mickey Groff wasn't much of a waiter. There wasn't a showdog's chance of a car stopping to help him. Of course, even if one came by, they'd hardly be able to see him. Anyway, Sam's grocery couldn't be more than a quarter mile back along the road, and from there he could phone a wrecker, or at worst,

if the wreckers had their own problems on a night like this, for a cab to get him into Hebertown. Once the rain stopped, it wouldn't be much of a problem to get pulled up. out of the mud. He almost changed his mind when he stepped out into the rain, but by the time he had locked the door behind him, it was too late. It was hard to imagine how he could get any wetter than he was. Mickey Groff had heard of rain coming down in sheets, but had never experienced it before. This was something beyond all expectations. In ten seconds, he was wet to the skin. In a minute he was as drenched as a channel swimmer. There was a wind with the rain, too. Part of the

time it came swiping at him from the side, stinging into his eyes, infiltrated. his ears and slipping up the cuffs of his sodden sleeves. By the time he got around the curve on the road, he was shaking with chill. After ten minutes of staggering through the storm, he wondered why he couldn't see the lights of the store. Then he saw why, and it was like a fist under the heart. The lights were out. There was the store just ahead, but the neon was black, and the windows were all black. There was only the faintest suggestion of a glimmer at the edges of the glass. He went stumbling across a little gravel parking lot with water sloshing around his shoes and banged on the door.

Then he saw that there was a light in the back of the store. It was a candle. He tried the door handle and opened it. Inside, the noise of the rain changed and dulled. Instead of slashing at his ears, it was drumming overhead. A man came out of the storeroom of the back, carrying a gasoline lantern, and the whole store brightened and began to look more normal.

Oh, said Mickey Groff, your power is out. I thought maybe you were closing up. The man said sourly, I might as well be. Jesus, did you ever see whether like this in your life? I've been here. Have you got a phone? Groff interrupted. Phones out too. Groff sluiced some of the water off of his face and hair. Well, he said, somehow it hadn't occurred to him that the phones might not be working. There was a much sense in going back to the car

again. He knew a mudded-in wheel when he saw one. You could push blankets and boards under those rear wheels all night and the mud would just swallow up what the wheel didn't slide right off of. Maybe you can help me, he said. I'm stuck in the mud down the road. and I've got to get to Hebrotown. The grocer glanced at him appraisingly, and then bent down to adjust the flame on the gasoline lantern. I'm all alone here, he mentioned. Mickey Groff waited.

I hate to close up before time, the grocer said virtuously. I'd like to help you out. You suck bad? Pretty bad. Anyway, I can't rock it out. I was hoping to call a tow truck from Hebrotown. I got a pickup with four-wheel drive, the grocer said thoughtfully. You're welcome to we here till I close up if you want to.

Wouldn't be more than a couple of... How about ten bucks if you'd do it now? The grosser's eyes flickered, but he shook his head. You don't know the people around here, he complained. They wait until I'm ready to close, and bingo, two, three cars come zooming up. Milk for junior, cat food for the cat, coffee, they gotta have coffee. And they wouldn't bother me if it wasn't so jeezly important. Sit down and wait, mister.

It's only... He squinted at the advertising clock above his door, shadowed from the flare of the pressure lamp by a stack of tall cans on the top shelf. It's only half an hour. Mickey Groff thought of lying to the man and giving him a story about a medical emergency or a big deal with a deadline, something he couldn't decently brush off for the sake of two or three cat food customers. Then, because he didn't like to lie, he shrugged,

made a disgusted grimace to himself in the near dark, and sat down in a spindled back chair to wait out the 30 minutes. He knew what the trouble was. It was the old thing. He'd been born, apparently, geared up about 25% faster than most people. This was very handy in some ways. He was a rising young businessman and 30, and pretty soon he'd be a rising young industrialist. His picture had been printed up in nation's business along with 11 other promising youngsters who own their own plants, and one day it would appear alone. He knew it, and he knew it would be due to his built-up over-gearing. but that didn't make it any easier to sit and wait for the cat food customers.

The storekeeper, as most people did, sensed his mood. Like to look at the paper? he asked, and handed him an eight-page sheet. It was the latest yesterday's issue of the Hebertown Weekly Times. Groff studied the last four issues preceding it, as well as those of a dozen other country papers, trying to get a feel for the communities they serve. On one of those communities, he would soon have to stake his play for the jump from 40 employees to 100. He held the paper up to the lamplight and read the main headline covering the three right columns. The chair crashed behind him as he snapped to his feet.

God damn it to hell, he said. The storekeeper backed away. He scared. What's the matter, mister? Sorry, Groff said. I didn't mean you. I just thought of something I forgot to do, which was a lie. He forced himself to set the chair up again and sat down and reread the headline, pulses, hampering at his temples. boroughway grants Swanscom Mill to Chessboro at the nominal rent.

Move hailed as an employment boom. Old plant to be used as warehouse. The former Swampskin Mill was the building he had his eye on as the shelf for his projected new factory. It was ideal. It was empty and unwanted by anyone since Swampskin had moved south. It was a low-maintenance brick shell with plenty of adjoining rooms for expansion. It was solidly built and able to support his machine tools.

It had its own siding and a loading deck for trucks. And somebody else, by incredible coincidence, was after it too. The pounding pulses subsided, and he stayed himself to read the story. It was one column down on the right, and it was strangely uninformative. It led off. Civic leaders today hailed the announcement that Arthur Chesborough hopes to secure the old Swanscombe Mill from the borough as the warehouse for the storage of materials and supplies. It didn't say who the civic leaders were.

It went on to recapitulate the familiar history of the plant. It concluded by quoting Arthur Chesborough as hoping that at least a dozen local citizens would be employed as warehouse men in the plant. A car's headlight outside turned the streaming store window into a sheet of refracted yellow glare. A woman bustled in and peered about uncertainly in the gloom. The storekeeper yes maimmed her, and she apologized for coming so late. The rain was so terrible she said she could barely crawl, and could she have three cans of caffeine? The storekeeper gave her the cans, and when he closed the doors behind her, Rain drove in during the brief moment and drenched the square yard of floor,

turned to Groff and said, what did I tell you? Who's Arthur Chesbrough? Groff demanded, the one in the paper. Chesbrough? A big wheel over the next county. Justice of the Peace? Owns business buildings? A couple of radio stations. The newspaper? I don't know the name. I just get the copies of the weekly times and they send them so that I can check my ads. Every week I take one. You look on page seven, tell me what you think of it.

Groff yanked the paper open and looked at the grocer's little ad on page seven and said, You are Sam Zahedi, Syrian? The little man looked gratified. How'd you know? A couple of your boys used to work for me. Damn fine mill rights. That's us, Sam Zahetti said. You give a Syrian a busted machine and a wrench and he'll have it going in five minutes.

We're civilized Christian people. We've been Christian a lot longer than the French or the Germans. And you know what some dumb people called me when I first bought the store? An A-rab! A heathen A-rab! They're learning, Groff shrugged. He studied the newspaper story. So this Chesboro was interested in newspapers. It looked, it very definitely looked, as though he might have a piece of the Hebertown Weekly

Times in his pocket. The story was pure propaganda. Sam Sehetti went on. Oh, they're learning. It's been five years now, and I didn't let grass grow under my feet. I'm a respected man of this community, mister. You don't hear any Arab talk anymore, except maybe from some of the summer people.

Jews. They're bitter about Arab's, but then somebody sets them straight. I guess I'm the first Syrian boy around here, except for the peddlers going through in the old days the way they used to. It's like being a pioneer or a missionary. He glanced at the clock. What the hell, he said.

I don't think anyone else is coming in in this rain. I'll get the trucks started and pull her around the front. then you can hop right in and low lock up, then we'll go and tow you out. Fine, Groff said. I appreciate it very much. The storekeeper disappeared in the back, a door slammed, and over the drumming rain, Groff heard a truck engine roar to life. Zahedi gunned it and held it for a minute and then took off, swinging the pickup around in the front.

Groff dashed for the cab when the door swung open and vaulted in. His speed hadn't helped him a bit. He was wet all over again from his brief exposure. Zaheddy got out on his side, sensibly swathed in a slicker, put out the lantern in the store, and locked up. He climbed back into the cab and had to raise his voice to be heard above the rain beating on the top. Well, here we go, mister. About how far? Quarter of a mile, maybe. We'll get you there. He put the truck in gear and crawled away from the store, feeding the gas lightly. My tires are pretty good, he said. But I hate to start spinning my wheels, though.

They crawled up the long, gentle grade into the driving tour. "'Notice my stores located at the foot of the hill,' he chattered. "'I picked it up partly for that. "'People have time to see the sign, "'not like a flat straightaway where they go whizzing past fast as they can.' Groff cranked down the window and stuck his head out. "'He couldn't be wetter, and he wasn't perfectly sure "'that through the rain-streaked window his ditched car would be visible.

"'The headloids seemed to bore yellow cones through the teeming rain "'without illuminating anything outside their sharp margins. "'The drops battered at his face and hair, He pulled his head in, feeling a little stunned. The violence of the storm, he had a vague feeling that it couldn't go on without something giving. What? He didn't know.

Headlights stabbed at their eyes from the rearview mirror. Behind them, a horn howled and out of the darkness behind plunged a shape. Zahed he gasped and twitched his wheel to the right. The car from behind zoomed past them and cut into the right lane again and roared on. Its taillights were soon dim and then disappeared. Crazy, idiot, the storekeeper gasped appalled. He could erect us. He must have been going fifty.

In this! Groff twisted in the seat and stared through the rear window. There were headlights far back but coming up fast, and the headlights went out as he watched with a glimmer. He knew, suddenly, what had given. Even a cityman, born and bred city safe, could recognize the signs. Step on it, he said to the storekeeper. flood waters behind us. Get us up to the top of the hill, fast. Zahedi didn't argue or hesitate.

Few people argued or hesitated when Groff used that tone of voice. Quickly and steadily, he stepped on the gas. They whirred around the curve where Groff's car stood empty and passed it. It was a long, straight upgrade from there. Either the rain had slacked off a little, or Zaheti was more worried about what was behind them than he was about the rain. They roared up the hill accelerating all the way and only stopped when they saw another car parked by the side of the road, lights on and windshield wipers flapping, and a man leaning out of the open door staring back. It was the car that had passed them. The head, he recklessly stopped alongside of him, making it a tight squeeze in the case another car wanted to get by. The other driver

misinterpreted the move. Jesus, he said. That's a good idea. Keep them from getting past that. Jesus! He was in a flap, Graff observed. It wasn't surprising. Flood, he called out, but he knew the answer. What? Christ almighty, the whole goddamn Atlantic Ocean's down there. I was trying to pass a lousy milk tank truck for five miles. They ought to widen that road. You get stuck behind one of the truck on hills like these and anyway, I got past him and all of a sudden I hear him blowing his horn like a son of a bitch and I turn around it and a man choked. Jesus, he said again. That lousy little creek this time a year, half the time it's practically dry. And here's the whole creek jumping out of the ground at me. I stepped on the gas and got the hell out of there.

He peered back nervously as though the creek might still be following, though they were easily two hundred feet up. You haven't seen that milk truck, have you? It would be a long time, Groff was absolutely sure, before anyone saw that milk truck again. Zahedi leaned across him. Hey, mister, you think there's much damage down there? I own the store back there, you know, Sam's grocery at the foot of the hill. The man laughed. It sounded very nervous. Not anymore you don't, he said. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2. A Town is Dr. Dr. Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

If you'd smooth out the crumpled paper to look at the ad, you would have read, Gautikies Green Acres, Your Happy Vacation Hideaway, tucked away in the heart of the majestic Chaghanowoks. Golf, tennis, riding, swimming, two pools. Moonlight dancing, that grand Gauderkey cuisine, dietary laws observed, under the personal direction of Mrs. S. Gauticke. However, you would have had trouble smoothing it out because it was soaked. It had been thrown in the middle of the Gautickees green acres by a dissatisfied customer raging at the malicious trick Mrs. Gauticke

had played on her by causing it to rain for three consecutive days. Mrs. Gauticke, wearing a set smile that was ghastly even in the candlelight, moved among her guests. She was arched and gay with some of them, apologetic and sympathetic with others, as circumstances indicated, but in her heart she was torn between rage and fear. Now it rains. For two months, not a drop, so the grass is dying, and the dug wells for the swimming pool goes dry, and the guests complain, complain, complain, it's hotter than Avenue A, Mrs. Gautickey, and couldn't you air-condition a little, Mrs. Gautickey? And frankly, Mrs. Gowdike,

what wouldn't I give to be back in our apartment on Eastern Parkway right now? We always got a breeze from the ocean. And now it comes down pouring, almost all of last week. And now it starts again so hard the lights go out, and the phone goes out, and there's a hundred and sixty-five guests looking for something to do. She told herself pridefully, thank God Mr. Gautiki didn't have to put up with this. Not that he could have handled it.

He would have retreated to his room with a stack of Zionist journals, written letters to his friends in Palestine, wistful letters saying that maybe next year they'd have enough for a winter cruise. There never had been enough for a winter cruise. Mrs. Gauterke had efficiently seen to that. First things first. A new roof before the winter cruise to visit Palestine, new pine-paneling in the recreation room, things you could lay your hands on, and Gauticke's green acres grew because of her. But she had been kind and reasonable. She had let him send a hundred dollars. a year for planting orange groves. She never argued when he talked about retiring some day and going to Palestine. He always called her that even after it was Israel to live. She could have argued, she could have told him plenty. This is America, that here you don't retire and

doze in the sun. Here you drive hard and get big. Dave Wax came half trotting through the dim rooms looking for her. He started to call her name, change his mind, and came close before he half whispered, it's the telephone, Mrs. Gowdikey. It's working again. Ah, she exclaimed. Why are you keeping it a secret? It's good news. Let's tell everybody. They could use a little good news. You see, she turned to the nearest couple. They fixed the telephone lines already. I'll bet they have electricity on in ten minutes. You wait and see. Did you call up, Dave? Call who, Mrs. Gowdikey? The electric company, Dave, he shook his head. Go call them. No, wait, better, I'll call myself. Let him talk to the guests for a while, she told herself grimly.

Perhaps when the lights go on again, and things were back in the normal swing, she would want to talk to the guests again. Or perhaps, she thought, by running across the dark and deserted entrance lobby, she would go up in her room and lock the door and pull the covers over her head as she wanted to, about once an hour from May through September of every year, since Mr. Gowdike died. The phone's working all right, but it wasn't working well. Mrs. Gowdike got the Hebertown operator and asked for a number for the power company's repair service,

but there was so long a wait after that, filled with scratching and squeals on the wire, as she began to think something had gone wrong. She pulled out the jack and tried again on another line. All it took was waiting, it turned out. While she waited, Mrs. Gowdike had plenty of time to think of the meaning of the long wait to get connected with the repair service. Not that there was any surprise, actually, because she had been through storms before in the majestic Shigano Onks, but always before it had been maybe a quick, violent thunderstorm

coming up after a hot spell, and it was a lark for the guest because it was a change, or maybe a violent autumn storm when only a handful remained. But here there were 165 who had been penned in the hotel for days already, and, hello, hello? She tried to hear the scratchy voice at the other end. Can you hear me? This is Mrs. S. Gowdyke from Gautichy's Green Acres. The scratchy voice was trying to say something, but she couldn't hear. Evidently, though, they could hear her, so she went right on. Our electricity is off. Can you hear me? Our electricity has been off for two hours. They fixed the phone lines. Why can't you people fix the power lines? More scratchy sounds. Mrs. Gowdicay listened to them, first casually out of politeness, then very, very hard,

then there was a click. Mrs. Gowdickie looked thoughtfully at the switchboard for a moment. This is new, she thought. Her mind was cold and alert. She knew she could not afford rage. The electric company here is not a good company, not like the wonderful consolidated Edison in New York City. Here they overcharge you, by mistake, they say. And here, the meter readers are underpaid and insulin,

even with the good customers like me. The repairmen are unshaven and lazy. When they finally get to you, they stretch out the job forever, so they don't have to hurry on to the next. But this is new. This hanging up. I'm no fool, not after 30 years in the resort business. I know their phone girls are under orders to kid the customers along,

promise anything not to hang up. Something must be happening. Something bad. She walked slowly into the lobby with a mechanical smile for each sullenly accusing guest. At the cigar stand, she told Mr. Zemmo, a packet of cigarettes, any kind. He raised his eyebrows and passed one over. As she clumsily tore open the pack and extracted one and lit it, he began to grumble. Some hotel, some light and power company.

By now I should be getting the overnight lines from Monmouth, Hyaliyah, and the sportsmen. By now I should have booked $200 on tomorrow. Believe me, Mrs. Gauterke, this is my last year at Green Acres. This kind of thing doesn't happen at the New Hampshire notch. I don't pay good money for the concession, so this kind of thing happens. A fattish red-faced man bulged up to the counter, breathing whiskey at them. That's a young married, Mrs. Gowdke thought with his taste. That's what I have to take at this place because I can't get enough nice young people.

Sammy, the red-faced man complained hoarsely. Isn't this damn ticker working yet? I've got fifty books I have to play. You're busting my system to hell. Mr. Zemmel said politely. I'll see, Mr. Babin. He opened the plywood door from behind the stand, looked in the little room where the the teletype horse ticker stood and closed the door again.

I'm sorry, Mr. Babbin, you said, with a look at Mrs. Gowdike. I think the wire's okay, but you've got to have power to run the machine, and there isn't any power. If it comes on later, maybe I can phone Chicago for a repeat, if there's time before midnight. Nuts, Babbin said, and headed through the candlelit gloom for the bar. You see? Mr. Zemmel hissed in a hate-filled whisper. You see what you're costing me? Never again, Mrs. Gowdike. She wandered off preoccupied. Zemmel was a nobody, a clerk hired by the big brokers in spite of his pretensions.

But if the brokers, in their cold and analytical way, did decide at the end of the season that Go to Keyes Green Acres didn't handle enough to make the operation worth their while, next year nobody would come around in bid for the horse book concession. And it was the concession to push the resort over the line between red and black ink. You had to make money and you had to grow. Mr. Gauterke never understood that. Orange trees were all very well, but since 1926 she had been the driver, the doer, the builder,

and Mr. Gowdike never got to Palestine after all, which showed that dreaming got you nowhere. She felt a guilty twinge. One year they could have made the cruise. One year there had been nothing urgent, which is a miraculous year in the resort business. She had put the money aside as a reserve and had said nothing about it, and poor Mr. Gowdike couldn't understand a financial statement.

The guest loved him. His Zionist connections had been valuable, though he never suspected it, and he had been a fine, all-around handyman since the days in the Brighton Beach boarding house. He had saved them thousands of dollars with his clever hands and brought in thousands of dollars with his connections. But grow? He never understood. And so he never got to see Palestine? What of it, anyway? And again, Mrs. Gowdike felt. the guilty twinge. She peered into the bar. It was doing a good business by candlelight. Her young marries, she grimace, were getting drunk early.

Dave Wax was on a barstool with an On the Rock's glass in front of him. He was telling one of his stories. Dave, she said softly, when you're finished your drink, why don't you give a little show for the people outside? The comedian theatrically gulped down his glass and told his barmates loudly, I love this dear lady, just like my mother she is. Just like my mother, always holler. get to work, you bum!

He pranced out grinning on a tide of half-drunk laughter. She watched him from the bar for a minute. He went on looping through the room loudly announcing a one-man show by the star of stage, screen, TV, and radio, Dave Wax, also available for weddings in bar mitzvice. Call Murray Hill 3-14-17-988-054-27. It went trailing on and on as he led them to the circle around the piano. He pounded out the introductory chorus. of his nervous from the service routine, which was very funny and not too dirty,

and there she hoped he'd go into his community saying that would calm the people down. She went to the switchboard again and snapped the toggle for an outside line. Try the electric company and get some kind of real promise out of them, maybe bully your way through to the load dispatcher, a really responsible person, not like their phone girls. Hello? she said, operator, hello? The line wasn't stone cold dead, but it wasn't buzzing, with a reassuring familiarity of the dial tone.

A delusive droning kept encouraging her to try. Mechanically, she switched off and on again. As for the operator, tried dialing various service numbers. As she went through the motions, she thought abstractedly that something had to work. The horse book concession was absolutely vital. She had always known she should have an auxiliary regenerator paid for God knows how, so the teletype would keep going. But what good was a teletype with power and no line in it?

It was dawning on her, that the place was cut off from the outside world, that the wires were down, it would stay down for hours. Radios! The radio must be saying something. There was a little station in Hebertown that played nothing but records and news a couple of times of the day from the weekly Times office. Junk like Who's in the Hospital, the Borough Council meeting, one ads of the air, traffic things.

They'd know what this rain was doing. They'd have estimates of the power and phone companies of the damage to the lines, and when they'd be back in service, the radio would tell her everything she needed to know, then a calm announcement to the guests, and everybody would go to bed cheerfully, rather enjoying the excitement. But Little Mrs. Fiedler came up, and she had her portable radio in hand, weighing her down like a suitcase. It wasn't one of those little pocket jobs, but a substantial long-range outfit. Little Mrs. Fiedler had made something of a nuisance of herself when she played it beside the swimming pool, highbrow music from New York City stations.

Could you get me an outside line, Mrs. Goddikee? she said. I want to call my mother in New York so she won't worry. Worry? About something at GoTo Key's Green Acres? The old woman kidded. She should have such worries. But I'm sorry the phone's out again. I don't know for how long. But why should she worry? There was a news broadcast from New York. There's a flood up in Richardson. Of course, that's a hundred miles away, but to my time. My mother, the mountains are the mountains.

Ah, Richards Town. Mrs. Fiedler, did you try the local stations? Let's go into my office and see what they have to say. But even the big, powerful portable radio failed to pick up the local station. Mrs. Godiakie refused to think of what that might mean. Alone again, she realized that she'd have to send somebody into that terrible rain, send them to town, the Times office, or any other phone that they could reach. She had to know what was coming next.

Send who? Not the bartender. He was the most valuable man on the premises right now. Dave Wax was next, and the kitchen help couldn't be spared. Dick McHugh, the golf pro. 19 years old, doubling in trumpet. Where was he? He should be in the social hall backing up Dave Wax,

keeping the people busy, keeping their minds off of whatever it was. Where was he? And then she thought distastefully of exactly whom she'd have to send. Sharon Fruman, she called. herself, and in the wild week before the opening, she had let Sharon Fruman foist herself on Green Acres as a publicity director, just room, board, ten a week for the season. At first, Sharon had actually worked. She had written good stories that actually appeared, not cut too badly, in the issues of the New York Post, which also carried Green Acres advertisements. Maybe

she had even gotten them a couple of guests. That lasted for about ten days, and then Sharon Frommon has slowly withdrawn from any hotel activity except eating. When you pass her room at any time day or night, you were as likely as not to hear the muffled thudding of a noiseless portable typewriter. When Mrs. Gautickey barged in on her or met her in the dining room and asked how the publicity stories were coming, Sharon Frommon would smile vaguely, teasingly, and say something that didn't, after you stop to think of it, makes sense. I think I've got a very dynamic program lined up.

Mrs. Gowdikey in I'm polishing the rough spots. Black-haired, squared, jarred, near-sighted, in her early thirties, a persuasive talker. Mrs. Gauterkeye was living proof of that, groomed either to perfection or not at all, maybe five feet six, easily 20 pounds overweight. Sharon Froman The perfect expendable to go out and learn the score. Mrs. Gowdike started grimly up the stairs. You'd better be feeling good and dynamic, Miss Sharon Frommelman.

she thought, nerving herself for battle. I've got some real rough spots for you to polish now. In the batsness that that sneaking old hag Gautiki called a room, Miss Sharon Froman was lovingly recopying Chapter 1 of her novel. Her only light was a candle socketed into the sticky neck of an empty southern comfort bottle, and the flame flickered and turned blue regularly as the wind swept through the closed windows. What a shack, I thought Miss Sharon Frumon, not in anger, but in judgment.

But it had its compensations. She could see the jacket copy for our novel now. Spraddled Evening is an odd book, written at odd times and odd places, began in a shabby trailer outside of a Mississippi army camp. She grimaced when she remembered how perfectly foul Richie had been when she had her story conference with dawn while Richie was restricted to the post.

It was shaped and polished by turns and the club car of a transcontinental train, a cold water flat in the East Bronx, a luxury resort hotel, and a Jersey fishing village, reaching its evocative climax while Miss Froman was— Well, that you would have to wait and see, thought Miss Froman, taking page two out of the typewriter. But the end was almost in sight. The first chapter set the tone for the whole book, and now that it was nearly perfect, it was only a dashed to the finish line. She lit a cigarette from the candle before she put page three into the typewriter.

Page three was the one that would do hush in the eye. He'd be sure to recognize the savagely drawn futile-minded pants presser if he read it, and he'd be goddamn sure to read it if he had to hawk the watch he'd given him to get the price. Sixty bucks that watch it cost out of her share of his Christmas bonus, and it was the only decent thing he owned. So why doesn't he sell it, she demanded up the wind. If he's so broke, he can't keep up the alimony. She knew, as soon as she heard the knock on the door that it was Mrs. Gowdikey.

The chapter went into the bulging file under her bed. The half-page beginning on a story about Dick McHugh went into the typewriter, using the paper bail so old bad ears wouldn't hear the ratchet clicking. Come in, please, she called, with just the proper annoyance at being interrupted. She glanced coldly at her employer. Mrs. Gowdike sat down without waiting to be asked. Those stairs were getting steeper every day. day. Sharon, honey, she weaves, I want you to do me a favor. Frankly, I'm a little worried. Sharon

listened with minimal courtesy. Unbelievably, she thought to herself. Now the old Harpy expected her to go driving out in this crazy rain to find out if it was really raining. Suppose she got into Hebertown. What could she find out? The lines are down. They knew that. And what else could there conceivably be? Since it was a point of principle, she knew what she had to say. I'm sorry, Mrs. Gowdyke, she said gently. It just isn't my job. Besides, the season was practically over so little, bad ears fire her. Ah, Sharon, wheedled Mrs. Gowdikey.

Who else have I got? Believe me, it's not for me. It's for all of us. Suppose no. No, shrilled Mrs. Gowderke. I feed you the whole summer? For what? One little thing I want you to do, and what do I get?

