Footfall

“Not on a motorcycle.”

“But—”

“I’ll be back,” Roger said. “Rosie, this is a big one. I can feel it. Big. Maybe the biggest thing I ever got wind of.”

“What are you talking about-that Dawson woman! She told you something.”

“Rosie, do you love me?” “Why ask?”

“I love you. But—” “But you smell a story.” Roger nodded helplessly.

She took his hands in both of hers. “I can’t come?”

“It’s a long way, Rosie. I might get there on a motorcycle. No way in a car. Three on a motorcycle won’t work, even if Harry would try it, which he won’t—”

“What makes you think he’ll take you?”

“Come on. The role of retired hero isn’t a very attractive one. He’s getting fat again, and he hates it, and he doesn’t know what else to do. Too old for the Army. .

“Why him?”

“He probably knows the way. He has a gas ration card. Know anyone else who does?”

“But-Oh, God damn it, Roger. Come back? Please?”

“I will. I promise.”

Sarge Harris pulled out a big bandana and wiped his face. “Thai the last of it.”

“Good,” Ken Dutton said. He went over to the pool edge inspect. Sarge and his crew had shoveled the last of the mud out “Let’s hope the new wall holds.”

Sarge laughed. “It will.”

“But—”

“Come on! It’s a good wall. So was the old one. It just wasn’t designed to live through a giant meteoroid impact.”

Patsy Clevenger looked up from the pool bottom where she been scooping the last of the mud into a bucket. “The dinosaur weren’t either. Ken, we’re lucky the house didn’t slide down the hill.”

“You’re right there.”

Footfall had triggered earthquakes. Houses fell, freeway over passes collapsed. Power lines went down. Ken Dutton had heard it was much worse in San Francisco and through Northern California. In Los Angeles the quakes had merely been annoying compared to the mudslides three months of hard rain had produce Now, maybe, the worst was over, with three swimming pools cleared of mud and ready to fill.

The encampment across the street was growing. Part of the golf course was covered with aluminum-framed plastic greet houses filled with young tomatoes and beans. Chickens clucked in the pens he’d built in what had been his neighbor’s cabana.

Patsy climbed out of the pool where she’d been working. “Lot of all you survey,” she said.

“Something like that,” Ken admitted.

“You love it,” she accused.

“That’s not fair—”

“I don’t mind,” Patsy said. “I didn’t used to like you very much. You tried everything and weren’t very good at anything Now-now it’s like you found what you do best. I’m glad some body can cope.”

“Thanks, but I’m hardly the only one. I hear about people all over the valley. Greenhouses, cornfields-one chap came by the other day hoping to borrow an olive press. I never thought of that one. There are lots of olive trees in Los Angeles.” Ken looked up at the sky. It was partly overcast, but there were patches of blue

Los Angeles was supposed to be a desert. One day it might be again. Nobody really knew. “Anyway, we have another place to store water. Come on in, I’ll spring for coffee.”

“Real coffee?” Sarge asked. “Why not?”

“Damn, I’m for that!”

The sink worked fine, now that Sarge had rigged up pipes. They’d have running water as long as the rains filled the swimming pool up On top of the hill above them. The house that stood there had been one of the first to go. Fortunately it had gone down the other side of the hill…

Ken watched Cora carefully measure out water into the kettle.

“Coffee,” Sarge Harris said wistfully. “I think I miss not having morning coffee more’n anything. Sure wish we could have another Stove Soup Party—”

“I already put out the invitations,” Ken said. “The next time there’s enough sunshine. Or if the gas comes back on.”

Cora carefully lit the bottled gas stove. “Which it won’t. I keep hoping we can save up, get a bottle or two ahead, but we can’t, not with all those kids to cook for.”

“It works out,” Sarge said. “Or has so far.”

“Just barely,” Ken said. Cora was watching the kettle, ready to turn it off the second it was hot enough. She didn’t look up. