Dammit, no! Dan tossed Habitable Planets for Man on the table. Fat chance that the next incarnation of NASA would need it before it turned to dust, but so what? He added more: Future Shock; Cults of Unreason; Dante’s Inferno; Tau Zero… stop. Fifteen minutes later he had finished. There were no more bags.
He drank coffee that was still warm, and forced himself to rest before he tackled the heavy work. His watch said it was ten at night. He couldn’t tell.
He wheeled a wheelbarrow in from the garage. It was brand-new, the labels still on it. He resisted the temptation to overload it. He donned raincoat, boots, hat. He wheeled the books out through the garage.
Tujunga’s modern sewage system was relatively new. The territory was dotted with abandoned septic tanks, and one of these was behind Dan Forrester’s house. It was uphill. You can’t have everything.
The wind screamed. The rain tasted both salty and gritty. The lightning guided him, but badly. Dan wrestled the wheelbarrow uphill, looking for the septic tank. He finally found it, full of rain because he’d removed the lid yesterday evening.
The books went in in handfuls. He pushed them into the aged sewage with a plumber’s helper, gently. Before he left he broke open an emergency flare and left it on the upended lid.
He made his second trip in a bathing suit. The warm lashing rain was less unpleasant than soaked and sticky clothes. The third trip he wore the hat. He almost fainted coming back. That wouldn’t do. He’d better have a rest. He took off the wet suit and stretched out on the couch, pulled a blanket over himself… and fell deeply asleep.
He woke in a pandemonium of thunder and wind and rain. He was horribly stiff. He got to his feet an inch at a time, and kept moving toward the kitchen, talking encouragement to himself. Breakfast first, then back to work. His watch had stopped. He didn’t know if it was day or night.
Fill the wheelbarrow half full, no more. Wheel it through slippery mud, uphill. Next trip, remember to take another flare. Dump the books by armfuls, then push them down into the old sewage. Unlikely that anyone, moron or genius, would look for such a treasure here, even if he knew it existed. The smell hardly bothered him; but these hurricane winds couldn’t last forever, and then the trove would be doubly safe. Back for another load…
Once he slipped, and slid a fair distance downhill through the mud with the empty wheelbarrow tugging him along. He crossed just enough sharp rocks to dissuade him from trying it again.
Then: last load. Finished. He wrestled with the lid, rested, tried again. He’d had a hell of a time getting it off, and he had a hell of a time getting it back on. Then downhill with the empty barrow. In a day his tracks would be flooded away. He thought of burying the last evidence of his project — the wheelbarrow — but just the thought of all that work made him hurt all over.
He dried himself with all the towels in the bathroom. Why not? He used the same towels to dry the rain gear. He got more from the linen closet. He stuffed hand towels into the boots before he put them in the car, with the raincoat and the hat and more dry towels. The old house leaked now; he wondered if the old car would too. Ultimately it wouldn’t matter. Ultimately he would have to abandon the car and set out on foot, in the rain, carrying a backpack for the first time in his life. He’d be safe, or dead, long before this rain began to think about stopping.
Into the car went the new backpack he’d packed day before yesterday, including a hypo and some insulin. There were two more such medical packages elsewhere in the car, because someone might steal the whole backpack. Or someone might steal the hypos… but surely they would leave him one.
The car was an ancient heap, and nothing in it would attract thieves. He’d included a few items to buy his life, if and when it could be bought. There was one really valuable item; it would look like trash to the average looter, but it might get him to safety.
Daniel Forrester, Ph.D., was a middle-aged man with no useful profession. His doctorate would never again be worth as much as a cup of coffee. His hands were soft, he weighed too much, he was a diabetic. Friends had told him that he often underestimated his own worth; well, that was bad too, because it restricted his bargaining ability. He knew how to make insulin. It took a laboratory and the killing of one sheep per month.
Yesterday Dan Forrester had become an expensive luxury.
What was in his backpack was something else again. It was a book, wrapped like the others: Volume Two of The Way Things Work. Volume One was in the septic tank.
Harvey Randall saw the white Cadillac coming toward him. For a moment it didn’t register. Then he jammed on the brakes so hard that Joanna was thrown forward against the restraining belts. The shotgun clattered hard against the dash. “You gone crazy?” she yelled, but Harvey had already opened the door and was running out into the street.
He waved his arms frantically. God! She had to see him! “Marie!” he shouted.
The Cadillac slowed, halted. Harvey ran up to it.
Incredibly, Marie Vance was unruffled. She wore a Gernreich original, a simple low-cut summer dress of white linen with a golden thread woven into it. Gold earrings and a small diamond pendant on a gold chain set it off perfectly. Her dark hair was coming out of place from the damp, but it wasn’t long hair and had never been fully curled; even now she looked as if she’d merely been at the Country Club all day and was going home to change into evening clothes.
Harvey looked at her in astonishment. She eyed him calmly. His dislike of her boiled up inside him. He wanted to scream at her, to ruffle her. Didn’t she realize… ?
“How did you get here?” he demanded.
When she answered, he was ashamed of himself. Marie Vance spoke calmly; too calmly. There was an undertone of unnatural effort in her voice. “I came up the ridge. There were cars in the way, but some men moved them. I went — Why do you want to know how I got here, Harvey?”
He laughed, at himself, at the world, and she was frightened at his laughter. He could see the fear come into her eyes.
Mark drove up on the motorcycle. He looked at the Cadillac, then at Marie. He didn’t whistle. “Your neighbor?” he asked.
“Yes. Marie, you’ll have to come with us. You can’t stay at your place—”
“I’ve no intention of staying at my place,” she said. “I’m going to find my son. And Gordie,” she added, after a tiny pause. She looked down at her gold-colored sandals. “When I get some clothes… Harvey, where is… ?” Before she could finish she saw the pain, then the numbness in Harvey’s eyes. “Loretta?” she said, her voice low and wondering.
Harvey said nothing. Mark, behind him, shook his head slowly. His eyes met Marie’s. She nodded.
Harvey Randall turned away. He stood in the rain, saying nothing, looking at nothing.
“Leave the Caddy and get in the TravelAII,” Mark said.
“No.” Marie tried to smile. “Please, can’t you wait until I get some clothes? Harvey—”
“He’s not making decisions just now,” Mark said. “Look, there’ll be clothes. Not much food, but plenty of clothes.”
“I have perfectly good outdoor equipment at home.” Marie was firm. She knew how to talk to employees, Gordie’s or Harvey’s. “And boots that fit. I am very hard to fit. You can’t tell me that ten minutes will make that much difference.”