Listen here, young lady, I'm telling you for the last. It went on for ten minutes, during which Mrs. Gowdyke quite forgot to worry about the storm. She was still breathing hard when she appeared at the door of the game room and signaled imperiously to Dick McHugh. You've got to drive me to Hebertown, she ordered. But Mrs. Gowdikey, he nodded back of the room, where a couple of selling guests were doggedly putting golf balls into a tumbler. I've got a contest going. Dave said I have to help out. He said, this is more important, Mrs. Gowdikey.

said firmly. You think I like going myself? God knows what the guest will think, so don't tell them. Let them look. All right, Mrs. Gowdyke, I'll tell you what. I'll go get the car and meet you at the kitchen entrance. Just the two of us going? Mrs. Gowdyke smiled frostily. Three, she said. Mrs. Froman is leading us. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3. A town is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C. M. Cornbluth. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. The Burgess of Hebrotown wasn't having any luck with his call to the Weather Bureau. Because he was the Burgess, he had gotten his own dedicated line to the local telephone

company's central office back in service, but the central office was having a hell of a time getting through to any point outside. If he had got through, he wouldn't have had much luck either because there were plenty of lines down, but practically all the ones left were trying to get onto the same three desk phones in the Weather Bureau's outer office. Though Chief of the Weather Bureau was talking on one of the three desk phones, kept open with a direct line to the nearest civil defense filter center. Charlie, here's the latest.

Not a chance of the rain stopping for at least several hours. That's the big thing. Some places it's hitting like an inch an hour. That's all that wet air that Diane pulled in from the Atlantic, and now the winds have pushed it up, and when it gets cold, the water has to come down. How much? He blinked at the phone. He had been in the office for 17 hours,

and suddenly he remembered they never got around to having lunch sent up. Call it 10 inches, average throughout the affected area. What? he sat up straight. Now listen, Charlie, I've busted forecasts and I've admitted it, but you can't hang this one on me. The station duty forecaster on the phone next to him was saying, Sure, we're sticking by a forecast. Go ahead and print it. Flood damage?

No, I can't give anything, not our line. Please, won't you read the forecast? We said heavy rain. We said prospect of danger from flooding because the soil is saturated, no room for the rain to soak in. It has to run off somewhere. The only thing we didn't say was positively. He hung up, but didn't take his hand off the phone.

It would ring again in seconds. Didn't much matter what they printed, of course. The newspapers that had been on the wire was in the town that had grown rich from the two rivers that joined at its heart, and the forecaster had his own feelings about what those two rivers might do. He took his other hand off the clipboard and found that he crumpled a copy of for their last forecast into a ball. He tossed it into a basket, hardly hearing the chief shouting into the floor. phone next to him. It didn't matter. He knew it by heart anyhow, but as the phone rang, he made a dive and recovered the forecast. He smoothed it out carefully. It might, he suddenly

realized, be very important indeed over the next weeks and months when the investigating commissions and legislative committees began sniffing through the debris. Mrs. Chesbro came smiling into the Burgess's office. Excuse me, she said. I knocked, but you were busy on the phone. "'Not very,' said the Burgess, slamming the phone hands set down. "'How he couldn't even get the central office again? "'What can I do for you?' "'You didn't know the woman. She was expensively dressed. "'The Burgess, whose wife, Red Vogue, realized that her flat-heeled leather shoes,

"'her matching waterproof tweed coat and cap, her neat leather gloves, "'all were imported and expensive. "'For the rest, she was a small blonde in her twenties "'with a careful, conceivatory look on her face. "'Ah, Mrs. Arthur Shedsbrough,' she said. Arthur and I drove over from Summit to see you. Arthur let me off, and then he decided he'd better move the car to a little higher ground, the top of that shopping street you have. Sullivan Street, isn't it? After General Sullivan, I suppose. And he'll be right along, and then you two can have your little talk. The Burgess looked at her vaguely. Her chatter only half-comprehended. If she had been a man, he would have said something like, I'm sorry, but I'm tied up right now. Write me a letter, and we'll make an appointment. Since she was a woman. his old-fashioned notions ruled that out.

I didn't expect Mr. Chesbrough, he began. I've got so much in my mind right now with a rain, he noted with riot amusement, that he started to say flood and change the word, civic pride or superstition, that I don't think this is the best time for a meeting. Could you go and head him off, Mrs. Chesbrough? It can't be urgent. Arthur thinks it is, she said. A man phoned him from New York that this Mickey Groff is on his way,

and Arthur swore around the house for 15 minutes, and then told me to get out the car and, well, here I am. She could ask for a favor and keep her dignity. I'm sure it won't take more than a minute. Arthur says it's all cut and dried. Chief Breyer came in without knocking. His black slickers streamed and his mustache was limp. Henry, he said to the Burgess,

I make it 12 feet and rising at the Sullivan Street Bridge. In 35 it was only 8 feet, and in 39 it was 9.5. What's going on down the hollow? God only knows. Anyway, I'd better get down there with all the boys, all right? Sure, Red, get on down. Send somebody to my place in the car with a trailer hitch, have them tow my boat down to the hollow.

It's all set up on the trailer in the garage, ready to go, he grinned Riley. I was thinking I might take best up to Cayuga for a day on the water. Mrs. Chesborough looked on blankly. Great, said the chief. It's got a good spotlight, too. We'll need that. If you don't mind a suggestion, Henry, I'd turn out the fire department and have them standing by.

You may need some able-bodied men in a hurry. Twelve feet and rising. He hurried from the office. Excuse me, said the Burgess to Mrs. Chesborough, and try the interphone on his desk. It worked. So far, the main to the north end of the borough had not been flooded and shorted out.

Fire chief, said the interphone. This is Henry, Chief. Red Breyer thinks, and I agree, that you should sound the general alarm for volunteers that they should be standing by in the engine house with their cars parked in the square. The hollow's filling up fast, at least it must be. The water's 12 feet and rising at the bridge. Right, Henry. That all?

For the present, yes, the bridge is sighed. He clicked the box off. Immediately he heard the claxon on top of the building, hoot three longs, and then pause, and hoot again, and then again. It was the emergency muster signal, and it would galvanize 50 men scattered throughout the borough into dropping whatever they were doing, tearing to their cars, and speeding to the borough hall, or more exactly, to its ground floor, left wing with a fire department, two La France pumpers, one ancient and one beautifully new, two full-time employees, the chief and the driver, were housed. He hoped they wouldn't be too disappointed when they found they'd be on a boring standby. And now he thought he really ought to get

out and drive around the town on a tour of inspection. There wasn't any point to stick in the office with the phone now and the firemen and the police already committed to action. He had hoped for some usefulness out of the local radio station, but it was silent, had been for an hour. the news of the hollow explained that the transmitter tower a modest spire was planted in a marshy field down that way it had something to do with a good ground he had been told once so they had a good ground and they were now bugged out the one time they'd be able to do a public service beyond broadcasting a damn fool hillbilly music He was reaching for his raincoat to the dismay of Miss Chesbrough when a big man came in. The Burgess recognized him as her husband, the redoubtable Arthur Chesbrough of Summit. He had quite consciously, had little to do with Arthur Chesbrough as possible, but there was an irreducible minimum of contact with the man that couldn't be avoided.

He was all over the place in Summit, a closely neighboring borough, and he had feelers out throughout the entire area. You heard of his interest in this and that, bankrolling a resort, buying a professional building a county away and turning it over fast, snapping up timber rights to a farmer's woodlot, and turning them over to a firm from over the state line, snatching an FCC television construction permit from under the nose of heavy competition, and not building the station after all for mysterious and profitable reasons.

He was a leading citizen, the Burgess supposed, but he had nevertheless carefully avoided him whenever possible. He was not really sure why, but once after a couple of bourbons with Chief Breed, he told the chief that he thought author Chesbrough suffered from a case of moral and ethical halitosis. Physically, Chesbrough was the picture of success, rather soaked him winded success at the moment, having hiked in the rain from Sullivan Street and climbed the steep stairs to the Burgess's second-floor office. He grasped at the Burgess's automatically extended hand with a firm and manly grip. Good to see you again, Harry, he intoned. How's best?

Fine, thanks. And that boy of yours, in medical school? Fine. Arthur? He thought resignedly that he had to go along with these characters. And maybe, for God's sake, Chesbro actually did remember Bess and did remember hearing about Ted and actually did wish them well. Maybe. I see you've met my wife, Henry. Well, it looks like quite a nasty downpour, doesn't it? Now he's talking about the weather, for God's sake, to put me at ease and get the conversation going on a topic of universal interest. Always start by talking about the weather. Nobody's so shy or so stupid that they can't think of something to say about the weather. Well, sir, this time that Maxim is going to backfire in Arthur Chesborough's red face.

Glad you mentioned it, Arthur, the bird just said briskly. I'm leaving now. I'm afraid we're in for something worse than we got in 35 and 39, and I'm going to cruise around and have a look-see. I don't know why you came out on a dirty night like this, but if you can't put it in a nutshell, it'll have to wait. Arthur Chesbrough was disconcerted. Didn't you see the story in the paper yesterday, Henry? I must have been busy that Burgess apologized, getting into his raincoat. Well, it said, roughly, well, well, never mind the story. What I want to do is take the old Swanska mill off the borough's hands

and put a tidy rental into the communal pocket and hire a few of your local people. Sounds fine, said the Burgess. He started for the door. But there's a fellow with a plant in Brooklyn who is interested, too. I understand he's coming out to see us about it, but I suppose this weather will hold him up. I think we better table this matter until I hear from him and have a chance to compare with the offers. Now, if you'll excuse me, I never thought, said Chesborough flatly,

that I'd see a neighbor selling out to foreign interest when he has a bid from a local man. The Burgess took his hand off the doorknob and looked Chesboro steadily up and down. I don't like your language worth a damn, he said. I'd give you a lecture on manners if I didn't have more important things to do. You can find your way out, can't you? Chesboro's eyes dropped, but the Burgess thought he could read a look of calculation on his face. Sorry, he said. By the way, my car is just up the hill. Can I help out? Well, said the Burgess, and thought, might as well save climbing all the way up West Street, and you couldn't brush off a man

who was trying to do your favor just because you thought he stank. Oblaged, he said. If he'll drop me at my house, I'll pick up my own car. He waited with Mrs. Chesbrough while her husband dashed through the rain. She didn't talk, which the Burgess approved, and once when he met her eyes, she gave him a tired smile. The Burgess judged that she was on to her husband and seldom had anything to smile about. For that matter, what did anyone have to smile about? The Burgess looked over his borrow and hardly heard Arty Chesborough chattering beside him. The street lamps at the bottom of West Street were out. One of the big elms that framed the post office was trailing a pair of enormous branches, broken-winged, across the street. They had to detour far left to pass it.

Well, there wouldn't be much traffic tonight, and you couldn't tell, maybe he'd be lucky and the whole tree would have to come down, and then he could get on with widening West Street and the hell with the garden club. They went up over West Street Hill and down the other side. Don't know if you considered the importance of warehousing facility and attracting industry, Chesborough was saying in his ear. Warplants? Sure. They're dime a dozen, Henry, but they could come and fold up and then where are you? But you take a town that's got a good reputation for low cost. The Burgess felt entirely too surrounded by Chesbrose,

with already babbling on one side, his wife silent on the other. Then they turned on to Sycamore. The Burgess leaned forward. Funny, he could hardly see the highway junction at the bottom of the hill. They rolled at 40 or so, and then everything happened at once. Something jumped out of the pavement ahead of them. Watch out! yelled the Burgess. "'Jesus,' said Artie Chesbrough, slamming on the brakes and skidding.

"'It looked like a figure, some kind of crazy figure hard to make out in the rain, "'that suddenly started to get up in the middle of the road. "'It humped itself and flopped back, "'and then it leaped high in the air, higher than the roof of the car.' "'Mrs. Chesbrough laughed out loud, nervously. "'Busted waterpipe!' cried Arty Chesbrough. "'Look, Henry, it's a whole fountain.' "'It was a fountain, all right,

but it wasn't anything broken. The burges swallowed hard. Not in 35, not even in 39. Had the storm sewers backed up hard enough and fast enough to send their manhole lids flying into the air. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4. A Town is Dr. Prowduring by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Dick McHugh started off like a jet pilot. What's the hurry, Mrs. Goddikey demanded. Better go slow, and we'll get there. She was feeling uneasy than ever, because though she had heard the rain pounding on the house and seen the rain sluicing down the windows, she hadn't felt the rain until that two-yard dash from the door to the station wagon that had wet her to the skin.

Sure, Mrs. Goddike, he said cheerfully, and slow down briefly. Fast, slow, he could drive that blacktop road to the highway in his sleep. This was what he liked, something happening. He would never have taken the agency's offer of this job if he'd known it would involve running putting contests for reined-in guests who blamed it all on him. Girls, dances, a chance to sharpen up his game for the all-important intercollegiate medalist next year. The agency had made it sound pretty great. Of course, he had a lot to offer, too. His maiden had standing, for instance.

As far as the world of golf was concerned, now he was definitely and permanently a pro, and some of the doors engulfing were forever closed to him. Maybe he should have held out for more money. But what was the difference? Dick McHugh knew well enough that his game wasn't going to support him all of his life. He had a good, powerful drive and a touch with the putter, but everything between the tea and the cup was hard work. It made him a splendid golf pro for Mrs. Go-to-Kee's guests,

most of whose future golfing would either be on the driving range or one of those miniature courses that were coming back, but that was as far as his talent went. Dick McHugh didn't kid himself, or anyway, not about his golf. Mrs. Goddike cried out and clutched his arm. Look, $400 of topsoil! But it wasn't $400 worth of top soil anymore. It was a lake.

She looked at it incredulously. She remembered distinctly what it had looked like when she and Mr. Godotiki had taken possession of Godotiquet's green acres, formerly known as Holiday Hacienda. It had been a muddy cow pasture rutted and gullied. It had taken three days with a bulldozer before they could start putting the topsoil on. Mrs. Gauticie swallowed, as she could. considered where the next $400 for the next batch of topsoil might be coming from.

From the back, Sharon Froman called sharply, Watch yourself, Dick! I see him, McHugh said, slowing down. A battered pickup truck was walling around their entrance road, trying to turn around. The driver was being meticulous and careful about staying off the shoulders, which made it a long process, but finally he got turned around and pulled over. As the station wagon drew close, he leaned out and yelled, This ain't the road to Hebertown, is it?

Dick McHugh leaned over his employer to roll down the window and yelled back. No, you have to turn left at the road, then the second right, left at the bridge. Look, just follow me. He barely got his head out of the window before Mrs. Godekie rolled it up again. Follow him. Geez, I ought to have an airplane. Mickey Groff said, we ought to be nearly there by now. Does it look familiar?

Nothing looks familiar. Sam's a he complained. trying to keep the lights of the station wagon in sight. He stole the look at the dashboard. Forty-two miles they'd come. Backtracking where the bridge was washed out, taking a shortcut that had turned out and passable, getting lost on the country roads down towards the river,

42 miles, and they'd started out three miles from town. There was a mile marker right in front of the store. No, not any more there wasn't. Sam Zahetti got a sudden cramp in his belly thinking about it. the important thing was whether the insurance covered it or not he had the impression that he was covered for everything from artillery fire from the argentine army to glacial damage but that was a long time ago when he signed that check for the policy and he couldn't remember what it said about floods of course he told himself valiantly that guy in the car was nuts the store couldn't have been just washed away it's just that it was so dark and you couldn't see through the rain from as close as you dared get in the car Probably there was water in it, sure. But that wasn't so bad.

Look at all those people in Missouri and places like that. They go through this every year. He thought of the new freezer, not yet paid for it, and moaned. Mickey Groff snapped. Are you sick? Want me to drive? Sam Zahetti swallowed hard. I'm okay, he said.

And then he concentrated on the twin red lights ahead of him, the beating rain drops that slipped into the cones of the headlights, and out again faster than the eye could follow. follow. He concentrated on the feel of the gas pedal, feeding the gas delicately. You're driving, he told himself, so drive and don't worry. But in less than five minutes, he humbly asked Kroff, you know anything about insurance? Some, Kroff said reluctantly. He could guess what was coming. Well, to tell you the truth, I don't remember what my policy on the store was like. Fire, of course, and extended coverage. That means water damage, doesn't it? I'm afraid not,

Groff told him, feeling rotten. Under some special circumstances, yes, but what's back there? No. If it were primarily windstorm damage with water damage secondary, for instance, if the wind tore your roof off and the rain ruined your stock, you could collect. But nobody's covered against flood. The word was out in the open at last. Zahadhi choked back a sob.

He are driving, so drive. But in less than five minutes, he found himself railing to grail. rough that it wasn't fair, that he'd lost five years of work, that he would have been ready to look for her wife in another three years, a good old-fashioned girl from the New York or Detroit colonies of Syrians, somebody who could cook the old country food. God, how sick he was of hamburgers and soda pop. Sometimes he looked at a hamburger when he thought he was hungry and just put it down and walked away with a pain in his belly. So why? he asked indignantly and a little hysterically. Didn't I stay in a colony

and eat my mother's cooking? I'll tell you why. Because I wanted to be my own boss. I wanted to be a pioneer. It's no good crowding into the big cities and working for other people. In this country, you have to make money to be respected. Nobody respects you if you're just a working stiff all your life. So I saved and I bought that place through a broker and I've been slaving for five years, eating the lousy food and thinking about the broiled lamb I'm going to eat every day when I find a wife.

And then... He subsided, and the rain drummed down. They're an emotional people, Mickey Groff thought automatically, and then cursed himself. Damn fool. Here you are 30 years old, and you're babbling stereotypes to save yourself the trouble of thinking. Why the hell shouldn't he be emotional, with his store washed away? I seem to remember that when Zimmerman slipped the old knife between your ribs with the trick specially printed discounted sheets and cost you $40,000 you didn't have.

$40,000 for him and Brody to spend on liquor and women. $40,000 you might have air-conditioned they plant with for better productivity and fewer rejects. You weren't exactly philosophical about it. Here screams, in fact, were allegedly heard as far west as counsel bluffs Iowa. So let's scuff please about any they who exist only in your head, being emotional or stingy or stoical or vindictive or, for that matter, generous and good-hearted. Take them as they come, one by one, for what they should. show they are.

Zahedi was under control again. He said, that guy's driving too fast. Watch out! Mrs. Gautakid yelled at Dick McHugh. Watch out! The white post that marked the sharp left curve loomed big, too big in front of him. McHugh twisted the wheel and stepped on the brake pedal, hard and fast. He was nightmarish to feel the rear of the car swivel around. He was uncanny to see the road passing in front of him,

defying all of his experience of perhaps a hundred thousand miles in the driver's seat. The white center line flashed across his vision, and then the headlights glared into his eyes. It was the truck that had been following them. The skid continued for an interminable few seconds more. Sharon Froman was screaming in the back seat. The rear of the car jolted down, and McHugh and Mrs. Goddike were thrown back against the seat as the front of the car nosed up, metal crunched beneath them. Then it was all over.

McHugh took a deep breath, turned off the ignition, and waited for Mrs. Godekeye key to skin him alive verbally. She said, panting with relief, I'm sorry I yelled at you, Dick. It must have made you nervous, so that happened. He could have kissed her, hairy mole and all. If I had been driving, Sharon began, coolly from the back. If your aunt had you know what, she'd be your uncle, said Mrs. Go to Key tartly.

No remarks are required from you, Miss elegant loafer. Sharon laughed. Both wheels are in the drainage ditch, McHugh diagnosed, and we seem to be hung up on the transmission. Can you get us out? Mrs. Goddike asked. No, but that truck stopped. I guess we can get a ride. Sam Zahetti laid his truck alongside the ditch sedan and got out. Anybody hurt? he called. We're okay, thank God, Mrs. Goddikee told him shakily. But my driver tells me that the car is through. Could you maybe give us a lift into Hebertown? We'll be okay from there.

Mickey Groff got out, soaked again, and surveyed them. You two ladies can fit in the cab with Mr. Zahetti here. The gentleman and I will ride in the back. Can you take these, please? Sharon said, opening the rear door. Put them in the back. Careful, that's a typewriter. And very careful with that one. It's a manuscript.

And these two are just closed. Groff wrenched open the double rear doors of the truck and put the four pieces of luggage inside. In the darkness, there were crates. and cartons. At least they'd be able to sit up instead of crouching on the metal floor. As the driver of the ditched car passed before the headlights, he saw he was surprisingly young and obviously shaken by the accident. Get in, he said. It might have been worse.

Mrs. Gautickey, puffing, pulled herself up the high running board of the truck, and slid in beside Zeddehy. Sharon followed and slammed the door. The truck moved cautiously off. In the dark rear of the truck, Groff and McHugh had found Milkcray's to sit on. you all right croff asked the young man didn't bump your head or anything it wasn't like that kind of stop mckew said he begun to laugh i'm from springfield ohio he said between chuckles damned if i see the joke fella well mister in springfield ohio damn near every spring the little old springfield river that runs through the town begins to rise and rise after a week of this it spills over the banks and the sandbags they put up every time at the last minute and downtown springfield is a lake. Then, everybody swears and gets the canoes and row boats out of the garage and goes boating glumly around until the water subsides. Well, Mr. I came east to college because I was tired of Springfield and its foolish floods, and I run into this mess. Through the windows of the double

door, Groff saw they were passing a small frame building with gas pumps in front. It was dark. Ziggaret? Groff asked steadily. He didn't want to encourage the kids near hysteria. No thanks. But the difference is in Springfield, it's slow and steady, and this is happening fast. And when it happens fast, sooner or later, a crest comes along, and then it isn't one of those years when you just go boating around. It's one of those years when you head for the goddamn hills and fast. Then you think we're going to have a flood crust?

Hell yes. 30, 40 feet of water smashing through the valley? When it comes through, mister, we better not be there, because those things don't leave much behind. they were stopping now what the hell said micky gruff there was a scratching of the double doors and one of the women from the ditched car climbed in grand central she called change for the downtown local follow the green lights for the shuttle to time square you're cheerful enough sharon the kid told her what's the matter why it's nothing at all we're just out of gas nothing else she turns to micky gruff mrs de hetty's compliments sir then would you like to help him scout out some petrol They found the Blacktow gas station after squelching for a couple of interminable minutes through the sopping night. I thought I had plenty of gas.

How'd I know we'd be driving all over the valley? You said just a quarter mile down the road and, shut up and let's see if we can get in, Groff ordered. Zaheddy's whining was getting on his nerves. There wasn't a soul in the station, not even a night light. Probably no power, Groff thought. That meant no burglar alarms in case they couldn't find an unlocked window. Though hell, he thought Riley, wouldn't it be nice if a state trooper car did come screeching up? Up you go, he told Zahedi, clasping his hands to receive the toe of Zaheddy's foot.

Locked, reported Zaheddy after a moment. Break it open, with your elbow. Try not to cut an artery. Then, when you get inside, see if he jerked his head aside as glass tinkled around him. Sorry, apologized Zaheddy. Croft heaved and got him through the window and went back to the front door to wait. He hoped to God Zahedithel. Zahetti would be able to unlock something from inside.

They would never get the women through the upper window, and he didn't want to have to break the front door. They would need every bit of shelter they could get. Zahedi appeared and tried the front door from the inside. You, idiot. Didn't you see the padlock? Groff thought sourly. It made shadowy gestures towards the rear. He was yelling something, but you couldn't hear a gunshot in that crashing rain.

Groff got the general idea in any case and stumbled around to the back. Zaheddi let him in. The grocer was all keyed up. "'That looks like a fuse box,' he chattered. "'Didn't see a switch for the pump motors, "'but it ought to be right around there someplace, wouldn't you say? "'And there's some soda-pop bottles in case we can't find a gallon jug? "'All we have to do—'

"'Go get the other, Sam,' Grawfordered. "'He took his fingers off the lights which he'd been trying, "'though he'd known what the results would be ahead of time. "'No electricity, you see? "'So the gas will just have to stay in the pumps for a while.' "'He closed the door behind the grocer and looked over their refuge. It wasn't much of a filling station, a couple of pumps out front, a nice chest full of soft drink bottles and a little serving counter inside. They had come in through a sort of store room, and there was a chance that there might be something useful in there,

but it had looked like nothing more promising than the usual collection of old newspapers and three-legged chairs. There was a rickety stare to, presumably, a couple of more storerooms. Groff made a thrifty inventory of what was on and behind the serving counter. A coffee maker, no good. power, though a cup of good hot coffee would have helped a lot. Easily a dozen cardboard boxes which opened proved to contain peanut butter and cheese crackers and Oreos. Candy bars and bags of peanuts beyond their utmost power of consumption. They might get rickets, but they wouldn't starve. But water, though, the place didn't seem to have any. Scratch water. They could get by on the

soft drinks, or if worse came to worse, it certainly was much more water than they needed right outside. A telephone! He looked through all his pockets without coming up with anything smaller than a quarter. He slipped the quarter in the slot and there was a mellow bong to acknowledge it. There was nothing else. He held the receiver to his ears for a good two minutes, but the line was dead. And then he found the greatest treasure of all, a box of stubby short candles under the serving counter. Evidently, power failures were not unheard of around here. Something, Groff reminded himself automatically, to keep in mind when he talked to the bird. The Birges tomorrow. If he talked to the Burgess tomorrow. There was something there that

would need thinking about, too, but the thing to do right now was to locate some matches. His own, of course, were more than merely wet. The striking surface had soaked right off of them. But there was a cigarette machine, and fortunately a mechanical, non-electrically operated one. By the time Sam got back with the others, Kroff was busy by candlelight trying to brace a Coca-Cola easel display to cover the window they had broken. Sharon Froman was hugging the briefcase full of manuscript. You don't last 30 years in the resort business unless you know how to take your mind off your troubles. Mrs. Gottoke, sipping delicately from the quart bottle of black cherry soda chatted gaily.

Soda pop! Three years I haven't had a drop of soda pop. Now don't tell on me, Dick. If Dr. Postal ever finds out, he'll kill me the next time he comes around to the hotel, she choked on a swallow of the soda. Dick McHugh sat on the counterstools, sneering at the spectacle, Sharon Fromman was making of herself over that Mickey Groff. There was a real championship performance.

She hadn't had two minutes alone with him, but McHugh was willing to bet she could tell to a nickel how much a transistor manufacturer in the process of expansion from 40 employees to 100 was likely to have in the bank. And there wasn't a chance in the world that this Groff knew what she was doing. This was the no-nonsense, Sharon, the hard-working first week of the season, Sharon, who was right by Groff's side when he needed a hand,

who didn't ask the fullest questions, who kept calm and ready, and to think that as late as Monday night sneaking back to his own room, he'd begun to think. Sharon and the manufacturer came in from the storeroom with another load of newspapers and dumped them. All right, said Groff. I guess that's all we'll need. They won't be very comfortable, but maybe somebody will come by before the morning. I don't expect to sleep much anyhow, Sharon said cheerfully. She taps a heady on the shoulder. Oh, you feel a little, will you, Sam?

The grocer started. He picked up his feet so she could spread the newspapers, and when she was through, she had to remind him he could put them down again. Five years down the drain. Five more years of hot dogs and that muddy water they call coffee. I'll be thirty-five years old and still three or four years to go. Everybody felt it at once. The wind? Ventured Mrs. Godekie. They stared at each other. The building seemed to be vibrating slightly. Dick McHugh suddenly white, stumbled across. the floor and pressed his face to the door. Take a look, he yelled. That ain't wind. Even in the blackness, they could see the river that had been the road outside, the comb of the current around the gas pumps, and the surging water lapping at the door.

