“Phil,” Lilly said. His voice was calm and determined. “It’s all different now. You better understand that. When we tell you to be quiet, you’ll be quiet. You and your sister both, you’ve got a lot of learning to do, and quick. Now go in the other room.”
The children hesitated for a moment. Norman raised his hand. They looked at him, startled, then ran.
“Little drastic,” Bill Freehafer said.
“Yeah,” Norm said absently. “Bill, don’t you think we better look in on our neighbors?”
“Let the police — ” Bill Freehafer stopped himself. “Well there might still be police.”
“Yeah. Who’ll they take orders from, now?” Lilly asked. He looked at Harry.
Harry shrugged. There was a local mayor. The Sheriff was out in the San Joaquin, and with this rain that could be under water. “Maybe the Senator?” Harry said.
“Hey, yeah, Jellison lives over the hill there,” Freehafer said. “Maybe we should… Jesus, I don’t know, Norm. What can we do?”
Lilly shrugged. “We can look, anyway. Harry, you know those people?”
“Yes…”
“We have two cars. Bill, you take everybody else into town. Harry and I’ll have a look. Right?”
Harry looked dubious. “I’ve already left their mail—”
“Jesus,” Bill Freehafer said.
Norman Lilly held up an immense hand. “He’s right, you know. But look at it this way, Harry. You’re a mailman.”
“Yes-”
“Which can be damned valuable. Only there won’t be any mail. Not letters and magazines, anyway. But there’s still a need for message carriers. Somebody to keep communications going. Right?”
“Something like that,” Harry agreed.
“Good. You’ll be needed. More than ever. But here’s your first post-comet message. To the Romans, from us. We’re willing to help, if we can. They’re our neighbors. But we don’t know them, and they don’t know us. If they’ve had trouble they’ll be watching for strangers. Somebody’s got to introduce us. That’s a worthwhile message, isn’t it?”
Harry thought it over. It made sense. “You’ll give me a ride after—”
“Sure. Let’s go.” Norm Lilly went out. He came back with a deer rifle, and the automatic pistol. “Ever use one of these, Harry?”
“No. And I don’t want one. Wrong image.”
Lilly nodded and laid the pistol on the table.
Bill Freehafer started to say something, but Lilly’s look cut it off. “Okay, Harry, let’s go,” Norm said. He didn’t comment when Harry carried his mailbag to the car.
They got in. They’d gone halfway when Harry patted his bag and, half laughing himself, said, “You’re not laughing at me.”
“How can I laugh at a man who’s got a purpose in life?”
They pulled up at the gate. The letters were gone from the mailbox. The padlock was still in place. “Now what?” Harry asked.
“Good questi—”
The shotgun caught Norm Lilly full in the chest. Lilly kicked once and died. Harry stood in shock, then dashed across the road for the ditch. He sprawled into it, headfirst into the muddy water, careless of the mailbag, of getting wet, of anything. He began to run toward Many Names again.
There were sounds ahead of him. Right around that bend — and there was someone coming behind, too. They weren’t going to let him get away this time. In desperation he crawled up the bank, away from the road, and began scrambling up the steep hillside. The mailbag dragged at him. His boots dug into mud, slipping and sliding. He clawed at the ground and pulled himself upward.
SPANG! The shot sounded very loud. Much louder than the .22 yesterday. Maybe the shotgun? Harry kept on. He reached the top of the first rise and began to run.
He couldn’t tell if they were still behind him. He didn’t care. He wasn’t going back down there. He kept remembering the look of surprise on Norman Lilly’s face. The big man folding up, dying before he hit the ground. Who were these people who shot without warning?
The hill became steeper again, but the ground was harder, more rock than mud. The mailbag seemed heavy. Water in it? Probably. So why carry it?
Because it’s the mail, you stupid SOB, Harry told himself.
The Chicken Ranch was owned by an elderly couple, retired L.A. business people. It was fully automated. The chickens stood in small pens not much bigger than an individual chicken. Eggs rolled out of the cage onto a conveyor belt. Food came around on another belt. Water was continuously supplied. It was not a ranch but a factory.
And it might have been heaven, for chickens. All problems were solved, all struggling ended. Chickens weren’t very bright, and they got all they could eat, were protected from coyotes, had clean cages — another automated system—
But it had to be a damned dull existence.
The Chicken Ranch was over the next hill. Before Harry got there he saw chickens. Through the rain and the wet weeds they wandered, bewildered, pecking at the ground and the limbs of bushes and Harry’s boots, squawking plaintively at Harry, demanding instructions.
Harry stopped walking. Something must be terribly wrong. The Sinanians would never have let the chickens run loose.
Here too? Those bastards, had they come here too? Harry stood on the hillside and dithered, and the chickens huddled around him.
He had to know what had happened. It was part of the job. Reporter, mailman, town crier, message carrier; if he wasn’t that, he wasn’t anything. He stood among the chickens, nerving himself, and eventually he went down.
All the chicken feed had been spilled out onto the floor of the barn. There was little left. Every cage was open. This was no accident. Harry waded through squawking chickens the full length of the building. Nothing there. He went out and down the path to the house.
The farmhouse door stood open. He called. No one answered. Finally he went inside. It was dimly lit; the shades and curtains were drawn and there was no artificial light. His way led him to the living room.
The Sinanians were there. They sat in big overstuffed chairs. Their eyes were open. They did not move.
Amos Sinanian had a bullet hole in his temple. His eyes bulged. There was a small pistol in his hand.
Mrs. Sinanian had not a mark on her. Heart attack? Whatever it was, it had been peaceful; her features were not contorted, and her clothing was carefully arranged. She stared at a blank TV screen. She looked to have been dead two days, possibly more. The blood on Amos’s head was not quite dry. This morning at the latest.
There wasn’t any note, no sign of explanation. There hadn’t been anyone Amos had cared to explain it to. He’d released the chickens and shot himself.
It took Harry a long time to make up his mind. Finally he took the pistol from Amos’s hand. It wasn’t as hard to do as he’d thought it would be. He put the pistol in his pocket and searched until he found a box of bullets for it. He pocketed those, too.
“The mail goes through, dammit,” he said. Then he found a cold roast in the refrigerator. It wouldn’t keep anyway, so Harry ate it. The oven was working. Harry had no idea how much propane there might be in the tank, but it didn’t matter. The Sinanians weren’t going to be using it.
He took the mail out of his bag and put it carefully into the oven to dry. Circulars and shopping newspapers were a problem. Their information wasn’t any use, but might people want them for paper? Harry compromised, throwing out the ones that were thin and flimsy and soaked, keeping the others.
He found a supply of Baggies in the kitchen and carefully enclosed each packet of mail in one. Last Baggies on Earth, a small voice told him. “Right,” he said, and went on stuffing. “Have to keep the Baggies. You can have your mail, but the Baggies belong to the Service.”