Forrester shrugged. “Mustard gas. Thermite bombs. Napalm. And I think we can make nerve gas, but I’m not sure.”
There was a long silence, then Senator Jellison said, low and under his breath but everybody heard, “I will be dipped in shit.”
The Expedition
Tim Hamner ate his dinner while Eileen packed clothing into a makeshift backpack. There was a strong chill wind coming down from the slopes of the Sierra. It blew wispy sleet past the cabin, but failed to find any chinks. Eileen’s tiny kerosene lamp gave off a warm glow, and the stove kept the kitchen warm and dry. Tim was relaxed for the moment. He stared into the vent opening of the stove, watching the tiny blue flames curl and rise. “Trouble rather the tiger in his lair,” he said.
Eileen looked up. “What?”
“From the introduction of a science fiction story by Gordon Dickson. I don’t know if it’s a real quote or something Dickson made up. It went, ‘Trouble rather the tiger in his lair than the sage among his books. For to you Kingdoms and their armies are things mighty and enduring, but to him they are but toys of the moment, to be overturned with the flick of a finger.’ ”
“Can he really do it?” Eileen asked.
“Forrester? He’s a magician. If Forrester says he can make napalm and bombs and mustard gas, he can do it.” Tim sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to. I was brought up to hate poison gas. Of course, I don’t suppose it matters whether it’s gas or a bullet; dead is dead.” He reached for his rifle, then took an oily rag from a bag on the table and began wiping the barrel.
“Do you have to go?” Eileen demanded.
“We agreed not to talk about it,” Tim said.
“I don’t care what we agreed. I don’t want you to go… I-”
“I don’t like the idea much myself,” Tim said. “But what can we do? Forrester insisted. He’ll stay here and make terrible weapons to defend the Stronghold if we send reinforcements to the power plant.” Tim shook his head in admiration. “He’s the only man in the world who could blackmail both the Senator and George Christopher. You wouldn’t think he’d have the nerve, with all those apologies and eye blinking and everything, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to say one word more about weapons until they promised.”
“But why you?” Eileen demanded. She packed a newly knitted pair of socks. The wool had been carded from dog fur.
“What else am I good for?” Hamner asked. “You know better than me. You helped Hardy work up the schedules. I can’t farm, I’m not as good an engineer as Brad, I don’t ride horses well so I can’t go with Christopher’s Paul Revere troop… I may as well be part of the suicide squad.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk like that.” She left off the packing and came over to stand beside him.
He patted her belly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back if I have to swim.” He laughed. “Or pull our famous Flying Dutchman act and drive over the water again. I intend to see our son or possibly daughter. Or twins? You already look somewhat like an inverted question mark.” Dammit, he was babbling, the fear was showing through.
“Tim…”
“Don’t make it harder, Eileen.”
“No. Well, you’re all packed.”
Tim punched the button on his watch. “We have an hour before we leave,” he said. He stood and grabbed her. “Gotcha.”
“Tim…”
“Ye-ess?”
Whatever she had been about to say, she said instead, “Did you get our reservations at the Savoy?”
“They were all booked up. I found someplace closer.”
“Goody.”
There were a dozen of them, led by Johnny Baker. Three of Deke Wilson’s ranchers. Jack Ross, a Christopher brother-in-law. Tim wasn’t surprised to see Mark Czescu and Hugo Beck among the volunteers. He recognized most of the others as valley ranchers, but one man, middle-aged and far too small for his clothes, was a stranger. Tim went over to him and introduced himself.
“Jason Gillcuddy,” the man said. “I saw your TV programs. Glad to meet you.”
“Gillcuddy. I’ve heard that name. Where?”
Jason smiled. “From my books, maybe? More likely you heard it here. Harry and I are both married to Donna, used to be Donna Adams. Her mother raised pluperfect hell about that.”
“Oh.” Tim followed Gillcuddy’s look to Harry and a slim girl, blonde, not more than nineteen, standing near Eileen. He pitched his backpack into the truck. The rifle was slung over his shoulder. “How long?” he asked.
“They’re waiting for something,” Jason said. “I don’t know what. No point in standing here. See you.” Jason went over to Harry and the girl. She embraced Gillcuddy while Harry stood watching.
Wonder what Hardy thinks of that? Tim thought. He likes everything neat. And what does it make Jason and Harry? Brothers-in-law? Husbands-in-law? The arrangement made sense, with Harry out on his rounds for weeks at a time. Someone had to work the Chicken Ranch while Harry was out. Tim found Eileen with Maureen Jellison. “My comet sure plays games with cultural patterns,” he said. He inclined his head toward Harry and Jason and Donna.
Eileen took his hand and held tightly.
“Hi, Maureen,” Tim said. “Where’s General Baker?”
“He’ll be out in a moment.”
Eileen and Maureen and Donna, they all had the same look. Tim had an impulse to laugh, but he didn’t. They looked exactly like the women in the old John Wayne movies, when the cavalry troop was about to ride out through the gates. Had they seen the movies, or had John Ford captured a truth?
A light truck drove up, and two ranch-hands jumped down. Chief Hartman got out of the cab. “Easy with that,” Hartman said. He looked around, then came over to Tim and Maureen. “Where’s the General?” he asked.
“Inside.”
“Okay. Best more than one knows anyway. Mr. Hamner, come look. We brought your radio gear.” He pointed to the boxes that the ranchers were loading in with the expedition baggage. “The set runs off a car battery. That other box contains a beam antenna. You get that to the highest place you can find, and point it at us. From the power plant that’s twenty degrees magnetic. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to hear you. We’ll listen from five minutes to until five minutes after each hour. Channel thirteen. And assume the New Brotherhood’s listening in. You got all that?”
“Yes.” Tim repeated the instructions.
Johnny Baker came out of the house. He carried a rifle and wore a pistol on his belt. Maureen went to him and held him possessively.
There certainly were a lot of grim faces showing tonight. Tim decided that looking nonchalant was a waste of effort. Mark Czescu looked indecently cheerful; but that fit. Tim had heard him asking Harry the Mailman, in all innocence, “What are we calling this, the War of Harry’s Truck?” Mark didn’t know why they were fighting, and didn’t care.
Hugo Beck was grimmer than the rest. If the Angels got their hands on the apostate, he’d have reason… but maybe he had reason now. Nobody was going near him. Poor bastard.
“What the hell are we waiting on?” Jack Ross demanded. He was built like a Christopher, a massive, choleric man. There were three fingers missing from his left hand and a scar that ran clear to his elbow, the result of an argument with a harvesting machine. His fine blond mustache was nearly invisible, a mere token.
“The scouts,” Baker said. “It shouldn’t be long.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Rick Delanty seemed in a foul mood. He went to Baker, ignoring the others standing by. “Johnny, I want to go with you.”