End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5. A Town is Dr. Pohl by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. An air watcher. It doesn't matter which one of the thousands he was, stepped from the hospital elevator at the third and top floor. He went through a door, marked no admittance, and climbed the iron stairs to the roof. It was black and drizzling. He hoped the rain wouldn't get worse, at least not during his tour of duty. He had heard on a news broadcast that west of his area there were cloudbirths. He was tired from the long day at his appliance

store on Broad Street and was a little sorry that he signed up for this ground observer core thing. but everybody in Rotary was taking a shift, so he felt he had to go along. He threaded his way around the invisible obstacles that studded the hospital roof and groped at the blackout curtain of the shack. It was dry and bright inside the little cubicle, but somewhat crowded. The man he was relieving, yawned, and looked at the clock, so he was two minutes late, and said, Howdy, ready to go? Sure.

Everything quiet? Yeah. CMA Flight 24 was early and south of their course, so I phoned it in for the hell of it. Coffee's hot. Maybe later. Well, I relieve you. The man passed over the nightglasses and went yawning through the curtains. The air watcher wiped the drizzled lenses of the binoculars, sighed and stepped out onto the roof. He slumped into the swivel chair, tilted back in the patter of rain, and watched the overcast sky with boredom. The Little Town's lights were bright, after a few minutes of the room.

outside, you could see how far they really shone. And after a few minutes more, you could see the lights of the next little town, 15 miles away, as a dim haze on the horizon. By the time his tour was over, they would have gone out, and everybody would be in bed, light rain comfortably pattering on their roofs. The phone, inside the shack, jangled. Most unusual. He blundered in through the curtains, blinking at the naked bulb. He picked up the direct wire phone and gave his GOC post number. "'Filter Center,' said the phone. "'Is your town flooded?' "'No,' he said, astounded.

"'How much rain are you having?' "'Just a light drizzle. Why?' "'Thanks,' filter center said, and hung up. "'Now what the hell?' he gasped. Standing there with the phone in his hand, not realizing that he, one of thousands, had just played his part in alleviating statewide disaster. The filter center was the basement of the college's

newest structure, the physical sciences building. Its location was a low-grade secret in that it was never published in the papers. Since it was staffed mostly by unpaid volunteers, that's about as far as the secrecy went. The government had spent a lot of money on it in 1949. The money had transformed an ordinary storage and heating plant basement into an air-conditioned soundproof office of enormous size. There was a huge table with an inlaid map of the area. This was the heart of the filter center, and the numerous other installations were designed either to send information to the table or take information from it. Information came by phone from the watchers, like our man on the roof. His messages buzzed from headsets into the years of girls who stood at plexiglass sheets ruled off

in grids. A word from him that he had cited a plane, direction traveling, height, and type, if possible. They scribbled symbols in china marking pencil on the plexiglass sheets. One of the girls around the table, map, then shoved the marker to the right spot on the map. The Air Force liaison officer, constantly at duty at the table, checked the marker against the list of submitted flight plans from the Civil Aeronautics Authority and decided that all was well. If the marker did not correspond with any submitted flight plan, he picked up a phone and called an interceptor base,

usually defined that radar units had beaten the filter center and its volunteers to the warning. The jet fighters had scrambled, perhaps that an errant plane had been a denizens, had been identified as a strayed commercial flight and that the fighters were down again. Twice in five years the volunteers had beaten the radar, and the lieutenant considered those two times well worth the cost of the center and the boredom of duty there. It was a very dull night, and the lieutenant was looking forward to his relief, when the call

from the state director of civil defense came in. I almost busting loose, lieutenant, the director said succinctly. I'm getting calls from here and there with spotty reports of flooding, but mostly from I'm scared people who want to know what's going on and what they should do about it. Can you call all of your air watchers and get a summary of the situation? I'll put a chief operator on it, sir, that the lieutenant said. We can put the reports on the map. I'll report this to group at once.

I'm sure they can get a meteorologist here at once to try and evaluate it for you. And maybe the army will lend us an engineer officer with some experience in flood control. The night was turning out to be not so dull after all. Diplomatically, he was liaison, not command. He filled in the chief operator for the filter center, and she made a little speech to the matrons and the girls, detailing half of them to continue immutiously with their aircraft work and the rest to start phoning the watchers.

The lieutenant rapidly devised a set of symbols to summarize the conditions at each point. His weather studies helped there. Within minutes, they were joining them down on the map table. One girl came to him with a question, What do you do when you can't get a wire through? Put down an F, he said, for flooded. The director was back on the wire, and he hadn't even called Group yet. You better send a man of your own down here, sir, he advised.

Somebody from your staff who can do nothing but report to you. Good idea. He's on his way, Lieutenant. He got through to Group, the officer of the day first, and then the sleepy executive officer. The exec carefully avoided commenting on his action but said, We'll send you a meteorologist pronto. I'll message First Army about the engineer officer. sir. Meanwhile, keep at it. And don't forget your primary mission, Lieutenant. He would not forget. One of the girls at the plexiglass scribbled a symbol, but nobody at the table picked

it up. They were too busy twittering and tutting over the grim picture shaping up along the rivers of their state. Get that intercept! He snapped at the girl who was responsible for the sector. Sorry, she said, burning red, and picked out a marker to shove carefully to the right spot on the map. Multi-engine, approximately Angels 10, bearing 280, the lieutenant checked his list. It was CMA Flight 24, a little off course. And the girls kept calling. From some alert watchers, they got unbelievably exact information relayed from local police or newsmen. Normal river death, present river death, rise during the past 24 hours, condition of the phone and power lines. From others, they got only brief impressions that there was trouble and how much. From many,

they got nothing at all. Down the river valley, towns on the map table crawled the menacing symbol F, over and over again. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6. A town is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. The man in the winterized Jeep unzipped a window, leaned out and yelled, The Burgess around here? The four soaked men working around the tow truck didn't even answer. One of them gestured down the road with an arm,

and they went back to trying to get a line to a car that had gone off the road. It was now roof deep in the torrent that had once been a drainage ditch, and up to five minutes ago it had looked as though something was moving behind the windshield. The man in the jeep spat into the rain and drove on. He finally found the Burgess's car parked with its lights on, along with a couple of others, a few yards from the edge of the river. That was crazy, he thought. Why didn't they park those cars up on the highway, 25 feet above the water? Then he remembered that he was on the highway.

Man here, want you, Henry? The Burgess turned around to face the chief of police. If it's that Artie Chesbro again, tell him to take its goddamn car and... No, it's Lloyd Issel. Don't know if you know him. He's got a dairy farm up on the hills. Why didn't he have sense enough to stay there? His boy's a radio ham, Henry.

He's got a message for you. Burgess Starkman snapped at the man. Well, Mr. Issel? The dairy farmer said. The kid has a contact with the phone line open to the Civil Defense filter center in Springfield. They want an estimate of damage. They want to know what help and supplies you'll need in the morning. And they got instructions for you.

He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. Burgess Starkman said to the chief of police, What do you think? Should I send somebody back with him to talk to them? Spray Reagan, said Chief Breyer promptly. He's too old for this anyhow. Let him sit down for a while. He went off to get him.

The dairy farmer looked around to the cars, the fire engine, the men with the flashlights, the electric lanterns moving around in the downpour. Something happened? He wanted to know. You could say that, the Burgess said we early. There was a boys' camp, a mile up river. It's gone now, and,

eight of the kids are missing. We put a boat in the water, and all that happened was we lost a boat. He glanced at the dairy farmer. How did you know where to find me? Have you been to Hebrotown? The dairy farmer nodded. Is it bad there? The farmer coughed. You haven't been in town for a while, have you? He didn't look at the Burgess. The water was up to the corner where the moose building is, you know? Somebody told me all the stores on Front Street are gone. He went on from there. By the time the chief of police got back with old spray rigging, and the Burgess had pieced together an ugly picture. As the Jeep turned around, Burgess Starkman yelled, Oh, by the way, thanks.

He looked blankly at Breyer. Did you hear what Issel said? Enough. Brer looked sick. He burst out. God Almighty, Henry, we're doing this all wrong. We ought to be back in town running the show instead of out here trying to do everything ourselves. We ought to have two-way radio on the pumpers and a first-aid emergency truck and an organization set up year-round with volunteers trained for emergency work. Sure, it costs a little money,

but what the hell? The taxpayers will stand for it. Something like this will make God-fearing citizens out of them for a while anyhow. Sure, said the Burgess gently. Sure, Red. You finish up here and come back to town and we'll start over.

He left the chief of police there with his thick mustache running water and his old face worried and indignant. As he headed back to the car where the Chesbrose were waiting, he thought. Red's a good man, and he's right, only he hasn't finished thinking it through yet. We need all those things, all right. But after this, what taxpayers? Artie Chesborough was sulking. If that power mad, son of a bitch, Starkman had been willing to give him the two lousy minutes of

time, they could have gotten the whole thing over with and he'd be back in Summit by now, getting a good night's sleep. Instead, he's catching pneumonia sitting in the car. He couldn't even help out in their lousy Boy Scout act. They chased him back to the car. the second time he'd fallen in on the pretext that they didn't have another flashlight to replace the one he'd lost. So there went a fine chance to get Stark-Benzir. Thank God he told himself virtuously. Nothing like this could happen back in the summit.

For two cents, he'd turn around and head back in the hell with the Burgess. The old Swanscom place wasn't worth all this trouble. Or anyway, it wouldn't be, if it hadn't been for the signed option agreement he'd given the men from Chilicothe, Ohio. Shut up that damn humming, he snapped at his wife. Chesbrough laughed softly. Chesbrough didn't even notice the Burgess until the door of the car opened. "'How's it going, Henry?' he demanded cordially. "'Hope you've found those kids. Damn shame about the camp, but if they build on low ground, they have to expect something like this.'

"'Let's head back to town,' said the Burgess. He looked at the clock on Chesbrough's dashboard. "'That couldn't be right. Two, three, four hours they've been out here,' he counted. That was time enough to wash all of Hebertown away. He leaned back and he leaned back and let himself be weary. He hadn't been up this late and he couldn't remember. Chesbrough was at it again, he noticed abstractedly. It didn't take him fifty words to get from the flood to topic A, why the borough of Hebertown should, ought to, and must give him the old Swanscom place. But the bird just didn't mind. Chesbrough was a saturation talker. His tactic was to hammer, hammer, hammer, away, never giving the other man a chance to get an adverse word in,

and it wasn't too hard, after all, to listen to the car rain on the roof instead. He realized vaguely that the rain had been coming down awful hard for an awfully long time. Once he remembered, they had had a big summer thunderstorm, and Bess had read him out of the paper the amazing statement that more than four inches of rain had come out of that one storm. This had to be more than that. Much more. What about Bess, by the way?

Their house was high enough, he calculated. there wasn't much chance of flood water reaching it. But had she stayed home? It wouldn't be like best to stay home by herself, especially when he didn't show up and the phones were down. She would have tried to cross the highway into the borough and found out that that was impossible. Then she would have checked off the possibilities.

Probably she would have gone to her sister's house. That was all right. Good location. Barring some freak like a falling tree or a collapsing roof. He leaned back, his mind slowly going blank and relaxed, under the soothing drone of the flapping windshield wipers and the pounding rain in Arlie Chaspros. Yad-a-tat-tat, yad-a-tat-tat, yad-a-tat-tat, yad-a-tat-tat. Mrs. Chaspero had let her head slump onto the Burgess's shoulders.

She was probably used to the maddening, persistent voice. Maybe asleep. He glanced down at her. She wasn't asleep. Her eyes was squeezed shut with anguish and her mouth was suffering. Not with physical pain. The Burgess realized slowly that she was not used to the maddening voice. voice at all, had infinitely more reasoned hate its clacking than he.

"'Sigarette,' R. Hesbrose said again. "'Now what was the matter with this old son of a bitch?' He said more loudly. "'Sigarette, Henry?' Uh, sure.' Chesbrough grinned wisely. The Burgess had just come across Polly in one of her queer moods. He reached over to the glove compartment.

Matches? Here, here's my lighter. The Burgess spun the wheel of the lighter and held the flaming wick to a cigarette for a long second while he took three puffs. Mrs. Chesbrough moved over a little. The darkness outside and the momentary brightness inside the car turned the windshield into a mirror. He could see her tortured smile. The brightness inside almost wrecked them. As the burges snapped the lighter shut and you could see through the windshield again, Chesbrough gasped and tramped on the brake. Fast as he was, the car was already nosing into a surging stream that cut across the road. The engine chugged and died.

There was a long moment of silence. How little we know our land, the Burgess thought, too tired for panic, filled with resignation, the hills and the valleys we know and name, but the little draws in the hills, down which the heavens drain into our rivers, we glance stupidly at them in a dry season, and see nothing. But this torrent before us is one of those draws. No doubt we paid just enough attention to it, only where it crossed the surface. road to bury a culvert that would guide it in a time of rain and thought we were done with it for all time. But the rain began, and first it soaked into the pasture and the woodlot duff,

until they could hold no more. The rain went on and raced in a sheet across the pasture and cropland until it found the draw and gurgled into it, and raced down the hillside, safely channeled, hit the culvert with a gurgle, and poured through and tumbled down the hill on the other side, and still the rain sheeted down and the culvert filled, and when it was Gorge to full, the rain still fell, and the water rose above the culvert and blindly poured across the road, six inches deep, a foot, a yard, and here we are. Trying to get through and blue sparks will snap from the spark plug terminals to the wet block. The vapor in the cylinders will not fire, and are they Chesboro's pride, his joy, his car,

will soon be a coffin for three drowned bodies, costlier than any bronze, sarcophagus. But Chesbrough was swearing and tramping on the starter. Stay in, he yelled, and his wife half opened the door. I'll get the son of a bitch started or know the reason why. There was a lopsided chugging. One terminal was dry enough. It had been only spray. And then the motor roared. The car backed violently up the hill in the dark. There was a side row, Chesbrough panted. Headed up hill. Can't turn around on this damn thing. We'd go into the ditch, but I can flip onto the side road when we come to it. He felt good. This was what he was good at. From high school on, he had been a fast, hard driver

who delighted in tricky maneuvering. For years now, he had been in the habit of passing anything on the road. It made him feel good, and he felt good now. He backed the car roaring, twisting full around in the seat and peering into the dark. He remembered a straightaway and a left curve. As the car bagged into the curve, he slowed it a little, but not much. And then they came to the side road. What did I tell you? He cried happily. There's a son of a bitch right now, right

where he said it would be. He shifted and roared into the right turn up the hill. When does this take us, Henry? He snapped. As from the bridge to the chart room. The burgess smiled into the dark. I don't know, Arthur, he said. How little we know our land.

A? The old man was tired or rambling. Too bad. Now it was all in his shoulders. But when he got him later, he'd remind him that he had, in a way, saved his life that he didn't expect anything of it for himself, but that he wanted to do something for the community. There's a light, screamed Mrs. Chesbrough. It seemed to be a filling station. There were pumps, and there was a two-story frame building behind them. One of those cross-road groceries,

Chesbrough thought as they swept past. But aren't you going to stop, Arthur? she asked. Nonsense, dear, he grunted. We started for Hebertown, and that's where we're going. How little we know our land, thought the Burgess again. For there ahead, in the twin beams was a sheet of muddy water. Their speed was such that they plowed into with a tremendous gush of spray. "'We'll make it,' Chesbrough cried. Water rose chillingly inside the car to their calves as they plowed heavily forward and then lurched to a stop. Chesbrose said in between his teeth, "'Like the last time!' He ground the starter three times. The fourth time he tramped on the button nothing happened. The battery was shorted out. "'Here we are,' Miss Chesbrose said in inanely.

chesbrough tramped on the dead button again and again it's rising isn't it said the burgess let's get out and wait before we have to swim hating him hating his wife and himself hating the car and the water arthur chesbrough opened the door and more water swirled in seat high let's go he said gruffly five minutes and we'll be in that filling station grocery whatever it was he gingerly lowered himself into the water it came to his waist and chilled to the bone i'll lead he said come on surprisingly there was a strong current chesborough had thought it would be a sort of pond instead it was a temporary catch basin for the living water that was thundering down from the heavens on its way to the river and finally to the sea they were simply in a low spot where the water was detained for a while before rushing on The same cubic yard of water could wash out a power line running alongside a high ridge, wash out a dirt road lower down on the hill, pour through a farmhouse lowered down, smashing through the windows, and depositing stinking mud on the floor, short his battery here, trapping the three of them,

and still rage on with a long career of ruin before it. It was the secret of the flood's destructiveness. Chesbro inched his way forward, taking care to keep the current abeam of him, feeling for the hard to hold. with his feet. The Burgess of his wife held the skirt of his raincoat, one to a side. He stepped on something, slippery, and crashed, face forward into the money water. He was the Burgess with unexpected wiry strength, hauled him upright again while he floundered.

"'Fisher something,' he sputtered. The trudge forward, dead tired after fifty feet of it, the current and the sullen resistance of the water itself, but the level was dropping about them as they climbed the rim of the basin in the land. In ten minutes they kicked through an inch-deep water to the road surface, wet only with the pelting rain. Silently, they splashed along the road. Wait, the bird just said abruptly. They stopped.

He still had Chesbrose's lighter. He crouched and snapped at a light. The water's still rising, he said, following right along behind us. As they stood there, it lapped the soles of their shoes. Ten more interminable minutes, hard walking. Their weight increased fifty percent by their soddened clothes, Miss Chesbrough said, There's the light!

They shambled into a trot by an unspoken agreement. It suddenly seemed very important to the mall that they should get to a warm, dry place, shed their clothes, eat, and sleep. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7. A town is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Sharon Froman shepherded the woman from the car. this Miss Chesbrough into the back room, a queer one she was, but that could wait. Take off what you can spare and hang it up, she said briskly, efficiently, and hit it back for the front room. There had been something when the woman's husband and Mickey Groff met. Sharon Froman wanted to see. They were comparing notes on the flood, and that was all right. If you didn't have ears skilled in the detecting of grace notes of conflict, it might have sounded like any other strangers in common trouble,

but Sharon's ear caught resonances beyond that. Take the woman's husband, for instance. He was chattering away to, of all people, Sick pup, Dick McHugh, but his eyes kept wondering to Mickey Groff. Mrs. Gottick, he scolded. Sharon, the blanket for Mrs. Starkman. You forgot it?

He can take mine, Sharon said. She didn't want to go back to the storeroom just then. She handed the hold, grease-spotted rag to the old man, then remembered and carefully draped it around his shoulders. They stink. She told him cheerfully, and I think they've got bugs, but they're better than pneumonia. She grinned at Mickey Groff.

Thank you, miss, said Henry Starkman. He had not failed to notice that the girl was playing up to Groff. Gold digger, he diagnosed archaically and without passion. He was waiting for Chesbrough to switch his attention from the kid to Groff. Starkman had sat through enough hours in law offices of county politicians to smell the beginnings of a deal before it really existed. Chesbrough wasn't ready yet. he hadn't made his mind up to offer something to gruff quite. But it was in the air.

Pretty soon Chesbrough would turn to the manufacturer and say something bluff and hearty like, well, I see, we're going to have to be chewing each other's ear off in the ring tomorrow, and then if Chesbrough could find a private place to do it, the two of them would be talking quietly for a while. Starkman hugged the spelly blanket around him. Shivering, he thought curiously, what's the matter with this? I want my cocoa. He shook his head to clear it, and then got up to look at the rain outside.

He shouldn't be here at all, of course. What had the people made him Burgess for, at that fence, sought after salary of $200 a year, if not to be on hand, when the community was in trouble? And if a flood was in trouble? I saw a choking sound from Mrs. Gotichie made him turn around. The Chesborough woman was standing in the doorway to the storeroom. In the light from the candles, she had no eyes. The ragged blanket she wore were robes.

She was blindly staring marble. She had swept the blanket spirally around her body and over her wet hair, a hobble skirt at one end, and a turban at the other. She was striking, and she stood for a moment, posed, as though she knew it. Mrs. Gotakie made a tongue-smacking sound. Hardy Chesbrough looked around vaguely. "'Oh, hello, honey,' he said. Now this thunderstorm we had in Summit in 46. A couple of cellars were flooded all right,

but Dick McHugh nodded mechanically. His eyes fixed on the woman. She came over to Starkman and sat down next to him. At close range, the costume didn't seem as extreme, as half-lit by candles, but the bird just felt uneasy. She was too close for him. That was it. She was sitting on the floor looking up at him. I'd better get you something to sit on, he said. it escaped. They managed to build a fire in the storeroom. There were a couple of sheet metal soft drink signs.

They raised one, punctured for draft on the rows of bottles, and placed the other underneath to catch the hot ashes. It worked. Mickey Groffett placed his bed on the normal air leakage around the window frames, carrying off the worst of the smoke, and so it did. It didn't pay to sit too close to it. He had to watch it minute by minute to keep it fed and keep it from setting fire to the shack.

but it served to dry out their clothes, and, besides, it felt more cheerful. The men settled among themselves a plan for rotating guard duty, guarding against fire and flood. Sam Zahetti and Dick McHugh took the first shift, one to keep the other awake. They sat and looked at each other. They had nothing to say, and, besides, it was hard enough for the others to sleep without their talking. Artie Chesbrough, sharing a double pad of newspapers with his wife, schemed feverishly. He hasn't said a word. he's waiting for me to make the first move.

How much should I cut him in for? Or for that matter, do I have to? Well, yes. He'd seen enough of the Burgess by now to know that the deal he had optimistically outlined in the newspaper was out. Starkman wouldn't cave in. You could use the anti-outider theme just so far

and then you had to come across with something tangible for the Starkman himself or for the borough of Hebrotown. On the other hand, what about this? Suppose Groff cooled off on the location after being stuck in this crazy flood they had down here. Maybe it wouldn't be too hard to convince them Hebertown was a lousy idea. Maybe even, this was a chance to do something with the old Ackerman track north of Summit. He doubted that.

Groff would know a swamp when he saw one, but suppose an hour and eight minutes from now, when they went on guard duty as he had carefully arranged, he merely suggested it to the manufacturer and made it sound good. He wished his wife would stop that damn humming in his ear. God, why couldn't they at least be home where they could decently sleep in their own individual rooms? Asleep, Mrs. Gauta Key's face was a curved smile. She was dreaming of 1926, a bride, the rooming house at the Brighton Beach.

Between her and Mickey Groff, Sharon's face was smiling too, sweetly and trustfully, as she nestled obliviously against the manufacturer. But, of course, she wasn't asleep. Sam's a head he sat torpently over the fire, waiting for the last of it to burn itself out. He nearly dropped off three times, and he and Dick McHugh, consulting, had decided it was more dangerous to leave it burning than to put it out. It did stink pretty bad, he thought fuzzily, putting water on it had been a mistake. It smelled a little oily. He swallowed and rubbed his stomach.

That lousy candy bar, he didn't like it, he didn't want it, why had he eaten it? he wistfully turned his thoughts to pickled muscles wrapped in grape leaves now farther out of reach than ever and a nice plump black-eyed girl to serve them mckew had dozed off he noticed a kid well let him sleep what difference did it make funny he thought dizzily not even broiled lamb seemed attractive right now he shouldn't have drunk that cream soda either he gulped and wrenched his thoughts away from that cream soda the smell of the dying fire was getting pretty strong and he felt nauseous as if the floor were moving about underneath him now the sleepers were turning and coughing there was something wrong sam's ahead he fuzzily thought he swayed to his feet and lurched toward the door clear the air he thought the last embers of the fire winked out and he thought for a vague moment that he had lost his eyesight he flung the door open with his last strength and took a deep soft rubbing breath. Images of white-tiled walls, green-painted corridors swirled through his head. He was ten again, and they were wheeling him along the green-painted corridors to have his tonsils cut out. Morissana Hospital. He fell heavily across the restless coughing shape of Mickey Groff.

Groff sat up slowly choking. His head thudded as if with a hangover to end them all. Gas! Get up! He cried, swaying. Get up! Around him, they stirred. and coughed. Gasoline fumes, he yelled. Get up, up the stairs. Move! He staggered through the dark room, kicking at them, and yelling. The stairs were in the back, back, and this was a wall. He leaned against it. It would be good to slump down and rest for a moment, just a moment. He lurched along the wall to the corner to the open stairway that led to the upstairs room. Over here, he choked at them. I'm standing by the stairway. Come on, come on. One by one, they stumbled to the sound of his voice and began to drag themselves up the shaky stairs. One, two, three, four,

five, come on, I'm standing by the stairs, the stairs, this way, this. Two more to come. Two more. Some fool was striking a light, blue green light to blow them all to hell, but no, it was his eyes glazed over and burning that made the light. Two more to come. His raw throat and bursting lungs silenced him. He lurched across the floor and stumbled over something soft. He knelt and took it under his armpits and dragged it to the wall, followed to the wall to the corner to the stairs, feet on the stairs. A young voice in the darkness showed, Mr. Groff, come up. I'll get him. Can you make it? Young McHugh, strong arms took the burden over and it bumped up the steps. That was seven. One to go. He headed back into the thick sweetness of the fumes and crashed to the floor.

He never felt McHugh come to his aid and heave him up the steps, but through it all, he was muttering. One more. They were a sick lot when he awoke an hour later. In the dark upstairs cluttered with boxes and cans, Mrs. Godekie was saying, The water, it seeped into the gas tanks underground, it must be. The gas floated up and all around us on top the water. God be thanked nobody lit a match and the fire was out.

As it was, we were almost poisoned in our sleep, thanks to that Arab. There was a hatred in her voice, 15 centuries of it. Burgess Starkman's voice submerged from an attack of coughing. He's dead, Mrs. Goddikey, you shouldn't, he broke into a coughing again. Mickey Groff grunted trying to talk. He was important to clear that up. His head was pounding, but Mrs. Godikey didn't understand. He was a Syrian, he croaked, a civilized Christian people.

Mr. Groff, said Mrs. Gotike. You better—we were afraid. You're a hero, Mr. Groff. You saved our lives. Except— Zahetti? He asked. He knew that she was nodding in the darkness,

just as he knew that she was bitterly ashamed of her outburst. Aye, too late. Dick went down with a handkerchief around his mouth and pulled him up the stairs. His heart was going, and then it wasn't. Maybe fifteen minutes. Too late. A plump arm slid around him, and Sharon Fruman's voice was in his ear. Try to sit up.

We all felt better after we sat up. She supported his back and eased his trunk upright. He thought his head would explode. He leaned against her dizzily and felt her cool palms against her forehead. Better, he grunted. Thanks. The Burgess's old voice said abruptly, Sing a psalm for Sam Zahetti, the sad Syrian.

"'Bess? "'He's wandering,' Sharon said very softly to Mickey Groff. "'He won't sleep.' Mrs. Chesbrough moved across the floor to the sound of the Burgess's voice. "'Where are you going, Polly?' author Chesbrose snapped. "'To the poor old man,' she said. "'Maybe I can talk him into signing the least before he takes wing.' "'Now what does she mean by that?'

"'They ain't have a pen. "'They have to be witnesses. "'Groff was right there to break things up if they tried to pressure him. "'It wouldn't work in a million years. The stupidity of that woman It was something absolutely astounding. She found the bony bundle that was Burgess Harry Starkman. A little we know, he was mumbling.

I was at Bellow Wood, you know. Leatherneck, a couple of wars back. They poured gas shells in for 48 hours, but the leathernecks didn't have gas casualties. Court-martial for gas casualties. Not like the doughboys threw away their masks. got through Bella Woods and here I am, a gas casualty anyway, 37 years later, ambushed in Hebrotown Township.

The boys of the Legion will get a kick out of that. He sat up abruptly and anxiously and called out, Bess! She soothed him and urged him down. Rest, she said. She felt and unbuttoned his shirt, loosened the blanket around her and spread it over the two of them, pressing herself against his bare chest.

I remember, he said. said, King Solomon, old reprobate, but don't go away, child. He fell into an uneasy dose, his breath rattling in his chest. She pressed herself against him and lay still and silent. Dick McHugh said, I wonder if it's safe to smoke. Mrs. Godeky's snap. In a situation like this, you don't take chances, Groff said slowly, I think it's all right. Gas fumes are heavy, they hugged the ground. If we hadn't been sleeping on the floor, I guess I'd better not, McHugh said uncertainly. You can't smell much up here, but I wonder where the water level is now.

We'll know in the morning, Chesbrose said. A couple of hours. My God, who would have thought it yesterday. Sharon Frumann said, it's bad, Mr. Chesbrough. It means permanent loss of industry, unless we move fast. What permanent loss, Chesbrose snapped. We shovel out the mud and we place the machines and we get going again. The government will help any sound business in a case like this.

I am thinking, she said, of the South. The South? What's the South got to do with this? This is the godsend they've been waiting for. Think, Mr. Chesbrough. They've spent millions on advertising and promotion to attract industry to steal it, if you like. Tax exemptions, rent-free plant. This flood is worth a billion dollars to them, Mr. Chesbrough.

If it's as big as it looks from here, it's worth. with all the 16-page ads they'll ever run in the Sunday Times. Believe me, I know. They're going to be task forces from the Bureau of Industrial Development of every southern state, calling on every manufacturer and distributor in this area. Fratville about your tragedy, and us Delta folks want to help you in any way we can. And, don't get us wrong, friend. We ain't out to steal industry from the north at a time like this, but...

And then it starts. They'll woo them with their sights, with tax write-offs, and with cheap labor rates. They'll strip the area of industry clean as a whistle. Unless... My God, such as Broapald. He'd never considered the angle, but she was, God knew, dead right. Nor he reflected self-pityingly would he ever get such offers. What did he have that would attract a Mississippi Chamber of Commerce?

He was all intangibles that his fortune was going to come from, was almost coming already, he assured himself panically. He had come pretty close. It was only a question of time until the legislator authorized the trotting track, until the money borrowed from his wife's father, and invested in that promising Geiger positive track north of summit, turned up real pay dirt until... Until never, now.

Not if this frighteningly plausible young woman was right, and she sounded right. He said slowly, You're a smart young woman, Miss Frum. Roman. Have you had any experience in this field? She smiled candidly. Only enough to get the feel of it, Mr. Chesbrough. I'm a writer. He might say, I've made a study of everything. And besides, I typed up Hesha's thesis for him, didn't I? The War Between the States, Round Two, a study in industrial dynamics. He nodded. You said, unless, unless what? She said, composedly,

unless we get there first, unless we form an organization immediately on a regional basis to hammer our home our side, skilled labor that's been through the birthpangs of organizational strikes. They're the roughest kind, and they still lie ahead for the South. Access to markets, a good life for the management and supervisory workers, racing climates, sound Republican territory. She had them. She could feel it, and she was never wrong. Let him nibble at the bait for a while And let him taste it and want it

And bite down into it all by himself Bite down on that buried wee That would hook him deep and clean and gasping It looked like a mighty dull autumn But things were looking better Thought Sharon Froman contentedly True if she was going to help this interesting Mr. Chesbrough and his curious wife

It would mean deferring work on her novel again too bad, but she didn't mind the sacrifice. She had made it often enough before. Regional organizations. Hammer hard. Grants from the government. Sure. Tax breaks from the northern states. Panicy attempts to match whatever the South might offer. Sure, I thought Artie Chesbrough. He could arrange that easily. And then... No more waiting for the legislator to approve or for the seyers to report or for any other sole... killing delays that had been the big sum of his life, he would be in, he would be at the top of

something big, where he always wanted to be, where he deserved to be. He looked across to where his wife had gone, and her, he thought, satisfied. She would learn at last. Everything he had put up with from her, over. Just because her father had a little money, she thought she owned him, him, Artie Chesbro. He cleared his throat. We'd better get the some sleep, Miss Froman, he told the girl. We've got to talk about this in the morning. I think there's a good deal in it for both of us. Mrs. Gauticke almost pounded the floor with her fists,

again on her feet. Always Miss Froman would land on her feet, without hard work, without virtue, always by black magic being in the right place, always by the smiling face, and the straightforward look fooling the one person she had to fool. And this time it wasn't one man, and it was two. So let

Mickey Groff slipped through one snare. She had Artie Chesbro caught in another. God, you call this fair? She demanded. Better she should have left her at Godiqee's green acres. What could she have caught there? The starved, stage, screen, and brism, Dave Wax? The horsewire expert, Mr. Semmel?

But no, she had to throw the girl out into this. Mrs. Godachie moaned and put her fingers in her ears to shut out the maddening words. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8. A Town is Drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. That star of stage, screen, and brism shouted fuzzly at the door. Who the hell? Let me sleep.

Dave. He was Mr. Semmel's voice. There were some men here. They want to talk to you. Dave Wax made an obscene suggestion to Mr. Zemmel. He was a tumbler, not the manager of the... a hotel. Let Mrs. Goddikee come back and talk if someone should do it. Wait a minute. What did you say, Simmel? The concessionaire repeated it. The blood's over? demanded Dave Wax. The roads are dry? He staggered over to the window to see

the miracle for himself. Zemma let himself in. They came in a boat. Oh, but it was no surprise. It was still raining. All right. I'll come down. He found himself hurrying in spite of himself. It was only a couple of minutes before he was hovering through the lobby. He saw with a shock that the sofas and chairs in the lobby were occupied, guests who panicated sleep in the rooms, too exhausted to stay awake. They were sprawled and snoring. The men from the boat were in the kitchen drinking coffee that the cooks had somehow contrived to make. Umbraer, Hebrotown police chief. You people all right here? All right. You call 160 scared sword guest all right? You call wondering if the whole damn place is going to float away, all right?

I guess so, Dave Wack said slowly. He was almost afraid to ask. How, how is it outside? The man rubs his mustache. It's a flood, he said succinctly. Ask me in the morning. Anyway, we're beginning to get a little organized. His voice took on a mechanical rehearsed quality.

Don't let anybody drink water unless has been boiled for ten minutes. Use up everything you can that's in the refrigerator tomorrow morning. What's in the freezer ought to be good till tomorrow night if you don't open them too often. What you don't eat by then, don't eat. Throw it away. You probably don't have any water pressure, do you? You're on an electric pump, I guess. All right, you'll have to set up latrines.

Use chamber pots if you have to. Dump them in the river to empty them. You're far enough away from everything here. Wait a minute. Dave was a little slow to grasp the implications of it. You mean by tomorrow night we won't have power back? "'Oh, consider us very lucky,' the police chief said heavily, "'if Hevertown ever has power again.'

He got up. They say that by daybreak the weather will be clear enough for helicopters. If you need anything, a doctor, if there's an emergency, anything like that, hang a white sheet out of the window and keep somebody standing by. When a helicopter or a boat patrol comes by, they'll see it and investigate. Then you wave another sheet at them, and they'll see that somebody gets here. Dave Wax and Mr. Zemmel watched Brayer and his boatmen chug away. Hebrotown chief of police, said Wax.

Isn't he a little out of his jurisdiction? He said they were looking for somebody. Want us to know if we picked up any refugees, God forbid. Mr. Zemmel shook his head firmly. A mess. Now in New Hampshire, they would never! It was cracking daylight when Brayer got back to Hebertown. He sat down in the police station, now an emergency station.

Center with men, women, and children sprawled all over everywhere and dazily pushed away the coffee somebody offered him. He hoped he would never see another cup of coffee again. He said heavily, Amriel turned up. I have a lot of confidence on Arlie Chesbrose's instinct for self-preservation. He'll find a place to hole up in. Sure, Red. The head of the Hebrertown Civil Defense Squad, an organization with an honorable history extending back nearly four hours, dug his fingers into the bags under his eyes and tried to stay awake. He owned a ready-to-wear establishment on the north front, and he had once allowed the Red Cross to use the second-floor storeroom as a Fun Drive headquarters, a record of achievement which had done very little to fit him for staying up all night.

I went down at 11 o'clock to look at the water, he said meditatively. I didn't want my cellar flooded again like in 39, so I shoveled dirt up against the windows, and then I went home to bed. He laughed. He had gone back to his son. He had gone back to his son. He said, he had gone back to his store again two hours later in a boat and he had to bend down to look through the second floor windows of the loft the Red Cross had once used. I heard on the radio list of all the cities that were hit, the worst ones. They didn't even mention Hebertown. Say, what are you going to tell Best Starkman? End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9. A Town is Drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Gray light filtered through the dirty panes of the second floor window. Arthur Chesborough woke slowly, aching in every bone. When he opened his eyes stickily and peered across the grimy little room, he could not at first believe what he saw. Polly! He choked. Amazement and outrage blended. His wife, apparently unclothed,

was snuggled close to old Harry Starkman under a single blanket. She looked up smiling, hush, she said. I finally got him to sleep. His chest sounds terrible and he has a fever. But if he sleeps, he can't be too bad, for now. She got up gracefully, managing the swirl of blanket around her without showing Chesbro hoped too much. Then he noticed that the youngster from the hotel was gawking.

He cleared his throat loudly, and the kid looked away. Mrs. Godekie grunted to her feet. "'Fever?' she asked. "'Let me.' She went to the sleeping old man and felt his forehead. "'He's burning up,' she announced grimly. old man to walk through the rain and then get his lungs full of gasoline fumes. I suppose it's pneumonia.

They were silent. Excuse me, said Mrs. Gottoke. I'm going downstairs, and nobody should follow me until I come back. Mickey Groff thought, sensible woman. Somebody had to speak up. He stood for a moment and for Sam Zedahy. The poor guy had died hard fighting it. His eyes were ugly and his mouth contorted.

His face in the dim light was bluish. the hue of a swimmer's lips when he's been in too long on a cold day. Groff went to the window. Sometime during the night the rain had lightened. It pattered now instead of drumming. There was a mist. He struggled with the window and managed to inch it open against the swelling of its frame and old incrustations of paint.

Brescher swept gratifyingly through the storage room. And then he thought of the Burgess. Sharon Froman understood his glance. She threw her blanket over the old man and said, He'll be all right. she stretched stiffly the old woman's taking forever she said father chesbrough said firmly mrs chesbrough will be next to go downstairs to find her clothes and put them on polly chesbrough grinned amiably this thing is scratchy she said groff leaned out and peered through the mist all he could tell was that there was water below how much of it the ignimatic surface did not say mrs gottocky puffed up the stairs a big carton in her arms "'Chees Wafers,' she announced.

"'Somebody opened them.' Polly glided to the door, sculptural in her improvised robe, and went down the stairs. McHugh, with the appetite of youth and an athlete, tore open the corrugated cardboard, began gobbling wafers from the first carton he came to. "'Man, there's Dickie,' Sharon Frommon smiled. He swallowed a mouthful convulsively and eyed her.

"'Help yourself,' he said Coltie. "'You're no cripple.' "'Why, Dickie,' she purred. after all we've been to each other. Mrs. Goddike looked up. What's this? She snapped. Sharon looked amused and said nothing.

I don't know what she's talking about, McHugh said. The tone, automatically indicted, tried, convicted, and sentenced him for unlawful cohabitation. I'll talk to you later, Mrs. Goddike promised grimly. Dick McHugh found the cheese wafers were ashes in his mouth. He chewed mechanically and wondered how he managed to get sighted. simultaneously on all of these SOB lists, but all he wanted was a little innocent fun for free. He glanced at Sharon sullenly and saw that she was chatting animatedly with Chesbrough about a publicity campaign enlisting all media, the possibility of newspaper and magazine space,

and radio TV time being donated if they played their cards right. Tear their heartstrings out, she urged. Get editorials. I've got some contacts in New York. You'd be the man who saved the valley, Mr. Chesbrough. "'Call me, Arthur,' he said. "'We're going to be working close to you together. I could see that. My prestige and your ideas?'

Polly Chesborough came upstairs in her suit and raincoat. They were wrinkled and damply steaming out the smell of wool, but they were no longer sopping. She was carrying her blanket. She draped it over the sighing form of the Burgess. His breathing was almost a crow. "'He'll never make it without penicillin fast,' she commented, helped herself to a box of wafers and began to eat methodically.

micky groff looked around nobody was making a move for the stairs he stepped over the body of sam sehattie and went down first outside into the drizzle where the water was ankle deep he attended to his needs and went back into the store A bottle of pop caught his eye, and he was suddenly burning with thirst. He tore off the cap on a wall opener and gulped it down as fast as the stuff would gurgle down the narrow neck. After a queasy moment he ran for the door and made it in time. The pop gushed up violently. He sat down, swaying on the wooden step, up to the door, and wretched a couple of times experimentally. He'd have to be careful eating and drinking for a while.

He had gotten a stiff dose of the fumes. Zaheddy's blue-green. well-worn panel truck was just visible down the road in the water to the hubcaps, looking bulky incompetent. The goddamn thing. And there stood the two gas pumps. God damn them too. And if you could only get the pumps to work, you could pump gas from their underground tanks into the truck, and away they'd buzz, getting somehow into town, where the old man could be pumped full of penicillin and dose with oxygen as needed, instead of dying like a sick dog in this kennel. He went Went wearily upstairs and said, next.

Sharon got up and said, Excuse me, Arthur. Keep out of the cash draw, Mrs. Goddike said sourly. Did you leave anything? Sharon asked, wide-eyed. Arthur Chesbrough laughed a laugh, which hastily turned into a cough when Mrs. Goddike glared his way. McHugh said suddenly, I think the rain stopped. They crowded to the window.

He was right. The drizzle had ended and the mist was clearing. Good, said Chesbrough. He'll be able to get the helicopters up. It's only a matter of time now until they spot us. Groff said, I don't think the old man can wait. Chesbrough spread his hands eloquently. What can we do?

Pack him in on our backs, Groft said. Chesbrough said, soothingly, I don't think that'd be practical, Mickey. We're all exhausted. We've all had a touch of gas poisoning. We know more or less where we are. We know which way the town is, but we don't know what lies between us and the town. We may circle around until we drop from exhaustion.

There's a better chance of us being spotted if we stay in this place. We're three able-bodied men, Groff said, his timber rising. We can take turns. A helicopter is just as likely to spot us on the road as it is to spot us here. Chesbro, I'd like to sit here and wait to be rescued too. I don't have a yen to go sloshing through the waters with Starkman on my back either. But I don't think he can wait. We've got to do everything we can.

I've got my manuscripts to carry, Sharon said apologetically. We'll do everything we can, Chesborough said reasonably. But what's the sense of endangering us all uselessly? The trip wouldn't be good for him. And the women, my wife isn't strong, Mickey. She shouldn't be subjected to, Arthur, said his wife. Shut up. She smiled pleasantly at the gathering.

Who's going to be the first to pack him? Naturally, that's me, of course, Dick McHugh thought sourly sliding in the mud. I'm an athlete, so they figure I'm Superman or somebody. He missed his footing and nearly fell. They might as well have carried him on piggyback as on this door, wrenched out of the upper rooms. From behind him, Mickey Groff called, Time for you to take over, Chesbrough.

McHugh relinquished his end of the improvised stretcher to Artie Chesbrough. His arms felt wrenched out of their sockets, and they had covered 500 yards at the most. The rain hadn't really stopped. Not quite. There was still water to be wrung out of the scudding stratus, and it came down in little bursts of droplets. Polly Chesbrose stumbled along beside the sick man,

trying to keep the rain off him when it came, ready with a smile when his eyes jolted open, and for a moment he stared wonderingly about him. It was going to be a long trip. They had to skirt around a sort of contour line instead of following the road. Polly wondered briefly if they would come to a point where the road dipped down into the streaming water

and there wasn't any useful hill handy. She didn't know this road, at all, had seen Habertown only once or twice before last night, had only the vaguest impressions of what the terrain might be like. For that matter, none of them knew much about the country they were hiking across. On this day, Hermine inscribed, in a crabbed hand, our party suffered the loss of two of its aboriginals, reposing our destiny to the care of the greatest guide of all. Mickey Groff was remembering the Ligarian coast of Italy.

The American bombers had smashed it flat from Anzio to Genoa, and Groff had thought proudly, a little selfishly, that no such destruction could ever come to his own country. But this was as bad, at least as bad. They had come across a few houses, but there were ominous objects sailing downstream that had once been houses and barns and all the other structures that man builds

and his enemies sweep away. He tried to reconstruct the terrain as it must have been before the flood, but there was a rightness about the broad sheets of water that made it impossible. They were there. They must have always been there. Why did people build their homes near the water anyhow? Was a burbling brook in your backyard worth having if suddenly, unpredictably, it could destroy your home? He wondered if the war department was able to look itself in the face that morning, remembering the careful charts the colonels had shown him that called for dispersal, concealment, and removal. of all essential industries as his own.

Suppose, they said gravely, New York should take a bomb. You'd be out of commission. He must move out of the city to where you can be safe since the production of your shop is of great importance to this country's defense. And they showed him maps marked secret of instrument plants in Connecticut, the explosives factory in the Delaware Valley,

the electronics laboratory, along the Jersey streams. 248, 249, fifty all right dick he told the golf pro you can take over for a while he surrendered the back end of the stretcher and looked around wait a minute he wouldered sharply what's that up there there was a private dirt road slanting down towards them and something was moving they all set up a waving and bellowing and a group of horsemen appeared on the rim of the highway and they came toward them three or four of them picking their way through the mud the united states cavalry said polly chesbrough clearly is charging to the rescue. Two of the riders were men and chaps and sombreros, and the third was a 13-year-old girl. They goggled unbelievably at the litter bears. They were from the Dude Ranch up on the hills, and they were on their way to Hebertown to complain because their lights and phone were off. Jesus, we knew there was some rain last night, but we never had any idea. The cowboys stared at

each other. How about giving us a hand, Mickey Groff requested. This man's in bad shape. If we don't get him to a doctor, I don't think. think he'll make it. A cowboy scratched their heads for a while, and finally Mickey Groff showed them how to sling the stretch of between two of the horses. Hold them tight and walk them slow, he ordered, putting a cowboy at the head of each horse. The ladies can take turns riding the other horse, I guess. But he got no customers for that. Mrs. Godekie was scandalized, and the young girl was too excited, and Polly Chesbrough wouldn't get that far from the sick man. Finally, Artie Chesbrough said offhandedly, "'Hell, no sense I'm wasting the horse.' He was in the sense of the

saddle before anybody could object. It didn't make things good, but it made them better. Mickey Groff, walking ahead, reasoned that he had disposed his force as well. According to the cowboys, they had a good three miles to go on the road, if they could follow the road even approximately. For an hour and a half, double it because of the weather. Maybe doubled it again, he thought wordly, if there were too many detours. He looked back at the motionless figures between the horses. That was stretching it, but there was a chance the old man might hang on that long. Maybe the cowboy's first idea, slinging the old man across the saddlebow and galloping away, was the right one after all. But no, they had to stick

together, at least until they found out if the road would take them all the way. And besides, thought Mickey Groff, aware of his limitations, but also aware that he had succeeded to the command of the party, you have to make up your mind and stick to it. The girl came prancing up beside him. You look like a good guy, she commented. Here. He took the bottle from her. It was a pocket-sized half-pine of whiskey. It was like a gift from God. He took two measured swallows and put the cap back on. He could feel it biting in his throat, invading the back of his nose and spreading warmly through his chest. God bless you, he told the girl sincerely. Sure, but don't tell on Charlie, will you? I knew he had it, but if Mrs. Coons ever finds out, she'll pulverize him.

He started to hand the bottle back to her. No, you keep it. You might want some more, and if Charlie gets his hands on it, Goodbye, whiskey. Thanks. He slipped it into his pocket and then remembering the rest of the party, turned and glanced at them. The queue was plodding along, head down.

Chesboro was glaring at him. Mrs. Gauderke was watching, but she caught his eye, smiling faintly, and shook her head. Good enough, thought Mickey Groff. We'll save what's left. He tried to remember what the current position was on giving liquor to old men down. dying of pneumonia. If it looked bad enough, he decided, we'll try to give him a shot. Otherwise,

better not. The girl was chattering. Won't the old lady plots when she hears about all this? That joker on the horseback there says that he thinks the whole town's washed away. I doubt it. The girl was disappointed. Well, she said, I bet there's going to be plenty of excitement in Hebertown anyway. I always wanted to be a nurse, you know, not in the hospital, a Red Cross nurse, or something like that, going away in wars and all like that. My sister was a nurse's aid, only they wouldn't let me in because I was too young. Hey, nurse? He glanced down at it quickly.

Know anything about pneumonia cases? Sure. Penicillin. Keep them warm, bed rest. That's enough. Thanks. It had been a hope, but looking at her a killed hope. They plodded on and came to a blacktop.

I know where we are, one of the phony cowboys said. Straight on into Hebertown. Two miles. It's a ridge road. It ought to be clear sailing. A car was buzzing in the distance. Frantically, they flagged it down as they closed up on them. It was a late model suburban with a New York plate in the rear, man and wife in the front seat, three kids rioting in the back. They all looked very strange to Mickey Groff, and he realized at last what the strangest consisted of. They were clean, fed, and rested. What do you want? The man asked from behind the wheel a little nervously. What did they want?

Penicillin. Beds. Warmth. Coffee. Take us into town, will you? Mickey Groff said wearily. The man hit the lock button on his door and cranked the window up a little. It's only a little way on, he said evasively.

We aren't going any place special. We just heard about it on the radio and thought we'd come and see what was up. He hit the gas and the car zoomed on. Sites ears, Mrs. Goddikey said, wide eye. God in heaven, sights here. Mrs. Chesborough was swearing. Arthur Chesbrough was swearing and trying to remember what the license plate

numerals were. After a while they trudged on, there being nothing else to do. A helicopter came from the west as they march, dipped low above them and hovered for a moment while they yelled and waved. The pilot pointed back into the body of the chopper with big exaggerated gestures after they had pointed at the Burgess on his litter.

Then he buzzed on eastward. Mickey Groff said, I guess he was telling us he was full up. He rubbed his back for a moment. Maybe he meant he'll be back for us. But he didn't really think so, and the helicopter didn't come back their way. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10. A town is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth.

This Librevox recording is in the public domain. When they topped the rise and stood overlooking Hebertown, there was a moment of silence, and then a groan of horror burst from the mall. Good it, Arthur Chesbrose said succinctly. Not a thin dime left in town, not a nickel. The true flood crest, which they had missed in the hills, had left the plain wake through the town. It was dark brown, and even from their height, they could smell its stink. Sewage, chemical waste, mud turned up from the river's bottom, where it had been rotting for a century.

The brown smear lay over two-thirds of Hebertown, and there was something that, Something worse at its center, a long scorched earth streak, scores of yards to either side of the river. It seemed almost to have been bulldozed clean. The river still boiled, many feet above its normal height, and flotsam rolled past, dotting its swell. They were tree trunks, chicken houses, timber, and swollen things you didn't want to guess at. The bridges were out, the stout PWA bridge, and the two rickety county bridges. studied the view. Grammonton Mills are wrecked, he said.

They'll never come back. They rebuilt on the river in 97, right where the old water power mill was. Half their plants torn away. Let's get on down, Groff said. McHugh volunteered. I'd try the school if it's still standing. That's where you're always set up the cots and aid stations. Chesbrough said, the junior high is standing.

Built well on the outskirts. Luckily, it's on this side of the river. They started down the hill. The stink grew worse. First they came to the frame houses with picket fences and vegetable gardens in the back. The porches were full, exhausted people looking dully at them. At the third or fourth house, a man came to the gate to watch them pass. Groff said, We've got your burgess here. He seems to have pneumonia. Can we make him comfortable in your place and get a doctor for him?

The man said tiredly, There's no room at my place. I have 25, 30 people, and the doctor won't make house calls, not today. All three of them are down to the school. Take him there. Mrs. Godike, he said, Could you maybe put me up, mister?

We've been walking and walking. No room, he said. I'm full up. Everybody's full up. Go to the school. I get stretches there. The Air Force dropped them in the athletic field. I hope Henry gets better. Go down to the school. They'll take care of you there.

I've had ten dollars maybe, Mrs. Goet to Key began. Money's no good, the man said, his voice beginning to rise hysterically. Nothing's no good. I work at the Gramerton Mills and look at it. I worked there 27 years. I was going to get my pension in 1958, and now the mill's gone. My father drove down into town before it hit to see if he could help, and he isn't back yet, and I don't know if he's alive or dead. He took sudden hold of himself. I have to go and tend the cook stove. You have to boil your water now.

Thirty people drink a lot of water. We keep boiling it all the time. Take care of Henry. He went back up the path and inside. Past the rustic houses on the fringe, they came to a belt of substantial, older places, the homes of the borough's petty aristocracy. Here the smear of Brown had reached. The horses picked their way uncertainly, that locked deep in stinking mud. A mad-eyed woman in a

housecoat was on one of the handsome porches, shoveling and shoveling, the silk plopped into the silk that covered her long. They passed a house with a broken back. A towering poplar, surely the pride of the owner once, had stood in its front yard. The flood water had come, it had loosened the soil to the consistency of porridge. The tree tilted a little, leaned, its wide, shallow root system had given way, and the trunk had crashed across the roof, caving and crumpling it in. There was a house with black, dead eyes. Somehow fire it started, candles or a fireplace carelessly laid for warmth when the electrically fanned oil heater clicked silent. The innards of the house had burned and the firemen had not come.

There was a pathetic pile of furniture outside, but where the people were, you couldn't tell. There was a house that, and all the chaotic destruction, had survived unscathed. Its windows had their glass. Its doors were neatly locked, and there were two spindly iron chairs on the porch. And then you looked and saw that it rested in the middle of the road where the water had let it drop. But it was the smell that hurt. You can imagine a hurt town mending itself and growing again, but this stench from the river bottoms was the stench of death. I'll bet, said Artie Chesbrough with a dreamer's eyes. You could pick up any mortgage in this town for five cents on the dollar today.

Dr. Soames was the town's only specialist. He had built a white Georgian house and a three-car garage out of something less than a quarter of a cubic foot of the human female anatomy. He was an expert on every fold and canal, from the labium minus to the Hajidid of the Morgani, and of the 104 babies born in the borough of Hebrotown and surrounding territories in the past 12 months, he had delivered 93. They told scandalous antidotes about his extra-official life.

This is Ogland? Hogland? No, I didn't recognize you with your pants up. And there had been a suggestion at the County Medical Association that some of the most profitable pregnancies were not permitted to come to term. but there was no human being in hebrotown and in virens who doubted that dr solmes was one of the greatest doctors on earth and what good was he doing now he demanded silently swabbing alcohol on the morning's twenty-fifth rump to ready it for the needle he sighed and jabbed home the needle of yellowish fluid the kid jumped and howled dr solmes's hand was not as dexterous with injections as it might have once been they were working themselves into a coma all three of the doctors with routine shots against typhoid and penicillin to keep the sniffles of the kids from getting worse. But any ambulance driver could have done as much. What these people needed, homes, help, money, was not in their little black bags.

Dr. Soames? Chief of Police Breyer was coming into the school's gym. The tired old face looked worried, almost panicked. Soamesa thought the time for panic was over. The bringing Henry in, doctor. He looks bad. the burgess came in under clean blankets on an aluminum frame stretcher at last soames took a quick look fever coma and the unmistakable racking hard-fought breaths pneumonia wake up dr brandeis he ordered but he found a hyperdermic and loaded it without waiting the other doctor's eyes were bleary when he staggered in but there wasn't much doubt pneumoniaitis all right he said asculating the burgess's chest we ought to have oxygen frank

Chief Breyer, listened to the doctors. He cut in, Don't we have any oxygen? Soam shook his head and Breyer remembered. The oxygen was there all right, in the firehouse where it was handy for the pumper to take along in case of drowning or asphyxiation or any of the other things that Hebertown called out its fire department for,

but it wasn't handy at all in case of floods since the firehouse was in the borough hall. You couldn't even see the roof yet, though the water had gone down. He blundered out of the roof. room and button-hold one of the other volunteers. Who've we got that can swim underwater, he demanded. We've got to get oxygen out of the firehouse.

Henry needs it. They found a couple of high school kids on the swimming team, and they went down to survey the drowned-out hall. The water had slowed enough to put a boat out. They rode down front street over the backyards of the conaches into the river road. Must be around here somewhere, Rear said doubtfully, staring at the muddy water.

Some of the houses got moved, I guess. It wasn't there. One of the boys eventually went down, but only for a moment. He came up sputtering and grunting, his eyes squeezed tight. And they got him into the boat and he could talk coherently again, he said. Sorry, Mr. Breyer. Maybe there's still some of the firehouse down there, but that isn't water. It's plain mud. Even if I had a face mask, I couldn't see and I don't have a face mask. They took him back to the school to have his eyes looked after. Chief Breyer leaned dizzily against the doorframe, watching Dr. Brayor,

Randice bathed the kid's eyes. What, he wondered. What was Hebertown going to be like without Henry? Mickey Groff woke up. They must have given me a shot of something, he thought clearly, and sat up. A girl in a white uniform with gold bars at the collar leaned over him and said, You ought to go back to sleep. You've only had about two hours.

He shook his head. How's the old man? Which one? Starkman, the Burgess. But she didn't know the name. Groff stood up and staggered to a chair. What was an arminorst doing here, he wondered? Wings in a bar? Maybe they've flown in help from outside.

Somebody helped him to a garage, empty of cars, with duckboards laid over the mud on the floor. There was a sort of emergency feeding station organized there, and he got hot coffee laced with thick canned milk, syrupy with sugar. He went out into the sunshine and drank it gratefully. Sunshine He slowly accepted the fact, that it wasn't raining anymore. The sky was spotted with clouds, but there was a lot of blue.

Mr. Grave! He tried to get to his feet. He was Artie Chesbrough's wife, Polly. She stopped him. Where is everybody? He asked. Sleeping mostly, except for my husband who's out looking for orphans to rob. Have you seen Henry?

He blinked. Henry? The Burgess. Mr. Starkman. He shook his head. She said gently. I've been with him all morning. if they don't get help for him soon.

He noticed that her eyes were unaccountably filled with tears. I thought I saw an army nurse. Yes, but they didn't have the oxygen. That's what he needs. It's on its way, I guess, or any way they say it is. She looked at the coffee. Wait a minute. I want some of that.

Mickey Groff looked after her inside. Now, why was she mothering the old man? And what was that orphaned sir Rob remark? It had been fairly obvious that she and her husband, were not cut from the same bolt, but was it possible for her to see her husband that clearly and keep on living with him? He was beginning to wonder whether he shouldn't get up and start somehow helping out when she came back and sat beside him. She was humming to herself, he noticed, and glanced at her curiously. Evidently, she wasn't so upset after all.

I knew, she said, dreamily swirling the coffee around in a mug to stir it, that two of us would go. It's the difference between six and eight. What? She laughed as if a child had done something clever. I knew you weren't a student of the great science, she said cheerfully. There are perfect numbers and imperfect numbers. The imperfect numbers are imperfect, and the worst of them are deficient ones. Eight is an imperfect number, you see.

She grinned in him. You think I flip, she commented. Well, I wouldn't say. But you'd think it. No matter. Do you mind if I call you, Mickey? I'm quite sane. I have the advantage of you, you see, because I have my diploma to prove it.

She sipped her coffee. That's what makes Ardy so mad, she said blasantly. He got me committed to Haven, and they kept me there for nearly a year, and now when he threatens to tell people I'm crazy, I don't have to worry, because six perfectly fine psychiatrists agree that I'm not. Mickey Groff said weekly, That's very nice, Mrs. Polly, I mean. She said seriously,

You mustn't think that the great science is one of those crackpot cultist affairs. I know Gemetry has a bad name, but you'd be astonished to the great minds that have worked on it. Femoth, begette, farbeckist diaphantos, in fact. Why, if you just... Oh, please, Mickey. She touched his arm as he started to move. I'll stop. This isn't the time to talk about important things.

Important? This, she said, is the time for shallow surfacey affairs, a time when distractions come crowding. in and cannot be ignored. One such distraction is that Mr. Starkman is dying and needs oxygen. I have an idea, he said. Come on. There was a boy of fourteen standing by with a handkerchief tied around his left arm and improvised Bersard. Son, Ruff said, do you go to the junior high? Yes. The Burgess Mr. Starkman needs oxygen, and they can't get at the firehouse tanks. It occurred to me that there might be some in the school, those little tanks they can, call lecture bottles that they use for demonstrations in chemistry class.

I haven't taken chem yet, mister. I don't know, the boy said unhappily. Are there any teachers here? Yes, sir. Mr. Holtz, the math teacher, is making coffee back there. Gough approached Holtz, a small, harried man. Holtz listened, then said, not in the junior high, no. No lecture demonstrations, just recitation in lab. But the senior high across the river would have some. My good friend Mr. Anderson lectures there, and he believes in making it spectacular. Yes, they would have lecture flask. I'd guide you there if I weren't a sign. Perhaps you can find somebody. Groff decided he would not seek help from a local guide. These people were working at top capacity now. He could do the job on his own.

Groff and Polly picked their way through the silt to the riverbank, a rowboat manned by two husky youngsters with improvised brazads was unloading a weeping woman and a silent child. Get to the school, one of them told her in an important, basically uncertain voice. They'll take care of you there. They've got nurses and everything. She walked off, clutching the child's hand, still weeping. The robo kids looked after her around died. They told Groff, that's Mrs. Vostek, her husband drowned. We just found her sitting on her porch crying. Maybe she's gone crazy. Can you get us a question? the river? We want to get into the high school and look for oxygen bottles. The sick cases

needed here. That's what we're here for, mister. Good kids. On the other bank perilously attained. The kids pointed Groff and Polly in the right direction and took aboard two grim besard men, who carried a limp, moaning girl of ten between them. The other side of the river was the older part of town. The inevitable slum had grown up there. Here in the streets and on the steps They saw drunken men and women with blank despair in their eyes, tilting bottles skyward. One of them drained his bottle and yelled, To hell with it! And he hurled the empty bottle through the plate-glass window

and of a silk-covered little magazine and candy store. A man not young sitting in the store came charging out with a sawed-off baseball bat in his hands swinging. You cheap rotten bum! he yelled! Things aren't bad enough, you have to make them worse? While the drunk stared stupidly, Groff rushed between. them and caught the wrists of the man with the bat. Easy, he said. For God's sake, you'll kill him with that thing.

The drum came to life. Let him kill me, he yelled. What's the damn difference now? No job, no house, no future. Let him kill me. But he reeled off down the street while Groff held the furious man. Stupid bastard, and the proprietor swore. I'll give him bottles.

$3.50 he owes me. I'll give him bottles. Then the fight suddenly evaporated out of him. groff let him go and they walked on looking back to see him shamble into his store again and sit down with a bat across his knees they passed a bar and there was no nonsense about that the two men who looked like brothers stood grimly at the door each had a shotgun over his arm when groff and polly walked by they shifted the guns a little bit and said nothing the corner grocer had become a sort of involuntary relief station there was a long unruly line leading to the door the grocer stood there behind him in the store his wife was bringing up canned goods bottle pop everything the grocer sweating and afraid was handing out food and drink to the sullen people as they passed please he was saying i haven't got the time you write this down please remember what you take and come around settle when things clear up after a fashion he was avoiding the sack of the sack of the same thing to get you take and come around settle when things clear up after a fashion he was avoiding the sack of the the store. The high school was an old red-brick building smaller than the new junior high across the

river. Groff marched up the steps and tried the door. Bloody hell, he said. Locked, of course. Polly pointed out, there's an open window. I climbed in and found themselves in the principal's office. Three men with sledgehammers and crowbars were knocking the knobs off the safe. They turned menacingly. Go ahead, Groff shrugged. I can't stop you. Get the hell out of here, one of them said. We came to get some of the school's oxygen bottles, Polly said, for the sick people across the river. Sick people? Okay. They went into the corridor and wandered from room to room on the second floor,

and they found an old-fashioned lecture theater, bowl-shaped with steep rows of seats focusing on a laboratory bench, piped for water and gas. There was a promising-looking door behind it. It was locked. Groff kicked at the door and swore in pain. The building was old-fashioned brick, and its woodwork was old-fashioned golden oak, the stuff you can hardly drive a nail into. He trudged down to the office again. The three men were gone, the door of the safe, swung open. They had left one sledge.

Somehow he had expected to find all the tools abandoned, but apparently they were going to work their way methodically through every safe they could find. He returned with the sledge and bashed at the golden oak door, until its latch sprung and it swung open. It was the storeroom for lecture supplies, and the gas flasks were all neatly stacked on the top shelf. There was a complete carton of a dozen 12-inch cylinders marked O2, and another carton with eight cylinders. Thank God, he said, let's go. The things were horribly heavy.

As they retraced their way in the riverbank, they were stopped three times by loungers, collected in groups of half a dozen, and they had to show them the carton's content, and explained to them that it was for the sick people across the river. There was a long wait before they could hail one of the boats passing back and forth. Finally, a rowboat with a roaring outboard motor pulled up. Two of the men with American Legion caps manned it. They explained their mission and were taken aboard. One of the legionnaires asked,

How are things in Old Town? Breaking up fast, Kroft said. The man understood perfectly. The goons, he said, nodding. This talk about sending in the National Guard, he said. Meanwhile, I guess it's our problem. He took the heavier carton from Groff when they reached the riverbank, and Groff took pollies.

Together they walked to the gymnasium where Harry Starkman lay. One of the doctors, Brandeis, looked at the lecture bottles dolly, took one and shambled over to the Burgess's litter. He drew the blanket over Starkman's face, slipped the bottle under, and cracked the needle valve for a few hissing minutes, then checked the old man's pulse. Very good, he said at last to Groff and Polly. There's something to hope for now.

I'll clear out you two. Find something useful to do. There's going to be trouble in an old town tonight, Rolf said. And it may spill over here. Polly, preoccupied, said, The number's still imperfect. Two of us will have to go. I do hope it won't be you, Mickey.

End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11. A town is drowning by Frederick Polaro. and CM Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. There was a solid line of cars, bumper to bumper, on the northbound side of the highway. It ended against a roadblock consisting of two state troopers, one standing in the middle of the lane, with a double-barrel shotgun over his arm, the other by the roadside where he could look into the cars.

The patrol car was pulled over on the soggy shoulder, its motor idling. A new Lincoln with a middle-aged man at the wheel was next. Why do you want to get through, Mr., the trooper demanded. He had long ago given up the time-consuming request for registration and operator's permit. The man was flustered. I have some friends in Newtown, he said. I thought maybe there was something I could do for them. The trooper glanced into the back of the car.

Empty. You haven't got anything they need, he said. Turn around and go home. Meekly, the man you turn around the trooper in the road and sped south. The next car was a tire topped-down convertible with two years. young couples who might have been high school seniors, college freshmen, or young working stiffs. The driver explained, too glibly, indicating the girl by his side. Her mother lives in Bradley, so she got me to drive her in. You know, the railroads and the buses aren't running

officer. But the girl giggled. Where does she live in Bradley? asked the trooper. The girl hesitated and took a deep breath before beginning to lie. The trooper gave a weary, shushing gesture. Skip it, he said. Turn around. to go home. This is no circus. The driver began to bluster. I've got a license and I can drive where I want. Turn around and go home, the trooper said. If you keep arguing, I'll run you in for obstructing traffic. If you're stupid enough to proceed down that road, Shultz Stair will fire one warning shot and will then blow your goddamn head off. Move. The boy roared his motor spikily to say the things he didn't dare say, led up suddenly on his clutch, and spun around the

patrolman with a shotgun in a U-turn. The next car was black and driven by a man in black. Its rear and the seat beside the driver were filled with cartons. The trunk lid was half up, tied by a rope to the bumper, over more cartons. Out from the Beaver Run meeting of the Society of Friends, the man said quietly. We'd gathered some things they might need in there. Medicine, bandages, sterno, flashlights. The trooper hesitated.

We're supposed to accept contribution. and turn you back. Then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven't seen any truck, and I don't know whether there's going to be one, or if they was just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, Mr. Go on in and don't get hurt. He called to the trooper down the road. Let him through. Thank you, said the Quaker, and he drove on at a careful 35 miles per hour. Down the southbound lane, the deserted left strip of the highway, a big car purred, slowing obediently to a stop at the outrage shadowed the trooper. The old man who was driving said nothing.

The young woman with him put her head out and called, Dr. Buelov, Factoryville, New York. Are there any instructions? The trooper backed around the car and read the New York plates. The second two characters were MD. He said to the man, just go in their freelance talk. They can use you. Thank you, officer, the old man said,

with a good trace of German accent and the car purred on. In rapid succession, three imbeciles followed the doctor's example of using the southbound lane. All were sightsears and all were turned back with curses. The next car in line was a 39 Ford, driven by a white-faced young man with the jitters and a narrow mustache. He had identification papers ready in his sweating hand. John C. Bacchet, he said precisely. As you can see from the address on this envelope, I live at 437th Olney Street, Newtown. I work in New York City and come home weekends.

My wife, I haven't been able to get through on the phone. His voice was rising hysterically. I'd demand to be let through, officer. Calm down, the trooper said gently. Of course you can get through. We're not here to stop people like you. I hope everything's all right. The young man fought his way back to composure.

Thank you, officer, he said precisely, and drove on. Then there was a phenomenon, a car coming from the flooded area. It was coming fast until the driver, presumably, could see that the hassle up ahead was a roadblock, and then it stopped and began to wheel around. Hold him, Schultze, the trooper yelled to his partner with the shotgun. He leaped into the idling patrol car, spun its wheels for an instant in the soft shoulder, and then zoomed free down the highway. The other car had barely finished its turn.

He had it crowded off the road in seconds. He got out of the car, his gun drawn, and a casual beat on the head of the unshaven, slack-jawed man in the driver's seat. "'Get out with your hands up,' he said. His body shielded from behind the front of his car. The driver got out, dull-eyed. "'Turn around!' he did, and the trooper frisked him. There were things in his pockets, none of them gun size. The trooper, from behind, pulled out watches, a costly new spinning reel,

and some rhinestone rings and neckties. The back of the car was filled with new suits and dresses, some crumpled and mud-stained. The trooper lifted the trunk lid and found shiny new appliances, a pressure cooker, a steam iron, a handsome floor fan, a sandwich grill, a artisserie. Is this car yours? The trooper asked, interestingly. No, the man mumbled.

He'll be sorry for this day's work, boy, the trooper promised. Keep your back turned. He rolled up the windows, took the car keys from the ignition, and locked it up. With a man beside him, he drove back to the roadblock and prodded him out with his gun. Loader, he said to his partner. Stolen car locked up down the car. there full of plunder. Watch them. To the man, he said, stand over there and don't try to run, or you'll get killed. Now, who's next?

Press, said a jaunty young man in a convertible, showing a card quickly. Do that again, the officer requested. Reluctantly, the young man did. The officer read aloud. The Zeedler News Service requests that police and fire officials extend all press courtesy to its representative, George E. Newman. He grinned. Back to Pittsburgh, Mr. George E. Newman. The young man shrugged and wheeled his car around. The next two cars were, or appeared to be, driven by legitimate relatives of people in the flood area. At least they were filled with sensible supplies. The trooper passed them. The next was a year-old Dodge sedan, with an oldest driver and a youngish passenger. Agony, said the driver. New York Daily Globe.

This is Vince Raffino, my photographer. My press card. It was a little green folder with a picture and embossed city seal through it, thumbprint, description, and the signature of the police commissioner. Fire badge, said Haggerty, flipping open the leather folder. Okay, okay, said the trooper, and waved him on. The line of waiting cars is beginning to break up. The number of people turned back and the sour replies they had called

as they passed those still in line explained it. Another vehicle coming away from the flood area fast. It had a cardboard sign with a red cross on it stuck in the windshield. A station wagon full of passengers. The trooper at the checkpoint paused to watch. The driver of the station wagon stopped by the trooper with a shotgun, spoke with him for a minute, nodded, and slid into gear again. The trooper at the checkpoint stared at the faces inside the station wagon,

some drawn, some nervously exuberant as it went past. The trooper with a shotgun was walking down the road towards him. Transience, he said. They're getting them out. The other trooper said, hesitantly. Did you ask? Yeah. They haven't found anybody answering your wife's description.

Not that that driver knew about anyway. She'll be all right. Sure, thanks. The trooper with a shotgun turned and walked back. His partner sighed and moved on to the car at the head of the line. They was stretched out of sight again. You want me to stop for any of this? The photographer said,

No, I'll wait until we get into town. But geez, it's pretty beat up, isn't it? Jay Haggerty nodded and concentrated on his driving. One of the beat-up elements of the landscape was the road where they were on. Water had scoured the gravel out from under the surface in places, and there were potholes. Water had rushed across the road and the flood in other places and left mud and debris. A man and a leather windbreaker yelled at them to slow down,

and Haggerty obediently put his foot on the break. He followed the man's instructions, and they came across what recently had been a $4 million toll bridge. It seemed to be vibrating as they crossed it. Haggerty had to remind himself that they wouldn't have been allowed on it if it weren't safe. The river was within two feet of the surface of the roadway, and there was an uneven thudding, as Flotsam rammed into the accumulated tangle on the upstream side. They passed between the empty toll booths and headed for Hebertown. Haggody said,

I was here before the war, Vince. Nice, quiet little town. Doesn't look as if it's been built up much since then. Rufino said, Who the hell would want to build a house around here? You wake up some morning and you're underwater? Give me a Bosaic. There was a second roadblock just before the sign that said,

Entering Hebertown. Haggity showed his card and leaned out of the window to ask where the emergency relief headquarters was. The directions turned out to be pretty complicated. It's straight down Center Street. only you can't get through there, tree across the road. So you turn on the maple, but you won't be able to take the bridge at White Street because it's blocked off. Go three blocks further and cross the highway bridge.

Then you'll have to watch out for the soft pavement on locust. Rofino said unbelievably, Jeez, Jay, it's worse here than it was down by the river. Do you mean that little creek had enough water in it to do all this? He stared at the little gray stream that flowed under the highway bridge and at the twisted half-collapsed warehouses and storefronts that were, easily, five feet above water level. It's the little streams that do the damage, Haggedy told him.

Once the water gets into the rivers, it's all right. It can flow away. But you can see how close these buildings are said to the creek here. As soon as the water came up a couple of feet, it clobbered them. He stopped because the photographer was opening the door of the parked car and no longer listening. He was as good a place to get started as any. Haggerty pulled over to the curb, locked the ignition, and got out. End of Chapter 11

Chapter 12 A Town is Drowning by Frederick Pole and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Mrs. Godike caught up with Polly and Groff. So long I slept, she said panting. They wouldn't wake me up. How's Mr. Starkman? They think you'll be all right for a while anyway, said Nicky Groff. There's a whole field hospital coming in, somebody said.

If he holds out until then, he's got a good check. chance. Thank God, said Mrs. Goddike, beaming. And Mr. Chesbro? Holly Chesbrough said cheerfully, I haven't seen him all day. Mrs. Godkeke looked at her appraisingly. All she said was, I guess he's pretty busy. Mickey Groff coughed. Uh, the diner up the hill is in business, Mrs. Goddikee. We were thinking about going up and getting something to eat. Would you like to come along? Mine not. Then I got to find a car to get back to the hotel. Imagine, she laughed. 160 guests, and the only one there to keep an eye on them is Dave Wax. Believe me, Godotiki Green Acres is the one place they'll never come back to again.

She was very gay about it, Garof thought, if he didn't look too closely. He had a sudden picture in his mind of what the last 24 hours meant to GoTo Key's Green Acres and to Mrs. Goderkey herself. 160 guests at, say, $5 per day per head, $180 a day. and out of that you could pay for the putting green and the swimming pool, pay the salaries of the cooks, trumpet player, and the chambermaids, and the busboys, pay the installments on the mortgage and the electric bill, and squeeze out a profit enough to keep you for a year on what you made in a summer.

But, although your 160 gas could cancel themselves out overnight, reservations or no reservations, you couldn't cancel the trumpet player or the mortgage or the putting green. They had to wait in line, but they finally got a booth in the diner. The menu was soup, sandwiches, and stew, apparently slapped together in a hurry out of what otherwise would have spoiled in the refrigerator. There still was no power. Evidently, the diner was operating at stoves on bottled gas.

But it tasted good to all three of them. Outside the diner again, with coffee and cartons for Groff and Polly Chesbrough to drink at their leisure, Mrs. Gotakie, said, Listen, what are you going to do now? You still have business here, Mickey? Roth shrugged. That's what I came up for, but I doubt I can do anything about it today. So stay overnight, I go to Key's Green Acres, she said hospitably.

You think we can get back there? Must be somebody with a car. I can pay. Roth looked around. There were lots of cars and not many of them going, as he watched a big sedan chugging down the road, with a load of dirty-faced children coughed and stopped. A man in a legion cap red-eyed and bearded,

got out and wearily opened the door for the kids. They apathetically began to trudge down the hill towards a temporary hospital. Out of gas, said Groff. They were all running out of gas. And then one car that was not out of gas, a low-slung sports job came rocketing along the road, took a turn too fast and skidded on the mud-slick street. Its fichail swerved into a fire hydrant with a crash that made the dishes behind the diner counter, rattle. On the rebound, the car's remaining energy sent it nosing to the right through the plate

glass window of a clothing store. By then it was burning fiercely from the tail. Two figures darkened the glare of the burning gas spilled frantically from the bucket seats and flailed their way through the smoke and jagged glass. Come on, Groff yelled. A general invitation to perhaps half a dozen weary red-eyed men standing about with coffee cartons of their own. They ran for the smoky blaze, it beat fiercely against Groff's forehead and cheeks. He found himself almost racing crazily into the flames before he stopped. Groff peered into the Holocaust and saw nothing. A man tugged his arm, drawing him back a couple of yards. A man said, preoccupied, that was Ed von Lutz's little car, a Porsche. Ed's got a garage. He had a thing for advertising.

Groff said, watching two people die, why is he racing it around town? Oh, that wasn't Ed, the man told him. Ed died in his garage hours ago. Water undermined the seals and footing. He was in there trying to straighten up, and then the floor gave way, and his air compressor storage tank rolled over him. That wasn't Ed. That must have been some crazy joyrider that's been hanging around thinking about that little sports car ever since it arrived, and thought this was his chance for a free ride. I guess that was his girl with him. The quick, fierce gasoline flame was burning itself out. Now the blaze had passed onto the clothes on display, the fixtures, the shelves. The building was a long brick row, not battered by the worst of the current, but horribly soiled.

The clothing store was the central one of seven shops. There were apartments upstairs. Let's get the burning stuff out before it spreads, Groff said grimly. He walked into the smoke and, holding his breath, came out with a smouldering armful of suits off a rack. He dumped them in the gutter where they charred and stank. Axis, a man sighed. Hardware store around the corner. I'll get him, shouted Mrs. Goti-key, trotting off. Save the man's stock. Don't let the fire spread. The next half hour was a nightmare of chopping and prying at burning wood

and dashing out for smoke-free air when you got a little ahead of the flames. Croft burned his left forearm when he brushed once against the still blistering frame of the car. Midway through the job, someone covered the two charred figures from the car with a pair of top coats and they carried them out and laid them on the curb. Later they were gone. Somebody, Groff never knew who, had taken them to a temporary morgue in the M.E. church basement. He woke once from his days of chopping and crying

to find Polly Chesbrough pulling on him. They're stealing everything in McKee, she said insistently. Can't you stop them? Roth looked around. The store was gutted. The fire only an evil smolder here and there. He coughed and walked out, sideling around the twisted, blackened little car

with a mashed in tail. He breathed fresh air outside. To his surprise, it was late afternoon. The pile of clothing from the store was dwindling before his eyes. People were picking it over and grabbing. Mrs. Goddickie was screaming at them. Leave the men stuck alone. I'll, I'll... She took an axe and made a feeble pass at a man in the mechanic's coveralls. He shoved her hard and sent her sprawling. Polly Chesbrough began to curse at the man fluently. He ignored her as if she were a buzzing fly. Groff went and picked up the gasping old woman. You hurt, he asked. She rubbed her behind and shook her head glaring murderously.

Lovers, she said. Bums without brains to run a business themselves. Look at them. Groff looked at them. From the wrong side of the tracks, River in this town. Sick, neurotic faces, shrill neurotic voices, as they squabbled over tidbits like carrion crows. Feeble slum types most of them, but a few of the guerrillas.

that every slum produces in defiance of malnutrition. Men, women, and guerrillas. There was about a dozen of them. This was his cue to deliver a ringing oration on the rights of property and shamed them away from the only chance most of them would ever have at an $85 suit or top coat. He took up Mrs. Go to Keyzak's axe and walked purposefully towards the carrying crows.

Break it up, yelled hoarsely. If you can't do anything useful, you can go home and not make any more trouble. The gorilla who had shoved Mrs. Goddike looked at him appraisingly, picked up a bundle of clothes they neatly laid aside and walked off with him in his arms. There was a nice charcoal gray single-breasted suit on top. Put those down, Groff snarled. The man just kept walking. There was a cackle of laughter from the others around the pile. Where were the decent people? Groff wondered angrily. They were on the fringes, and they were waiting. Their world was balanced on a razor's edge,

and they dared not breathe. Let it tip one way, and looting would tilt again to law and order. Let it tip another way, and looting would tilt over into murder. Groff balanced the double-bitted axe in his right hand and hurled it at the departing gorilla. It flew like an arrow, its flat top thudded into the small of the man's back. He fell, howling on the soft bundle of clothes he embraced. Groff walked up to him and rolled him over with his foot.

The man cursed him, and Groff drew back his foot. for a kick at his bullet head. The man stopped instantly, glaring. Go home, Groff told him. The decent people in the fringes had come to life. They cried to the carry-in crows. Go home! Leave the man stock where it is.

Get back where you belong. And it worked, because it was still daylight. On the way back to the school, the GHQ General Headquarters of the town, Groff, Polly, and Mrs. Cote, he saw again the ruin and the despair, and something new. Hatred. A couple railed to the man standing on his porch, that he had plenty of room, that they had no place to sleep, that they knew he had plenty of room, but the man grinned hatred at them

and calmly shook his head. That, said Polly Chesbrough in a low voice, could have been the paying off of an ancient score. The couple in the mud could have been Mr. and Mrs. Town banker suddenly poor because they haven't a bed, and the man on the porch could have been the village bum, owes everybody in town, on the brink of financial disaster, but suddenly rich because he has a bed. This is the day of Jubilee, Groff, the day of leveling. They passed a house, cantered off its foundations. They saw a man calmly building a rubbish

fire against one corner of it, and almost went on. So natural did it seem. His eyes were bright when he looked up. He only seemed a little offended when they kicked his fire apart. It's the insurance, he explained. $12,000, fire with extended coverage. You know what'll cost me to get this straightened up? Ran a crane, a big gang of men with hydraulic jacks, a week's worth of easing the house back on the footings, and then everything will be sprung.

The whole house will have to be replastered. $5,000 easy, and I haven't got it. So I figure we're covered for fire, make a clean start. The kids are grown now, and we don't need a place this size. of the adjoining houses he had not a thought at all. They walked him down to the school. He chattered volubly all the way, quite unhinged. Polly efficiently vanished in search of a doctor with a needleful of morphine

and eventually she led one of the army medics toward them. The arsonist stepped to and said crisply, Sir, these civilians try to prevent me from carrying out my mission. If you ask me, they're crouts. The medic led him away, protested. Artie Chesbrough said wordly. Sharon, are you sure Oxlund's coming here? None of these dope seem to know anything.

Sharon Froman said, Positive. This is the only road in from the north. He'll have to stop at the checkpoint, even if he's a congressman. She paused, added, The captain who told me was the detachment communications officer. He got it right off the radio himself. She gave Chesbrough a smile of good fellowship.

It never hurt to remind a man how helpful you were being. Chesbrose side. I'm getting tired of waiting here all the same. These tin horn heroes are getting under my skin. The next idiot that wants to know if I'll help with the salvaged squads or let them take this car for emergency duty, get the tire iron across the face. Sharon said sympathetically,

You'd think they'd know enough to leave you alone, wouldn't you? There was a siren screamed from down the road, and they both sat up straight to look, but it was only an ambulance. It slowed briefly at the roadblock, The troopers waved it by and sped away. Sharon took out a cigarette and pressed the dashboard lighter. Then she remembered it didn't work and lit the cigarette with a match.

It wasn't much of a car they were in, but it was the best Chesbroke had been able to rent for what money he had in his pocket. And naturally, he wouldn't have been able to do it by himself, she thought comfortably. She was the one who had learned that Representative Oxlund was coming into the disaster area for an inspection tour. She was the one who had located the car. And she was the one who had put the idea in Chesbrose's head of meeting the congressman in writing with him.

"'Nosely done, Sharon,' she told herself, "'and the best part of all was that she had succeeded in making him think it was all his own idea.' "'I wonder how Polly's making out,' Chesbrose said. Sharon permitted herself a frown, her face turned away. She said, gaily, probably loving every minute of it, Arthur. It must be pretty exciting for her. Anyway, she added blandly, Mickey Groff's probably taking good care of her.

Mickey Groff? He looked at her with surprise. Polly? Sharon said. Well, he did seem rather interested. Chesbo shook his head. Oh, no, you don't know Polly. Believe me, men aren't her?

He hesitated and said, believe me, she has too much sense to get involved with a two-bit operator like him. She's loyal, Sharon. Absolutely loyal to me. He was silent for a moment. And then without looking at the girl, he said, "'Ally's a funny, kid. She isn't, um, normal, if you know what I mean, like you'd think a wife would be, but she's loyal, absolutely.'

Sharon took a deep, quiet breath. "'Aha. Mr. Chesbrose,' she thought to herself, with satisfaction. "'The wife isn't quite normal, eh? Somehow or other, she doesn't respond when you get that urge, and years go by, and then you notice that you aren't getting that urge as often, as far as she's concerned at any rate. So after a while, you don't even worry when she's off with another man. Sharon nodded wisely to

herself, just the way it had been with Hesh and his first wife. She made a man out of Hesh, even if he had finally let her down, and she could make a man out of this unpromising lout, too. The unpromising lout sat up sharply. Hey, he said, something's coming. It's got a state police escort. Maybe it's Axlund. The congressman was on the best of terms with the Air Force, possibly because he held the appointments on three appropriation committees. The Air Force had been delighted to fly him up from Washington that morning, and had been eager to fly him right into the disaster area or in a helicopter, but Representative Axlind

himself had put his foot down about that. Transport planes were one thing, helicopters were something else. So the last 15 miles of his trip were in a car, furnished through the courtesy of the state police. Unbelievable, he murmured, but announcing every syllable crisply and clearly, it looks as if a war has been fought over every inch of this lovely countryside. I estimate the damage I've seen already is in the millions. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed that the AP man who tagged along wasn't writing

anything down. Disappointing, but Axlund was too old a hand to try and hint about it. The AP man would be with him for a good many hours yet. There was plenty of time for direct quotes. The police car ahead sounded its siren. The congressman craned his neck. Roadblock, the driver explained. They'll pass us right through, sir.

But they didn't. The driver of the car ahead stuck out an arm and semaphore to stop. The congressman's chauffeur brake sharp and smooth and stopped a yard from the other car's bumper. A state trooper on point duty walked over and said, Sorry to hold you up, sir. You can pass, of course, but there's a man here. who says he, Artie Chesbro appeared, panting.

He stuck his hand into the open window. Good to see you, Halmer, he said. I'm Artie Chesbrough, state delegation. Perhaps you remember our little chat at the Waldorf last year? The fun dinner? Representative Oxland opened the matchless filing case in his head and rifled through the cards. He remembered,

Glad to see you, Chesbrough. Are you in this mess? Up to my eyebrows from the very start. There were eight of us trapped in a building all night long. One was killed by gasoline fumes, another's in the hospital with pneumonia this minute. But that's not the point. I've been thinking heavily about relief and reconstruction, Homer, and I've developed some ideas I'd like to share with you. Mind if I come along?

Representative Oxlund noticed the AP man was scribbling at last. He trapped all night, one dead, one dying. This Chesbrough knew what he was talking about. His interests were medium, big, and diversified, said the Chesbrough card in Oxlind's head. He'd be able to give him the sound businessman's viewpoint. Oxland knew he had to move fast, the first public figure to hit the headlines and newscasts with a formal plan who would skim the publicity cream. How to be a statesman, humanitarian, and one easy lesson.

Chesbrough would save him time. Good in, he told Artie. Room for my assistant, Miss Froman? Artie asked. Of course, Chesbrough said. I need facts and I need them thus. Artie waved to come on to Sharon in the car on the shoulder. She reached into the back of the car for her manuscript briefcase and Galey ran for the limousine. She didn't even bother to lock up the car, which already had rented with a solemn promise

that he'd return it to the garage in exactly two hours. It would get back to the van. Somehow, she thought contentedly. Big things were happening now. No time for trivia. The AP man leaned forward and asked, Chesbrough, C-H-E-S-B-R-O. Right.

Arthur Chesbrough of Summit. I own a piece of the Hebertown newspaper. I have some real estate. I'm interested in broadcasting. 39 years old. Petrin? Ah, I was a consultant to the War of Manpower Commission. I wasn't actually in the service.

Who's the man who died? Sam Zahetti. I think it goes. A grocer, about 30. We were holed up in a filling station on State Highway 7. Just two carloads of people who go. couldn't get through the flood. The sick man, I'm sorry to say, is my very dear friend, Henry Starkman, the Burgess of Hebertown. In the morning, when we realized he had pneumonia, we carried him

about 12 miles into town. He's in that improvised hospital they have there. When I saw him last, his condition was poor. He is about 65. He was in my car when we got stopped. We were looking at conditions and making plans. On a small scale, what Mr. Oxlund is here for. Qed to Sharon. Sharon said to the congressman, The networks are probably trying to get mobile broadcasting units in right now. They should be set up and sending by midnight. By morning they'll have all they need to leave the disasters strong in the breakfast newscasts. It was a reminder that they had better get down to brass tacks on a concrete proposal for relief and reconstruction.

Dramatically issued from the sight of the flood, it would be unbeatable. They were rolling slowly into Heapertown proper. Hardy said to the driver, Drive around for a while. Yes, said Oxlund. Show me everything. Sharon added, Brought me at the school.

I'll get the police chief to find a room for us somehow. We'll have work to do. Lots of it. Oxlain said thoughtfully, looking through the window at the wreckage. No cars. Mrs. Goddike rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. She had tried two garages and no cars for rent.

Chief Breyer, they said. He had commandeered them, if you please, and had driven them to a motor pool. A couple of cars going through the streets that she flagged down were on missions. See Chief Breyer. Well, she would see this new dictator, this Hitler of Heber Town. She reached the schoolhouse, and there, sure enough, was the motorpool in the teacher's parking lot across the street,

a strange collection of vehicles ranging from a two-ton farm truck to somebody's little rambler. There was a man with a clipboard at a table, on guard. She sniffed and walked into the marble lobby of the school, which was crowded and noisy with the talk of 50 busy people. There were two uniformed men at card tables. One was in a fireman's queer, boxy uniform cap, and the other must be this brayer. He was talking to a Boy Scout at a time like this, but she waited until he was finished. Then she burst out, I've got to have a car. I'm Mrs. S. Goddike's Green Acres, and I've got to get back to my place now. The moustache-old man looked up. Sorry, ma'am, he said.

We need all the cars for public service. Maybe later after some help comes in. Why don't you? Did you hear who I am? She yelled. I don't give a damn who you are. He yelled back, standing up. This town is drowning.

People are sick. People are looting and burning. We're trying to hold it together for a few hours until help comes. Don't come here, grabbing for a car. Go and find something useful to do. They need help in the hospital. People will make beds and cats. Very slops. You can do that. Or if you can't do that, you can at least get out of everybody's way.

He sat down and turned back to the man wearing the handkerchief around his arm. It immediately was in thoughtful, intense conversation with him. Mrs. Godekie recoiled a step, then walked slowly from the lobby. Maybe. Maybe he was right. There was Polly waiting for her. She said to the girl, No cause. We should go work at the hospital they set up for a while. while, Polly. They need help. Polly Chesbrough nodded. Together, they walked to the improvised excuse for a hospital. Mrs. Godeky was thinking, Mr. Godekie wouldn't have stormed up to

that busy old man. He would have seen that making the beds in the hospital right now is more important than whether Green Acres is back in the black this year. Mr. Godekie may have been right about more things than I ever knew before. She wondered idly how the Orange Groves in Palestine for which they had donated year after year were growing. Ten minutes later, Sharon was at the desk, telling Chief Breyer, You've got to. He's the head of three committees. He can turn the faucet and a million, five million dollars, runs into Hebertown. Or he can leave the faucet shut.

Think of your town, Chief. Breyer sighed and wished Henry were there. At last he'd beckoned to one of his deputies and said, Take two men. Go to the new fielding platoon. place, that little ranch house thing on Sullivan. Turn everybody out. We need for Congressman Axlund and his staff. Leave a man there to see that nobody sneaks back in. Better leave a man there as long as the congressman's there for guard and in case there ranny messages.

Thanks, Chief, Sharon said warmly. You're doing the right thing. I'll just wait up here. They'll pick me up. And you can let us have a guide to show us the way to the house? Sure, said Breyer. God, it must be smooth to be a congressman. They had dropped off the AP man and already could talk freely. Another thing I didn't want to say in front of him, Homer, is the southern angle. Those Democrats from Dixie are going to be swarming around the valley, offering sites and tax write-offs, and hell knows what,

to persuade damaged industries to relocate. This means you build up the Democratic South and drain the state. strength out of our state. Unemployment and discontent. We're GOP here, but not by such a margin that a sharp local depression couldn't put the state over the line. The cities, frankly, we lost last time, but we have the counties as of now. If the valley isn't saved, Homer, it might cost us a senator, and you know what that would mean. Knocking off bowling and his 16 years of seniority and the committee appointments that go with it would be a very serious thing for us nationally. I'm not exaggerating when I say that a large, prompt injection of cash is vital to everything you and

I stand for. Oxlin hooded his wise old eyes and nodded. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13. A Town is Dr. Prowd is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Polly Chesbrough went through the ranks of litters to the one on which the Burgess lay. A nurse in a pinstriped cotton-teteed uniform had shoved a thermometer under his tongue and was looking at her watch. How is he, Lieutenant, Polly asked. The nurse whipped out the thermometer, read it, jotted down a figure on her clipboard, and said, holding his own. Excuse me.

She shook down the thermometer, opted into a glass that held many thermometers, picked out another one, and slipped into the tongue of the person in the next litter, a girl of ten with a dry-burning face and dry-burning eyes. in the marble lobby of the schoolhouse micky groff was studying an extraordinary organization that had sprung up within a very few hours card tables had been set up and conference tables dragged from offices and classrooms for an ad hoc government with the wires out you wanted everything under one roof and in one room instead of scattered throughout town hall when a man came to you with trouble you could fix this way there was no phone to pick up this way you called across the room and things happened fast There were two main centres around the fire chief and the police chief. They retained roughly their old jurisdictions, respectively, over the destructiveness of nature and the cursedness of man. Wildcroft watched, a woman came coolly up to the fire chief in her turn to say that

her undermined house was beginning to sag and she had twenty refugees. They had gone out into the street. Could he find places for them? And, as an afterthought, could they do anything about the house? The fire chief called to three Boy Scouts, part of his combined field force and housing records. One knew a big thirteen-room place on the outskirts, which, when last checked, had only 12 people in it. Thirteen rooms? Space for 20 more. In the house? George, the fire chief called to a brazzard man.

Get some people, a dozen if you can, and see if you can do anything about Mrs. Comden's place. She says it's beginning to lean badly. Be a pity to see it go now. George, an electric company Rigger, said, What kind of house, Mrs. Comden? How big? Which way is it going? Frame, two-story, eight rooms. It's going into the street. Maybe gone by now.

I don't know. What's in the backyard? Do you have a backyard? She passed her hand vaguely across her forehead, brushing back her hair. Backyard? Just a backyard. A vegetable garden.

Good, said George, with satisfaction. I know where there's some wire rope in oil drums. We'll dig the drum. drums in for dead men and anchor the house to them with rope. I'll need a truck, Chief. You'll get a car, the Chief said. Sorry. He scribbled a note, which would go to the guardian of the improvised motor pool outside.

George walked off with it slowly, collecting waiting men. He picked them big and burly. The woman trailed apathetically after. The chief was already engaged with a man who wanted a gang to clear away snapped and phone electrical cables, which would set his house a fire, and as an afterthought, the neighborhood it was in, the instant the current came through again. He got two men with axes at a felling saw to cut away the falling tree that had brought down the cables. It was getting dim in the marble lobby in spite of the tall windows.

On a couple of the card tables, candles stuck in their own wax were being lit. Across the room, somebody was pumping up a Coleman lamp. It was lit in a dazzling green white flare, and the gloom was gone for a while. On the police chief side, the reports were more bitter. Boons from across the river, Red. So far, they're just hanging around, talking it up, but they're fat bottles. It's just a matter of time before they get brave enough to smash my window and grab the furs. There's a dozen of them, and I've got to have at least six men.

So help me, if I don't get six men, I'm going to kill the first drunken SOB that makes a move at our place. I've got my brother there with a shotgun now. Skip the rest, Pete. You and your brother are two able-bodied men, and you've got a shotgun. You don't need any help. I don't want to blast them, the furry or wailed. Why don't we hire you guys anyway? We're spread too thin, Pete.

We'll send a patrol car past and put a scare into your friends, but don't expect us to tie up six men with every shop on Broad Street. We're spread too thin and we have to keep moving. Matter of fact, I'd ought to let your brother handle the store by himself and deputize you right here and now. No, you don't, Red. The man backed away and was gone. A wide-eyed scout darted up and gave Old Red the three-fingered salutes.

Big fight, chief, down on the river, foot of Sullivan. I don't know what it's about. Maybe one of the boats. The chief yelled at two waiting men in Legion caps. Take a car! They're trying to take over one of the ferries at Sullivan Street. Break it up and keep patrolling the river. We've got to keep the boats in our hands. The men stolidly moved off to the carpool. Mickey Groff knew by then where he'd be useful.

He went up to the chief's table and said, I'd like to be deputized. The old man stared at him. And go looting with a badge? Who are you, mister? I haven't seen you in town before. Mickey Groff from New York. I came in to see your Burgess about taking over the old Swanscom mill for a factory of mine.

Groff. Henry talked about your offer. All right, Groff. The old man suddenly grinned. Think I'll even trust you with a gun. Know how to use one? Yes, the army. The chief snorted.

Army? I'd hope you'd be a hunter. Well, maybe you'll do. Put your hand up. Groff did. In a rapid mumble, the old man asked him whether he swore to uphold and defend the laws and constitution of the state of Pennsylvania, so help him God. Groff said he would, and the old man said he hereby appointed him a special deputy policeman

of the borough of Hebertown. And, he added, I sure hope this is legal because I've been doing it all day. Sign your name on this list. Clarence, give this man a 38. Have you got a handkerchief, mister? No? Clarence, give this man a clean handkerchief to tie around his arm. They clanked down an enormous revolver and five cartridges on the table.

Five, Groff asked. Army, the chief snorted. The chamber under the hammer is kept empty in civilian life, Groff. Let me see you load it. Fishing in his memory, Groff broke the revolver, set the safety, loaded it, and closed it, being very careful where he pointed the thing. The chief said, I guess I won't have to take it back after all.

Now you stick around and wait. Talk to Murphy over there. He's been a deputy before this. Murphy was small and quiet. He volunteered that he was a plumber and there'd be a lot of work for him after all this was over. He showed Groff how to carry his pistol in the waistband of his pants and said cautioningly, Of course, we ain't going to use them, you understand. Groff, who had his doubts about it, said he understood and watched,

while a battery-operated receiver transmitter on another of the card tables came to life under the ministrations of a 16-year-old boy. The fire chief and the police chief both charged over, so, after a while, did a doctor from the outside when the word reached him. The three tried simultaneously to dictate messages to the bulldozed teenager. The fire chief wanted chemical trucks sent in as many as could be rounded up. The police chief wanted national guardsmen, at least a battalion. The doctor wanted to know where the hell the god-de-old. damn Army Field Hospital was. It was an interesting fight, and Mickey Groff was sorry when a trouble call came in, and he and Murphy missed the end of it. The man in the Legion cap said,

You best give me that gun, fella. I can handle it. So can I, said Mickey Groff. He wasn't nasty about it, but the man in the Legion cap shrugged and let it go. This is the place? Groff asked as the car stopped. This is the place. The Legionaire scowled wordly. They took all the boats across the river. You see anything over there? Groff got out of the car and looked. It was full dark now, and the river was wide. There were lights of some kind on the opposite bank, but he couldn't have told you what they were. Flashlights and electric lanterns, most likely, but they looked a little bit close. Groff ordered, turn the car to the right, put the brights on. The Legionaire cramped

the wheels around and inch forward. He kicked the button of the high-beam headlights. They're coming, all right, said Croft. Shapes were. lying on the water, punctuated with handlights. Sons of bitches, said the legionaire bitterly. Now they'll be hell to pay. Four of us against every goddamn gun on the river, and Harry and me ain't even got guns. Take it easy, Wal, Murphy said.

But in the reflection from the headlights, Rolf could see his face was worried. Murphy, who had appointed himself in charge of the detail, sent the legionaire named Walt after the legionaire named Harry, and he deposed them as best as he could. Groff got the place of honor. He had the gun. He was put on the end of the little loading jetty,

where if he took a position on the floating landing platform, Walt and Harry were left to stand by the car to keep the lights on the boats. And the boats came on, four of them, put-putting through the water in convoy formation. Funny thought, Groff abstractedly. If I were them, I'd come ashore upstream a little way. This is the natural place for deputies to be waiting for them. If they used their heads,

have known that, and they'd come ashore somewhere else. He thanked his lucky stars that the goons, evidently, were not using their heads. Harry, behind the wheel of the car, was making a fantastic amount of racket, grinding gears, racing the motor, shifting back and forth to pick out one boat after another with the headlights. Damn fool, thought Groff, aggrievedly. He could hardly hear the deputy named Murphy shouting at the approaching boats. There was some kind of answer from them, but he couldn't make that out at all, but they were getting close. Groff carefully dropped to one knee, rested his hand with a revolver in it, on the railing of the jetty, and took aim at the lead boat.

How long had it been since he fired the pistol, dismounted to qualifying range? Nearly 15 years, he guessed. It was the first few months after basic training, and always after that, it had been a carbine or an M1. Somebody was coming up behind him. Good God, he thought. they've made enough landing. He started to turn. It was the man, Walt grabbing for the gun. Let go, he panted, clutching at the revolver. If you're too yellow to shoot, let me have it. Walt was no kid. He was in his late 50s at least. But he was big and solid, and Groff was off balance.

For a moment he staggered at the end of the jetty, Walt leaning on him. They both went in. The water was cold and the current was fast. What became of the revolver, Groff didn't know. He broke surface sputtering and choking. Walt was splashing right beside him. Help me, he bawled. For God's sake, help me. I can't swim. Groff had one bitter moment of temptation.

Let him drown, cried his subconscious. But then the decision was out of his hands. Walt flailed toward him and caught him. Groff went under, choking. He struggled upward, carrying the panicking man with him. Got a breath and went under again. The next time he came to the surface, someone was there to grab him.

The goons! Instinctively, he tried to fight free, but someone in the boat had a good grip on his arm. They hauled him in, and another boat had wall. You all right, one of the men on the boat demanded anxiously, Broff said dizzily. Sure, but, take it easy, said the man of the boat. We'll take you up to the emergency center.

We figure you'd people need some help, so after we got things under control on our side, we came on over. He said proudly, I thought I was nuts, keeping after everybody to join the civil defense squads. I guess they'll change their minds now. Back at the emergency center, Chief Breer was looking a little ashamed of himself, but he recovered quickly. All the men from the other side of the river had guns.

All of them were personally vouched for by the civil defense man. They made valuable reinforcements for the exhausted deputies Breyer had been swearing in. They found dry clothes for Groff, and Breyer put him in charge of the dispatcher's desk to give him a chance to warm up. It had turned windy with nightfall. There was a commotion outside, and a couple of state troopers came in. Groff looked past them. There was a dignified-looking old man, somebody of importance by the way the troopers stood by him, and with him were Argy Chesbrough and Sharon Froman. Groff stood up to get a better look. Chesbrough glanced around the room, caught Groff's eye, looked away, gave him a fishy smile, spoke to the dignified-looking old man,

shepherded him out of the room, along with Chief Breyer and a couple of other top men. Something didn't smell good. Groff called another deputy over and asked him to take care of the desk. He walked over to one of the troopers and said, Who's that you came in with? The trooper said, Congressman Oxlin, that's the old guy. The other fellow's some kind of local big shot, I guess. You ought to know him better than me.

Local Big Shot Mickey Groff looked thoughtfully at the door, Chesbrough and the congressmen and the village elders had gone out through. Back at the filling station, the nights ahead he had died. What was Sharon Froman selling Chesbrough? A big regional organization to fight back against the inroads of the South. You and me, Mr. Chesbrough. You and me and Congressman Axlund, it looked like. Mickey Groff shook his head, half enraged, half enraged, half.

admiring. He had to hand it to Chesbrough. He always kept his eye on the ball. End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14. A town is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. By midnight, the United States Army was working one of its accustomed miracles. It involved a number of things, starting with a phone call at noon from the White House to Fort Lauder, New Jersey. The Major General commanding a division in training there said to the phone call, Yes, sir, and after he hung up to his one-star assistant commander, excellent training for the 432nd, Jim, get it done.

The brigadier made some calls, and that he and the C.G finished their lunch serenely. The calls whipped Fort Lauder into a froth of activity that looked senseless at first. An engineer took off like a bat out of hell in one of the division's light planes and soared over the flood valley, 175 miles away, swooped low over promising field after field, and returned. Leaves were cancelled for the Division's quartermaster battalion of two-and-half-ton and six-by-six trucks.

Ordnance mechanics of the Division's heavy maintenance company swarm-like maggots around the dozen red-line vehicles under orders to get them rolling at any cost. Warehouses were skillfully looted of parts by Ordniss sergeants, while ordnets and lieutenants engaged guards in casual conversations that ended when they got the high sign that all was well. And the cause of all the activity, the 432 Field Hospital Battalion,

which had almost forgotten that it was a Field Hospital Battalion, got the pitch by early afternoon. Long broken up into their training camp formation, scattered through dispensaries and base hospital, they were abruptly reminded of their battle mission by an announcement over the base PA system by the division surgeon, their commander. Wonderingly, the 600 officers and men formed on the parade ground, many still in hospital whites.

They were young MD, first lieutenants, grinding out their drafted service wearily. They were male RNs, with their perennial bitch, that they were lucky to get a rocker, while a woman of equal training automatically got a gold bar. There were corpals who knew one end of a hypodermic needle from another, pharmacists who ache to inventory their own stock of trusses, penicillin, candy bars, yo-yoos, and bulk vanilla ice cream in their own corner stores again. Privates and recruits who could swing a sledge or mop a corridor. There were a handful of majors and lieutenant colonels who were honest-to-god military surgeons

passionately interested in the problems and possibilities of their work. On the parade ground, the division surgeon reminded them of something. It was that they were trained to move into a given bare field and turn it in two hours into a functioning 500-bed hospital. they dispersed almost forgotten warehouses with a broke-out field medical chests of instruments and medicine they found again the long-coiled snakes of green-treated canvas tons of it the five hundred litters and the thousands of tank pegs big and small and the jointed tent poles and the miles of rope each piece in its place and the sledges to drive the pegs and the combing lanterns to hang on the poles the trucks of the quartermaster's battalion backed up and the tiny handful of field-grade officers buzzed everywhere, yelling and conjoling and consulting loading lists, and trucks were unloaded and reloaded a dozen times in some cases to get the right load in its right place in the

line of the convoy. The engineers had finished an overlay strip map of the route by then, and mimi graphs began to spend out copies for the quartermaster's drivers. An MP platoon moved out in a truck, and one man was dropped at each tricky intersection to wave the convoy through. Each MP had a couple of K-rations with him because he'd be busy long into the night. As the convoy went past the rearmost men, they'd be picked up in the truck and leapfrogged ahead of the foremost men to the next tricky intersections. The water trucks went, as a matter of course, but it took a flash of genius for someone to realize that the area would be short of gas, and this got the infantry into it. A puzzled rifle company found itself yanked off the firing range

and assigned to the mysterious chore of filling five-gallon jerry cans with gas from the pumps of the division's motor pool and stack them solid in three six-by-sixes. It took a flash of West Point tradition for the division band to be massed at the camp gate when the 432 rolled off shortly before sunset. The division commander was there, the Bandum Pod, and he impassively took the salute from the startled doctors and the command cars. A few of the enlisted men of the battalion whirling pass remembered vague. about crossing the arms and sitting at attention. There wasn't a man there who was not, though they'd hoot at the word, inspired by the ancient tradition of field music

and the ancient greeting that they were exchanging of the tough old pro was sending them on their way. They rolled for six hours until their tailbones were bruised and their bladders were ready to burst along highway and detour and miserable blacktop. It was dark soon, but the sound of some of the bridges they rumbled over scared them silly. K-rations and canteen water staved off the border, and so did the banter when

they crept through the towns. They arrived, eventually, at the field the engineer officer had spotted from his division plane, and stiffly went about turning the field into a 500-bed hospital. It took cursing and coaxing, and five men, utterly out of condition, doubled up, clutching at brand-new hernias, while they manhandled the tons of canvas and pegs and poles. Another man was doping off in the dark and a truck backed over him, killing him. The casualty rate for the operation was one percent, which was not bad. While the tents rose and the headlights glare, the officers and their jeeps and command cars were spreading out to the stricken communities. One of them found Hebertown two miles away. The young lieutenant, for a few hours not wearily grinding

through his period of drafted service, said to Chief Prayer, were prepared to take over your entire medical load, who's in charge of the medical side? The police chief said to one of the men wearily, Get Dr. Soames. Good news for him. But Soames had seen the Jeep and medics in it. He burst in and roared,

Tandhot! Automatically, the lieutenant popped two. Suck in that gut, Soames snarled, and then broke into relieved hysterical laughter. My God, you look funny as hell, he weased at the officer. Haven't had so much fun since we bribe the cooks to serve the division's surgeon

and fricacy of hemagyoma. The lieutenant looked a little green and asked stiffly, how many cases have you, doctor? 95, shavetail. Take him away. We're beat to our socks here. The town medics and the emergency people

they flew in, we're beat. Dr. Soames sagged into a chair and seemed to lose interest. The lieutenant went out to his Jeep and told the signal corpsman with the SCR 6300. Ambulance fitted trucks for 95 cases. I'll check him over and get them classified.

Mrs. Goddike and Polly Chesbrough had semi-automatically fallen into the routine of the improvised hospital. For hours they had been doling out rationed water, mopping brows, jumping to the here you of the handful of nurses and doctors, cleaning up vomit and blood, dumping and washing ducks and bedpans. Mrs. Godikey first saw the brisk new lieutenant talking crisply to an exhausted nurse. That one, she said, he isn't tired. Polly said, Wondley, that's nice. She wasn't listening particularly. She'd come to the hospital in the first place to keep an eye on the Burgess, but he was often in upper room what they humorously called the quiet ward, because there was, in fact, fractionally less noise and confusion there than on the lower level. She hadn't seen him for hours. Mrs. Godikey insisted, look, darling, there's another one. Maybe another ambulance has come in. That's nice, said Polly, escaping. They were moving two of the patients again, and it was on her sector of the floor.

The patients were carried off in litters, new green ones. Polly noticed wearily. Maybe there was another ambulance in. Strip the cots, bundle the bedding, scrunched the stacks of Afghans and torn sheets and quilted comforters for something to make the new bed with, turn down the covers, and help the new patient in. But there wasn't any new patient, not for either of the beds. Two pink-faced kids in clean green fatigues brushed by her, and set the litter down next to the bed with the eleven-year-old boy in it.

Polly started to warn them about his probable fractured ribs. He had been under most of a framed dwelling for eight hours before he was found. But they seemed to know what they were doing. They rolled him gently to one side, slipped the litter under, rolled him gently back. She watched them carrying him away. Funny! A lot of the patients were going away, carried by these frighteningly expert, incredibly fresh new people. it had to be true help had arrived help in quantities enough to meet the need polly stood up straight that's nice she said dizzily and pitched head first across the bed she was stripping down

dick mckee young and healthy and very tired after toting the burgess in had slept twelve hours awakening in darkness in the school gymnasium a child was crying on one of the other litters and a weary mother was trying to soothe it mckee was enormously hungry his last meal had been a cup of syrupy coffee before he staggered into the improvised dormitory and passed out his last before that had been breakfast on cheese-crackers in the gas station his stomach was actively growling He headed for a dim door, stumbling over litters and bundles of personal possessions. He was cursed a couple of times. The dark corridor outside was lighted at its end, and he emerged into the school lobby full of men with homemade armbands. From somewhere came a tantalizing smell of coffee. He asked one of the Brazzard men,

"'Just coffee here,' the man said. "'Nearest foods the diner up the hill. Can't miss it. It's lit.' And the diner did stand out like a bonfire by virtue of one pressure lamp. He found a cop there to keep water, and a chipper waitress, who looked at him, grinned, sat out a bowl of breakfast food, crunched open a can of condensed milk with one corner of a cleaver, and poured the whole can into the bowl. Sugar, she said, and shoved the dispenser at him.

Thanks. He poured the sugar on and began to spoon down the cloying mixture as fast as he could. Another? the waitress asked when he was done. He patted his stomach experimentally. I guess not, he said. Do you have any coffee? Coming up, she slapped a mugful at him, and he sipped it down. Better, he said.

How much? For free, she said. She assumed a Greek accent. Mr. Patopolis says, America's so good to him, this is his chance to say, thank you. Well, thank Mr. Pateopopoulos for me when he gets back. He walked out into the dark and bummed a cigarette from the cop. After a deep drag, he told him, I'm a transient, in this town by accident.

You're lucky, said the cop, sourly. I live here. Yeah, well, I mean, is there anything I can do? The cop shrugged. Not much. Helps getting here, lots of it. The army rolled in a hospital, and the governor sent a battalion of national guards. One of them supposed to show up here and relieve me so I can get some sleep.

He yawned tremendously and sat down on the diner steps. My advice to you, get some sleep, and in the morning they'll have something fixed up for you. Maybe those army trucks will get you where you want to go. Dick said, thanks, and walked off. Well, he missed it. Slept right through it. The cop called after him. Hey, kid! Not toward River Street.

The guard sent a sound truck around. Unsafe buildings, wide-open warehouses and stores. They're patrolling with guns. Got it? Got it, said the too late hero. Thanks. He turned right and walked on. He'd be able to find the school again.

It was the only place in town, maybe the only place for miles, with two lights in front. one shining through the door and the other hung to a spike on a phone pole outside, where the motorpool man guarded a weird collection of vehicles. He rambled down one dark street cursing inwardly. He was sure a big dynamic Mickey Groff hadn't slept through it, had seized the chance for leadership and heroism. Quite suddenly his chance arrived and he almost walked right past it.

Two writhing figures in a doorway, a woman and a man in a silent, deadly struggle. He had one arm around her head and his paw over her mouth. Her dress was torn down the front. It flashed through his head that he was about to defend the virtue of a maiden against the assault of a lust-maddened, drink-crazy human beast. Chivalry stuff. He grabbed the man's shoulder and heaved, but his heart wasn't in it. A fist fellailed out of nowhere and smashed him high on the right cheek,

hard enough to make an icy area of numbness for a moment, and then, hell's own pain. From that moment, his heart was in it. While the woman shoved aside, lay on the ground panting, he waded into the man. After the first few blows, it was no longer a fight, but a first degree assault. He battered the man to the ground and stood over him grimly,

his chest heaving. You want any more? They croaked. The man mumbled something. It could have been, No. He looked around for the woman. She was reeling down the street,

one arm propping her against the wall. A couple came. scurrying past, stared at her, and gave her a wide berth. He hastened after her. Can I help you? he asked. She said sluggishly. Went to see if my sister was... No.

Just go away. Thanks and everything. But leave me alone. Please. He backed off and watched her slowly make her way down the street. She turned a corner, then he crossed the street to sea. She painfully climbed the steps of a road. frame house with a porch, went inside, and the great adventure was over, except for the damnable

aching of his cheekbone. In Hollywood, he thought sourly, it would have been just the beginning. The boy and the girl, me cute, and you take it from there. In real life, you save them from rape, and they don't want to have anything to do with you. She was probably embarrassed, horribly so, and wanted no part of anybody who'd seen her with her dress torn about to be violated. as he walked he constructed a face-saving fantasy about another maiden who might be less preoccupied and more grateful but it was uphill work His cheek was very bad, and it occurred to him that it might be more than a bruise. People did get fractures there. Also, he seemed to have broken a knuckle.

The hero business didn't pay very well. He turned around and headed back for the school. Maybe he could find a doctor there that'd take a look at his face. He was, by then, almost sure he could feel bones grating when he worked his jaw. It was a panel truck, like any other panel truck you might see, except for the name on the side, and the 30-meter whip antenna sticking up from the roof. It parked out in front of the schoolhouse, and Mickey Groff stepped out to see what was going on.

Federal Broadcasting System Mobile Unit 4, he read. One of the men in the front seat wore headphones. He was talking into a hand microphone. It was nearly 2 o'clock in the morning. Hell of a fat audience he'll have to listen to them now, thought Groff. It didn't occur to him that all over the country, listeners were staying up past their bedtimes for just such eyewitness on-the-spot accounts as this. Chief Breyer came out and said,

You still here? You got some sleep. It was good advice for the chief, too, Groff thought. He was too old a man for this sort of carrying on. The National Guardsman had taken over the problems of patrolling the flooded out and burned out areas, and most of the temporary deputies had turned in their guns and arm bands. But Groff wasn't sleepy. He was tired.

dead sick tired, but he wasn't sleepy. He said, Chief, what was Artie Chesbrough doing with a congressman? I forgot you and him were competitors, he said, almost apologetically. Keep on forgetting it, said Groff. That isn't why I'm asking. Breyer looked to him thoughtfully and shrugged. You think Chesbrose's horning in on something? Maybe you're right.

He's thick as thieves without excellent all right, and I'd swear they never saw each other before today. The congressman's all hotted up about a regional disaster relief agency. He's been sending out statements and messages right through our own radio. I read some of them. One of them went right to the White House, boy. He was asking for a billion dollars grant.

And I suppose Ari Chesbrough wants to have something to say about spending it. The chief said slowly, wouldn't you? No, said Groff, suddenly hot. What's the matter with you, Breyer? You know this Chesbro, Starkman knows him. He's a cheap angle-shooting county politician, not even your own county for God's sake. I came up here to start a factory, maybe not a very big factory compared to Ford or RCA, but the biggest damn factory I ever tried to start,

and Chesbrough is in on the ground floor ahead of me, trying to steal my factory site for some two-bit deal of his own. Do you think he cares about Hebertown? Do you think he's going to worry about whether the right people get the right money or whether the area makes a recovery from this? He cares about Artie Chesbrough, and that's all. Now hold on a minute, boy. Hold on, hell.

If Harry Starkman wasn't half dead, he wouldn't let Chesbrough get away with this. What right have you got to? Hold on, boy. The old man was suddenly erect and forceful. You don't have to tell me what Henry likes and doesn't like. Forty-one years we've been friends, and between us, we pretty near run this town. And you know what's been happening? Every year, a couple of more buildings off the tax rolls.

Every year, another couple of thousand dollars short in collections. Chesbro? Sure, boy. He's out for number one. saw the message that went to the white house it said a billion dollars god man do you know what any part of a billion dollars would mean to hebertown he glared at groff without speaking for a moment then he leaned back and rubbed his eyes wearily a billion dollars he said and it was like a prayer the little ranch house had been perfectly untouched by the flood it was well uphill on sullivan street representative oxland worked comfortably through the day and the pine-paneled Den. His work consisted mostly of conversation with Artie Chesbro while Sharon sat by and took notes by candlelight. Agreement was reached, a statement was signed, the old man yawned politely,

had shuffled off to the master bedroom. You release this to the network, he said from the door. The wire services can take it off the air. Good night. And Sharon and Chesbro raced to the school. Damn it, said Chesbrough peevishly. The mobile broadcasting truck was gone. They scurried around with flashlights. Sharon found a state trooper who thought he remembered seeing it heading down towards the roped off area at the foot of River Street. The houses there were either down or abandoned, and the only permitted persons were a national guardsman, theoretically patrolling against looters. Hello, said Mickey Groff. Sharon Froman jumped and turned around. She said, projecting throatly,

Mickey, thank heaven. It's good to see you, Mickey. We were worried. "'Aughty Chesbro caught her eye and slid away. Sharon said gaily, "'Hasn't this been a day? "'We haven't slept ten minutes altogether since we saw you last. "'Lucky, I'm a writer!' "'She lifted her briefcase with a smile. "'What's that got to do with it?'

"'We writers have our little secrets,' she said. "'She put her hand on his shoulders, strolling him away. "'Where'd Chesbrough go?' "'You'll be back,' Sharon assured him. "'Bind me a cup of coffee and tell me what's been going on.' buying a cup of coffee consisted of rinsing out a cup and ladling black coffee out of a tarry stew that had been bubbling over a gasoline flame for six hours groff let himself be steered and took a sip of the coffee it was awful but it was coffee he said i've been helping out around here as best as i could so is chesbrose's wife and so has mrs gudyke and you Sharon said with quiet pride,

We've been doing our share. Believe me, we spent the whole day with Congressman Oxland. He just went to bed a few minutes ago. Alone, Mickey Groff asked. Sharon looked at him with cold resentment. That was an unpleasant remark, Groff, she said thinly. If that's the way you intend to talk, I'll leave you alone. She turned her back on him and walked haughtily away.

Anyway, Artie Chesborough was already out of sight. there was no chance that Groff could find him before he reached the mobile unit. Poor Mickey Groff thought Sharon with deep and sincere sympathy. He would take it hard when Chesbrough had Congressman Oxlund's backing to head the emergency relief committee. But he had his chance. He had seen her first, but he had chosen to throw in his lot with Mrs. Godikey and that fantastic Chesbrough woman, and she had gone over to the better man. Poor Mickey Groff, Sharon thought comfortably.

maybe some other time. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15. A town is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Mrs. Goteke tottered into the marble lobby of the schoolhouse. A flaring pressure lamp through grotesque shadows against the polished walls and the room was almost empty. Some men doze over their card tables and desks.

outside the last of the ambulance fitted six-by-sixes was rolling noisily away with the last of the casualties. Chief Brayers' heads snapped up on a nodding doze as she cleared her throat. Chief? Mrs. Godekie said timidly. Just a few hours since I asked, but I think things have changed a lot, eh? He focused on her with difficulty and said at last, Oh, the lady from the hotel. Go-to-Kee's Green Acres, she said automatically with pride. I was thinking that now, maybe, things are more under control.

So maybe you could spare me a car, some gas? I have to get back. Look over my property. If it still is my property, the thought came unwelcomed. A car? Mrs. Godi-key was exasperated. You heard, a car. Look, if it makes you feel better, I could take some people with me. You need shelter? I have room. Believe me, by now, I bet I have more room than you can imagine. We have food, too. Food for the book solid week, which would now be a week of husband. 100% cancellations at empty tables. Chief Breyer looked wearily interested.

Yes, he said absentmindedly. You would have food. All right. I yelled at you before, didn't I? I'm sorry. She shrugged. No, apologies, please. Your language?

But you meant well. You were busy. We needed the cars, he said doggedly. We had to keep them for an emergency, you see. That's all that counted. In case there was a fire or a burglary, the cars had to be here. Don't explain.

Please, do I get a car? I'll be careful. I could write out a check, leave a deposit. She almost said $500. A hundred? Don't have to. Like a man in a slow-motion movie, he hauled a memo pad across his desk,

hoisted a pen from his uniform coat pocket. He wrote painfully, Give this to Mr. Sony. You know where the cars are. Across the street? All right, how far do you have to go? She threw up her hands. Who knows?

Always before, it was 17 miles. Now we have to go around and around. Who knows? There was an edge to her voice. Tell him, I said to give you half a tank of gas. Thank you, said Mrs. Gotike. Across the street, three trucks and four pleasure cars, one of them with tires flat.

The motor pool. A civilian in charge, and in the back, a national guardsman with a gun. The man in charge of the motorpool studied the note with a flashlight whose beam was fading to orange. He looked at her doubtfully. You going to drive it? Don't worry, mister, she snapped. You want to see my license? Me? Nah.

He potted over to the 47 Dodge sedan and copied the plate number onto the chief's note. Give me your address, lady. She did. He copied it down with the license number. Sign, he said, and she did. Mr. Sonny copied the data onto another sheet, signed it, and carefully put the original chit in his pocket. He gave her his copy. This is your trip ticket, he said. In case you get stopped by a state trooper, this proves you

didn't steal the car, we hope. Now garrulous, he added, she's yours. I don't know if this is legal, but it makes sense, doesn't it? At least we got records. After things are straightened out, I guess somebody will get in touch with you to return the car. She misread his fatigue and his nerves as suspicion. She said heartily, young fella, at Go to Keys Green Acres, we have a fleet of late model cars and station wagons. And to be very frank with you, if I guess you'd drive up in a 47th in this condition, the room clerk would discover that his reservation had not been received. Believe me, almost he believed it in the heat of the moment. Almost, Goddike's Green Acres was the Concord or the Grosinger's they had meant it for. The aspersion passed clear through the weary ears of

Mr. Sonny. I guess that's right, he said. Good luck. Please, you should give me half a tank of gas? Mr. Breyer said so. She looked pointedly at the stack of Jerrycans that had been dumped by one of the quartermaster trucks. Mr. Soni wearily climbed into the car,

snapped on the dashlight, and turned the key. The needle stayed on zero. Mrs. Goetakee inhaled triumphantly. He banged on the dial with the heel of his hand and watched it creep joltingly up to the halfway mark. He said, to nobody i know these babies he said to mrs godekeye you got your half a tank good luck she said watch nobody else takes my car will you i'll get my friends her feet were killing her across the street back into the schoolhouse up the stairs she hiked wearily into the deserted quiet ward where polly chesborough was sprawled out on one stain caught and dick mckew looking like the returned strayed catty was on another

she shook him gently your face peter dick he sneered experimentally i guess so he yawned and that did hurt but not too much i thought maybe it was a broken bone but it just hurts on the skin now. I'll live. He was feeling pretty cheerful. The disappointing parts of his route with the drunken beast were dropping out of his recollection. He said, did you get the car, Mrs. Gee? Of course, she said, surprise. Why not? Things have quieted it down. They have time for a reasonable request from an important local business proprietor. He looked at her sharply, but there was no expression on her face. For the first time, it occurred to Dick McHugh that here was a woman, not so very smart, but not so very young, capable of being wrong, capable of having foolish hopes. She thought she was still an important local business proprietor, a ramshackle summer hotel. They folded by the hundreds year

after year. It didn't take a flood to put them out of business. The flood was only the mercy bullet through the blindfold after the man was down. Polly was awake. She said, Mrs. Goneyke, it's nice of you to offer to take us in, but, but, repeat. repeated Mrs. Goddike. What but? Polly Chesbrough said, I don't want to leave Mr. Starkman. Mrs. Goddkees snapped angrily.

He's your father, maybe? A whole hospital they bring in on trucks to take care of him, and you can't trust the doctors to fix him up. So stay, Mrs. Chesbrough. Hang around the old man some more. Make a fool out of yourself. But I have to get to work. She glared furiously at the other woman,

trembling with anger. Polly Chesbrough was wiser than she. Polly felt the anger, and knew that it was not directed. expected at herself, but it's something inside the old lady. Polly said perceptively, Don't worry, Mrs. Godinkey. Everything always works out. The old lady was crying. Dick McHugh stared in wonder as Polly Chesbro put her arms

around the woman and protected her from the harsh surrounding world. After a moment, Mrs. Godigee pushed herself away, sniffing. You have a clean ex? she inquired, embarrassed. I don't know what got into me, Polly. Please, you have to excuse. There's nothing to excuse, said Polly. Chesboro. We're all worn out. Not worn out. Tired, yes. Sick, maybe. Mrs. Goda Key wiped her streaming nose and said dismally. Ever since Sam died, it's slave, slave, slave. You know what Sam said

every year? Next year we go to the Holy Land. Why not? And always I found a reason. So we kept on with a hotel, and it killed him. She patted Polly's arm absently. Worn out is from a summer with the guests complaining about the food and changing their rooms. From something like this flood, you only get tired. Mrs. Godeky pulled herself together after a while. Polly left her and then came back. Mr. Starkman's wife is with him, she reported. I suppose I might as well go with you, Mrs. Goderkey, if the offer is still open.

Open? Of course it's still open. And Mr. Starkman? Much better. They think he'll be all right now. Polly Chesbrough's expression was grave and joyous. They pulled the old man through, and Beth Starkman had been more than grateful for Polly's help to her husband.

Polly said, let's get the others. Others? Mrs. Godeky demanded suspiciously. Mr. Gough and Arthur and Miss Frommon? Mrs. Goddike looked mutinous. Mr. Groff is perfectly welcome to come if he is so inclined, she said. Likewise, Mr. Chesbrough. But as for Miss Fromman, believe me, me, Polly, I know better than you. She'll get along wherever she is, trust her, but she isn't

going to be at Godigee's Green Acres. Dick McHugh explained, Goettoke's Green Acres has had, Miss Froman. Polly was stubborn and silent, but she went down the stairs with them uncomplainingly. They found the three in the ground floor cloakroom, where coffee had been dispensed through the day. Mickey Groff was the gray-looking one. Sharon and Artie Chesbrough seemed to have tapped some source of strength and wakefulness, not given to ordinary humans. Mrs. Godekee announced flatly, I've got a car to go to my place, go to Key's Green Acres. I think it is a good idea if you all come with me. Here is finished. They have the army now, and plenty of doctors, National Guard, everything. Why should we be a burden? I have plenty of room for. She hesitated. The words

didn't want to come out. She glowered at them. Big solid groff, big slide Chesbro. Soiled, Amused by it all Sharon Fruman. Yenta, she thought scathingly. Dirty, low female. But still she needs help. As I may need help someday. As from the mountain, we are told to give help. She said with difficulty,

That means everybody, naturally. Sharon cajoled, Why, Mrs. Gautichie, you've forgiven your naughty little girl. So full of energy and joy, Mrs. Goddikey muttered angrily to herself, but all she said out loud was, Well, yes or no? Hardy Chesbrough said cheerfully, That's very nice of you, Mrs. Goddichie.

But I think we better stay in Hebertown, though. Some important things to take care of. There's a radio truck around here somewhere, and I want to. Sharon interrupted loudly with a warning look. Mr. Chesbrough means Congressman Axelan left him some work to do. Anyway, Mrs. Godickey. Oh, she was so arch. and no sleep, marveled Mrs. Goddike.

"'What is, I'd love to join your little party "'and share the finest accommodations for which your hotel is noted. "'There are big things to be done. "'So thanks, but no thanks.' "'Fine,' said Mrs. Goderkey. "'Stay here with your big things. "'Now before someone steals my car, we better go.' "'She folded the trip ticket from the motor pool,

"'put it down on the table next to Dick McHugh.' "'Micky Groff said, "'Wait a minute, Mrs. Goderkey.' "'What are these big things?' Chesbrough laughed. "'Groff, does Macy's tell Gimbles? "'I tell you what. You want the swamps can place, right?' He shrugged generously. "'It's yours. I won't buck you.'

"'If you won't book me, it's because you don't want it anymore,' Groff said. "'You're after bigger game. "'What would that be, Chesbrough? "'A finger in a billion-dollar pie? "'A chance to spread federal funds around the way you want to? "'Maybe the break you've been waiting for?' Chaspero said fretfully, Now, Mickey, please.

Why can't we be reasonable? You're an outlander here. You've got nothing to do with the community. You want to move into your nickel factory? Go ahead. I won't stand in your way. I'll even help you. But you can't do anything with the federal grants

because you don't have the connections, because you don't have the information about who needs what, because you aren't local and wouldn't be allowed to come with and smelling distance of it in the first place. Why not live and let live? He was open and honest, Groff saw, as open and honest as the likes of Artie Chesbrough ever knew how to be.

You work your side of the street, he was saying, and I'll work mine. Under the ethical standards of Arte Chesbrough, he had made an honorable proposal. It would never have occurred to him to entertain propositions like federal funds are money and trust. A time of catastrophe is not a time to feather one's nest, or even. A businessman who opposes what you want to do is not necessarily a good. a jealous rival. There was simply no handle, Groff thought, by which he could get a hold of the man.

He was completely out of touch, often a kind of a dream. He was almost as if he was drunk, but that of course was impossible. Liquor would have put him out on his feet in seconds. Polly Chesbrose said suddenly, what did you want the radio truck for? Artie looked alarmed. No, honey, don't you get mixed up in, she said. Artie, I know how your mind works. Did you think if you got on the radio and told them that you and the congressman were handling relief here, that that would keep him from backing out?

Did you think everybody in the country would be listening at this time in the morning, and that would make it official? The recording, Hardy Chesbrough said sullenly. They're going to rebroadcast in the morning. I've already talked to one of the men from the network. Dick McHugh said, Mr. Chesbrough, it's nothing to me one way or another. But there's a curfew, you know. You can't go running around out there tonight. Hardy Chesbrough's expression was petulant.

Leave me alone, will you? I know what I'm doing. Polly Chesbrough folded her hands and looked at him. Ardy, don't you ever learn? Her expression was gentle, her voice was calm, even warm, Grawf thought, with a sudden shock that was almost jealousy. Remember the television station? Hardy whined.

Honey, I told you a thousand times. You were set to make a million dollars out of television. She said, remember? Only you wouldn't wait for the FCC to grant the license. We'll start building it, you said. Oh, then they won't have the guts to turn us down. Only they did. You never got that construction permit. What was it? My father put up, $15,000? And you lost it all, remember? Honey, these people don't want to hear. Then there was that drive-in theater. You only got $5,000 out of my father for that. But that all went down the drain, too, like all.

your other million-dollar ideas. What was at that time? You figured you could buck the motion picture projectionist union? And then, Mickey Groff cleared his throat and said, Excuse me, Polly. You're embarrassing, everybody. Polly laughed gently. I'm sorry, but really, I hate to see my husband go off like this again. Groff said to Chesbro, like I say, I don't want to butt in,

but remember what McHugh said about the curfew, Chesbrough. I happen to have been around when the National Guardsman got their orders. I wouldn't go out there tonight if I were you. Mrs. Godachie said heavily. That's right, Mr. Chesbrough. I was down by the motorpool, and they've got guns and... Now, you just listen to me. It was Sharon Fruman, her eyes flashing, her face of Valky face.

Arthur Chesbrough knows what he's doing, and it isn't up to any of us to try and stop him. You make me sick, all of you. I spent the whole day with Arthur and the Congressman Oxlin, and believe me, the congressman knows Arthur understands how to do things. And if Arthur's all right with a congressman, I don't see why he shouldn't be all right

with a wet behind the ears kid. Dick McHugh's jaw dropped open. Or fat old bitty. Mrs. Goatkey began to sputter. Or a mental case. Holly Chesbrough only nodded judiciously, but Mickey Groff sat up straight and cut in. Just a minute, Miss Froman, he started,

but he could not make himself hurt. They were all talking at once to Sharon Froman. Nobody was paying attention to Arumann. Chesboro at all. By the time anyone got a run to pay attention to Hardy, he wasn't there. He closed the door quietly behind him and walked out the main door, nodding pleasantly to the guardsman, across the street to the carpool. It was all going so well, he thought dreamily, so very well. He even managed a little ride, chuckle of amusement about the silly spectacle his wife had made of herself. That silly old business of the television station. That ridiculous

the story about the drive-in theater, but he could afford good-humoredly to overlook her raking up those long-dead scores because everything was going very well indeed. Curfew? Not a problem, he thought, with satisfaction. Not as long as he'd been wise and clever enough to pick up Mrs. Godike's trip ticket. The car was his now, and he'd just have to say Mrs. Godicay had sent him. He wouldn't be out there on foot for any length of time, and no one would bother him in the car with a regulation trip ticket. The whole world was well within his grasp be realized with satisfaction and joy, and it was due, at least in part, to Sharon Froman. He nodded to himself in the darkness, picking his way carefully down the slippery street. She had written the official announcement of the

plan for a tri-state emergency allocation supervisory board that he and the congressman with Sharon Froman had cooked up. Artie Chesbrough chuckled out loud. Why, it was even Sharon who'd been so resourceful about the matter of the benzodrine. He had been pretty near passed out with fatigue early in the day, even before the congressman had arrived, and she had produced out of what she gaily called her kit of writing tools, the little bottle of ten-grained tablets that had waked him up, sharpened his brain,

and made it possible for him to work on through the endless exhausting day. A fine girl. A great acquisition. They would go far together, thought Artie Chesbro, stumbling dreamily down the misty street filled with a sense of power alive with the joy of achievement, coked to the eyebrows. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 A Town is Drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Mr. Stoney saw the man approach jauntily, who, he wondered, can be full of bounce at this hour, one of the new people from the field hospital? But as the man came into the cone of light from the shaded Coleman lantern, he saw that the fellow wasn't army, but that he wore, in fact, the uniform of an old-timer who had been through the day and a half on the spot. The uniform was a stained and shapeless suit, mud-cake shoes, red eyes, and a growth of beard.

Oh, Mr. Chesbro, the man said to Mr. Sonny. I've come to pick up the car a lot of to Mrs. Godike. The hotel lady? She said she'd be back herself. Chesbrose smiled and handed over the trip ticket. She's exhausted. I'll pick her up and drive. I see.

It's that dodge. Be careful. Artie almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of the advice from this nobody to him, confidant of Oxlind, Johnny on the most wonderful spot imaginable. He drove off. River Street? Yes. The broadcast.

Caster's were at River Street. He turned left and heard faintly a shout from the little nobody of the motor pool. A fragment of the ruby yacht, out there was a poem, not like those jumble things Polly wrote, drifted by. Would we not shatter it to bits and then remold it closer to the heart's desire? Which was exactly what was going to happen. He had never really had a big chance before, but by waiting and building and sending out his lines of communication, he had survived until the big chance came along. The county was shattered to bits, and he would remold it. It wouldn't look like much to an outsider, Oxlund.

To Oxlund and his staff, he would seem a disinterested and patriotic businessman working his guts out with no hope of personal gain to reconstruct the smitten area. He had better start thinking about his list. The five walked into the motor pool. Mrs. Goddike stared blankly at the empty space where the Dodge had been. She said to Mr. Sonny hopefully, You moved it? Into the street. Mr. Sonny looked sick.

Guy had your trip ticket, he said. Mr. Cheese. Chesbro, Dick McHugh said. Wrapped bastard Chesbrough, to be exact. Just resourceful, grinned Sharon From it. He'll be back. Let's wait. He just wants to get the statement.

and out to the country. Time's important, you know. He's got to hit the morning papers and newscasts. And I, she thought comfortably, pointed that out to him. The boy is geared to a country weekly tempo, but he's got talent all the same. Mrs. Godachie said something long, eloquent, and heartfelt in Yiddish. Groth, the New Yorker, got the gist. It was a prayer that Artie Chesboro die of colabra upside down with his head stuck in the ground like a radish and worms. eating out his ears. His lists. There would be two of them,

one for the people to get the nod, and the other of people to get the Nix. On the nod list, a sound businessman and a hard worker that boy, built his place up from nothing. Guts and brains, the kind of man we want to help first, fast. I know his stock and his turnover,

and I'd say 50,000 would set him on his feet again. Of course he's the kind who'll consider it a debt of honor won't rest until it's clear. And the Nix list. Um, yes, know the man well. We've got to help him, of course, but I wouldn't put him at the top of the list. The vital services have got to be restored first, of course. I know people need shoes, gasoline, bread, hardware,

but it's my feeling that a more efficient man should be assisted first. We don't want any free riders, and we don't want to subsidize chaos at a competition in the first month. No, indeed. We want to organize the area. A nod to Flaherty, the fuel man whose note I hold. A nix to Greenlease, the hardware man, who unpatriotically carries his current obligations and improvement loans in Philadelphia. A nod to Erpco Feed, who buy their sacks for my very good friend and associate Don Ryder,

who is under my thumb because of his lease. A nix to fouling. The appliance wholesaler who won't use my trucks when he's in my territory. a man who doesn't encourage local businesses asking for trouble and this is his chance to get it an empathetic nod to rorty in his skinny new wholesaling business in the year he'll pass fouling and i'll be in the driver's seat turn nobody down he cautioned himself merely postpone and postpone and postpone and postpone and eventually there will be no more money left and the nicks will find themselves in a poor competitive position and a little later they'll find their broken out of business and a little later they'll find their broken out of business business, and the people in business will be my men. I will have approximately 100 operations tied to me, covering every phase of manufacturing, real estate, wholesaling, retailing, distribution, and finance in the area. I'll trade with myself, supply myself, transport

myself, and finance myself, and anyone who tries to move in will never know what hit him. It would be positively pathetic if anyone tries to compete with Artie Chesbrough. The car crept along the littered road towards River Street. His thinking had never been so clear and lightning fast, and his heart had never thudded so alarmingly. The benzadrine, he supposed. Well, you use the things for what they're worth and take the incidental consequences like a man.

A big man. First, the valley area, perhaps a year to consolidate it, then moved down and upriver, slowly at first. But he knew the pace always accelerated, The bigger you get, the faster you grow. Rockefeller, Morgan, Zekindorf, Odleham. They had all started somewhere. This was his somewhere.

Hardy Chesbrough considered quietly that he'd be running the state by 1959. If there was a war, knock a year off the timetable. Wars were good business for a good business man. And he thought quietly, with the clarity of benzodrine, they pruned the human tree. An 18-year-old sprig of the human tree, Luther G. Bayswater, was walking slowly down River Street with a feeling of intense unreality enveloping him. It seemed frightfully queer that he should have a helmet on his head, heavy boots with

two buckle flaps on his feet, and around his waist, a full cartridge belt with a first-aid kit, a bayonet, and a canteen hitched to it. Quearest of all was the rifle slung on his right shoulder, whose sling he held between his thumb and forefinger like a hick eternally about to snap his gallows. Luther was a private and the National Guard because his mother had the confused notion that this would keep him from overseas service ever. Somebody had told her so. She missed her little boy, she said, when he was away on summer training, and she didn't like the idea of him going through the dark streets so late in strange neighborhoods for his armory sessions, but she comfortably reported that it was all

worthwhile for her to have peace of mind about Luther not having to go overseas. His mother was at that moment in bed with a high fever, induced by the phone call from the company clerk that had mobilized Luther. His mission, unreal, as given him by the hardware merchant, who was his platoon leader, was to cover the two blocks of River Street like a cop on a beat. It is an interior guard duty, the lieutenant explained. None of that Halt and Advanced Officer of the Day post-numbered-four stuff. Just make like a cop and don't let any monkey business happen. Fire a warning shot if you have to.

And the lieutenant was embarrassed. If you have to shoot it, anybody, aim for the legs. Any questions? There were questions. A world of questions. But Luther wasn't sure what they were. Besides, the hardware lieutenant was in a hurry to get back to the company where the captain was waiting for an explanation of why the platoon sergeant had been found

to have a pocket-stuff with half-pint liquor bottles. Private Basewater saw lights and heard a motor running, and in his state of acute disbelief in what was around him, stood stock-still for most of a minute staring at the vehicle. It was parked at the foot of Wharf Avenue, a panel truck. By and by, he made out that it was a radio-broadcasting truck and remembered that the lieutenant had told them that was in the area, perfectly all right.

He stayed near it. He was less lonesome there. Until by and by, Private Basewater became conscience of a nagging yearning for a smoke. Luther didn't smoke much because his mother had proved to him with graphs and charts and doctor's reports that terrible things went on in the lungs of men who smoke cigarettes. But he wanted a cigarette bad.

And anyway, there wasn't anyone around. All. Everybody in town knew the National Guard was patrolling with orders to shoot if they had to. Nobody would be stupid enough to try anything. Nobody had, and he'd been on duty for nearly an hour. He leaned against the sagging warehouse front experimentally, and it didn't sag any more than before. He bounced on the steps, and though they shook, it didn't seem likely they would fall through. He stepped inside, closed the door as nearly as it would go, and greedily tore the paper, on the pack getting a cigarette out. Cupping the cigarette, he looked down

an unglass window and was pleased to find that he could observe the street as well from in here as from outside. Fantastic. It was the first good chance he had had to look over the damage done to Hebertown. He wondered briefly about what kind of people were crazy

after build their houses in a place like this, where the water could come up and do what had been done to these. But Luther Basewater was not much given to worry about. about other people's troubles. And besides, he heard a noise. It sounded like a door slamming. Car door? But he could see the panel truck. Nobody was moving there.

The two men were still inside, busy about whatever they had to be busy about, or else just waiting for daybreak in their first direct broadcast. A door? In one of the buildings? Maybe. Luther Bayswater wished he'd been listening more attentively. A door slamming in a building. That might just be the way. wind, of course. But if it wasn't the wind, it was one of the hazy mythological figures called looters that he was supposed to be on the lookout for. He swore, tepid oath, ground out his cigarette, and opened the door. It made a frightful racket. He hadn't noticed anything of the kind when he came into the building. The noise scared him. He unslung the rifle and gripped it in the approved

port arms position, crosswise over his chest. One hand comforting near the trigger gun, and he stepped out into the inimical street. Somebody was moving, not near the radio truck but in the other direction, someone who seemed to be trying to stay out of sight, moving in and out of the shelter of the buildings. Luther Basewater pulled the bolt of the rifle back. It made a tiny, unmenacing sound. He hoped it would crash through the streets like a thunderbolt

and send the terrified criminal fleeing. He raised it to his shoulder and called, waveringly, Oh, who's there? Perfectly safe. There was no chance the gun would go off and make him appear an idiot, not as long as he didn't close the bolt. The figure stumbled and ducked out of sight.

Baffled, Luther lowered the rifle, which was wearingly heavy. Almost absentmindedly, he shoved the bolt home. Still, perfectly safe, Still nothing that would make him look ridiculous, for he knew enough to keep his finger off the trigger. He cleared his throat and called again, Come out of there! I see you! Fantastic Cowboys in Indian scene.

Luther couldn't help feeling embarrassed of how badly he was doing his part of it. Suppose the man did come out. Suppose he came running at him with a knife-thor pistol, and Luther was standing there, flat-footed and Gapmouthed, trailing the gun. He brought the butt up to his shoulder and snapped the range leaf, curled his finger lightly through the trigger guard. Perfectly, perfectly safe. These springfields take a good heavy tug to go off, and as meticulously as on any qualifying range, he laid the bead of the front side between the V-edges of the rear, and just at knee-level, just where the man had been.

He waited. Good-humoredly, Artie Chesbrough shrugged and parked the car. He got out and started to walk down the rubly street. There was no sense in trying to drive down here, where the river had swept beams and bottles and cinder blocks helter-skeltered across the pavement. He had decided that the third time he had spotted something in his way, and wildly swerved the wheel and hit something else instead.

He thought detachedly that perhaps his reflexes were a touch over-stimulated by the benzodrine. Amusing. but it didn't in the least matter, not when he could see everything, and the clear, luminous light the benzodrine gave. He tripped over something, stepped down on something else that rolled, and stumbled almost into one of the buildings. Careful, he warned himself, suppressing a chuckle, why it was almost like getting a load on, but without any of the disadvantages, because he certainly wasn't slowed down or incapacitated

in the least. He could feel it. somebody yelled to him arty chesborough paused thoughtfully to listen what had the men said and became conscious of the deeper louder thudding of his heart possibly that fourth tablet had been one too many he admitted better get this over with and rest for a while a touch concerned after all he didn't want to be too exhausted for the big day to-morrow he stepped forward to see what the man wanted He ran right into something he hadn't seen. It shoved him back on the ground, brutally strong, remorselessly hard. Damn it, he thought, gasping. It didn't hurt, though not for a moment.

And then it did hurt very much. And then, neither it nor anything else, ever hurt again. The private was sobbing. I did aim for the knees, Lieutenant. He wouldn't stop. I told him. I thought he was a looter, like you said, and I did aim for the knees. The company commander leaned in front of the lights off the weapons carrier, and crooked a finger at the lieutenant.

He was holding the private's M-17, pointing to the sights. The leaf was set for a hundred yards. The shot had been no more than 25. A bullet leaving a rifle goes up before it goes down. The line of sight is straight. The line of bullet trajectory curves in a parabola, an aim that would be dead on at a hundred yards would strike high at 25. Not very high.

About as high is the difference between a man's knees and the middle of his chest. The company commander looked significantly at the lieutenant and snapped the sighting leaf closed. You did your duty, he told the private. All right, let's clean this up here, he told the others gathered browned. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17. A Town is drowning by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Cornbluth. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. The skunks never coming back, Dick McHugh said bitterly. His face was hurting again. He wanted to lie down in his comfortable room at Godigee's Green Acres, horror and fatigue, far behind.

Mrs. Goddike didn't even hear. She had taken her. her place on the one good chair near the door and was waiting for the moment when Artie Chesbro, the thief of cars, should walk back inside. That, thought Mickey Groff, would be a moment to watch. Chesbrough had been asking for it, for a long time. It would be a pleasure to see the old lady take him apart. He thought wrong. The old lady sighed and said, how long now? A day and a half I'd been away from Goodyke's Green Acres, and all the time I've been worried sick. You know something? Now I'm not worried.

Mickey Groff said. That's right, Mrs. Godikey. There's nothing for you to worry about. Everything's all right there. You'll see. She looked at him surprised. All right. Nah, she shook her head.

All wrong, you mean. Believe me, Mickey. I know what can happen to a place like GoTo Key's Green Acres when it should only rain three days in a row, much less something like this. Godeky's Green Acres is finished. What's the sense in trying to kid myself? I should know better. Groff looked at her uncomfortably,

but she didn't seem panicky, didn't seem on the verge of despair. She was calm enough for six. Groff said, What are you going to do? She leaned forward and patted him. I'm going to sell, Mickey, she announced. You think I'm doing the right thing?

No, don't tell me. I'm going to do it anyhow. My husband, Mr. Gotakie, he was always after me to sell and go to Palestine. Sell, Mrs. Go to Keyhe, he'd say. Always I kept the hotel in my name, you see. Sell, and let's live a little. And every time I'd say, next year, next year. Now it's next year. I'm 63 years old, Mickey. It's time I took it easy for a while. She brooded silently. Why should I lie? She asked. 66. Mickey Groff said reassuringly, I think it's the right thing to do.

You'll like it in Israel. Nice climate. Plenty of things going on. A whole new country rising out of the desert. She looked at him incredulously. Mickey? A nice climate? Nice with the Egyptians raining down out of the sky like clouds in their jet airplanes? Please, I'm not a child. If I go there, I give up nice things in order to be with my people. But it's what Mr. Godekie wanted, and I stole it from him, so now I'll go.

I can sell Godikies green inkies like that. She snapped her fingers proudly. only why didn't I do it when Mr. Goddikey was still alive? A light truck banged past the schoolhouse down toward the river, and almost immediately another followed. Dick McHugh said curiously, Something going on? I thought I heard shooting. There's plenty going on, Dickie, Sharon Froman informed him kindly.

Things are very busy around here tonight, but you wouldn't understand. No one paid any attention to her. After a moment she laughed and lit a cigarette. clods she thought with gentle contempt naturally they are jealous of her and arty chesborough there are two kinds of people one kind was the doers herself that is and along with her such other persons as she temporarily dragged along to heights of accomplishment and success The other kind was everybody else. Not even her worst enemy, she mused, trickling smoke out her nostrils, not even Hesh or Paul or Burt or any of the others that she had temporarily blessed with her help and presence before withdrawing.

Not any of them could deny that she had moved fast and successfully this day. Polly Chesbrough got up and crossed over to Mickey Groff. May I have one of your cigarettes? she asked. Sure, Groff lit it for her. she said what are you going to do now mickey after things clear up a little i mean he hesitated the question had not occurred to him for some time go ahead as planned i guess chief brayer said the swancom place wasn't damaged and your husband seemed to have given up the idea of making a warehouse out of it She laughed, not maliciously. I wonder if he remembers that he signed a lease on it, she said. Lease?

She nodded. There were a couple of men from Ohio in to see him last week. He drew up a lease on the spot, and they paid him a binder. Groff said, hell. Well, that was pretty stupid of him, but if it's a matter of getting him in trouble, I suppose I could find some mother. Get, aren't he in trouble? Small chance, Mickey.

He lands on his feet. And if he doesn't, he always has the family money to bail him out, my family, that is. What you really mean is you'd back out in order to do me a favor, isn't it? Don't answer. It wouldn't be a favor, Mickey. I decided a long time ago that I couldn't mother Hardy. I had to let him get in his own scrapes and get out by himself, if he could get out. It hasn't made a man of him yet, but there's always a chance it may. She tipped the ash of her cigarette neatly into a thick china saucer.

Stay around, Mickey, she said. All of us need people like you around here for much more than business. A quality in her voice touched him deeper perhaps than she had intended, deeper than he could remember being touched before. Responsibility. That was the word. Someone had to help. And it was something very different from ego that made him think too.

Someone has to leave. Dick McHugh heaved himself to his feet. His whole head was hurting now. now, and he was feeling savage. I'm going to hit up the chief for another trip ticket, Mrs. Godinke, he announced. Half an hour's long enough to wait for the but Mr. Chesbrough. Why not? said Mrs. Godikey. She went with him.

Groff could hear the discussion clear from the cloakroom, but they won their point. They came back with another scribbled slip of paper, and the whole party headed for the motor pool, even Sharon, though no one had asked her. There was somebody down by the motor pool. As they drew close, another jeepard. The Jeep came up, making a convoy of three of them, and the driver of the lead vehicle hopped out, heading for the motorpool's Coleman lamp. The driver was a captain and upset about something.

He said to Mr. Sony, I understand there's a temporary morgue somewhere around here. Baseband of the Methodist Church, Sony said, absently walking over to the open jeep. That's sad. He leaned over to peer at what was huddled in the back of the Jeep. He crossed himself and stared at Mrs. Goddike. Here's the guy that got your car, lady, he called. Artie, gasped, Polly Chesbrough. She sped to the Jeep and unbelievably lifted the head on its stiffening neck,

staring into the blank face. The captain, his nerves twanging through his voice, snapped. Please don't give us any trouble, lady. This is no business of yours. Groff said, he's her husband. The officer lamely said, I'm sorry, very sorry. And then defensively, a warning shot was fired. He didn't stop. The area is under full martial law.

and the soundtrack announced it to everybody. He saw that she wasn't listening, was staring in disbelief. He stepped away from the Jeep and lit a cigarette and waited. Groff beckoned him to one side. What happened? he asked. Shot for looting, the captain said brusquely. He was on a roped-off prohibited area. He didn't halt.

The kid was absolutely right. Kid? asked Groff. The captain had told him more than he had intended to and realized it now. Somebody panicked. Who are you, mister? The captain asked. Not a reporter. I've got a factory in Brooklyn.

I knew the man. Close friend. Hated his guts. The captain was shocked and reacted with the truth. As a matter of fact, he said in a low voice, maybe it shouldn't have happened. But we're legally in the clear. Was he important?

Very, but I don't think you'll find anyone who will press an investigation. The captain took a deep, relieved drag on his signature. and flipped it away. What about his wife? He asked. Is she going to keep this stuff up? I'll do what I can, Groff said.

He went over to the Jeep and the staring woman. Polly, he said, she turned and told him in a dry, controlled voice, I'm all right. It's just so strange to think that it's over. Him and his bragging, him and his plans, him and his tramps. It's over.

I suppose you miss a tumor when they cut it out of you. That's the way I miss him. She sagged against Groff and a half faint. He led her to a chair where she sat like a stick. The captain, in a business-like way, asked Sony, Just where's this church? Sony told him the Jeep rolled away. No, no, no, Sharon Frumman was saying faintly.

Then she smiled and said to Groff, Carol backed the wrong horse, didn't she? Mickey, how did you like to meet Congressman Axe from the first thing in the morning. Hardy's gone, one with the martyrs, but Excellent's still going to need expert advice on the reconstruction. I've got an end there. Keep it, said Groff, and put his arm around Polly.

Sharon turned to Dick McHugh. Her smile was becoming ghastly. She said, Got a kind word for an old friend, Dick? We've had some fun together. Shall bygones be bygones? No, said Dick McHugh. And if you keep bothering me,

I'll take out your upper plate and step on it. Her hand flew to her mouth. It was a bark of laughter from Mrs. Goddike. You thought nobody knew. You thought you could see through everybody, Ms. Sharon Fruman, but no one could see through you. We all know you have an upper plate. We all know you'll never finish your book or hold a man.

We all see through you because we all see through each other, but we all also know that we're seen through. That makes us sometimes kind to each other. We have to be. But you, you have to think you're perfect. That, if anybody sees anything less than perfect in you, it's because they're fools. The 47 Dodge rolled slowly into the motor pool. A scared young voice asked,

Is this the place I'm supposed to leave the car? I guess so, Mr. Sonny said. The young soldier climbed out wearily. Boy, he said, and wiped his brow. I'm supposed to weigh here until they come back by on patrol and pick me up. Croft moved out of earshot of the women. "'Hear about the shooting,' he asked quietly. The soldier shuddered.

"'Heck, I'm the guy that did it. "'I had no choice. "'A cop shoots if somebody runs and doesn't stop, doesn't he? "'Well, I was supposed to be a cop.' "'And he added, defensively and illogically, "'how could I check the sighting leaf in the dark?' "'That told the story. "'Of course he could have checked the sighting leaf in the dark

"'by the cliques if they had known enough about it.' arty chesborough struck down in full career by a quarter-trained child who had not meant to kill something god chance compensation had laid a finger briefly on the balances and dressed them the world was saved from arty chesbrough until the next one came along get in the car mrs goatee grunted sliding behind the wheel come on polly groff said she leaned against him on the short walk A certain excitement, compounded of a feeling for her and a sense of challenging opportunity, began to tingle through him. She sensed it and smiled. It would be nice, she thought. In the backseat of the car, she dropped her head on his shoulder and was asleep.

Dick McHugh got in beside Mrs. Goderkey and slammed the door. Mrs. G., asked Sharon Frumann. You can't mean this. Mrs. Godachie snorted and put the car in gear, ground off down the road to Goatee the key's green acres. "'Hitch,' said Sharon softly. She walked over to the motorpool man. "'Here are Mr. Sonny, aren't you?

Somebody said you were a plumbing engineer. Just a plumber,' said Mr. Sonny, modestly but flattered. "'It's going to be a lot of work for you before long. I ought to do pretty well out of it. The shop's hardly touched by the flood. My wife, thank God, hardly knew it was happening. She's an invalid. Oh, terrible.

Well, but shouldn't somebody be taking care of her? I'm sort of a practical nurse, you know. Well, say, that would be. Sharon Fruman was very tired. Even while she moved through the pickup ritual for perhaps the 20th time, a crazy, spinning maggot grew in her head that she really ought to throw herself on the ground and scream. It was the only sensible thing to do.

With a great deal of effort, she resisted and forced out the foolish idea, knowing it would come back. Mrs. Goddike twisted the wheel of the car hard to avoid a fallen telephone pole. Such a thing, such a thing, she muttered as she avoided the muddy shoulder. Only a telephone pole, Mrs. G., said Dick McHugh. No, I meant that no good, that's Sharon,

that there should be a girl like that. She shook her head. It always will be, said Groff, with Polly's head pleasantly pressing his shoulder or a near nurse making him feel confident and quiet. But that's not what's important. The Sharon's and the... He didn't utter Chesbrose name because Polly might not be asleep.

The others. They're the ones the pessimists and the cynics were always thinking about, pointing at, making a thing of. But I'm going to remember something else out of all this. Starkman. The doctor almost ready to drop on his feet. The kid who did the diving. All the dozens and dozens who were there when they were needed. fast, with both hands and with everything they had.

It's a fact, said Dick McHugh. It's as if, when things are okay, everyone just sort of buys and sells and takes care of their own and locks the front door. But when there's a real jam, they... I don't know. They get bigger. Most of them, anyway. Yep, said Groff quietly.

That's why, in spite of this unholy mess, this town isn't licked. That's why even though I could forget Hebertown and locate somewhere else, I don't I don't think I'm going to. Maybe I ought to have my head examined, but I'm sort of proud of this place. You're going to be welcome, said Mrs. Gotakie, smiling at the clearing road ahead. You're going to be very welcome. End of Chapter 17. End of A Town is Drowning. By Frederick Pohl and C.M.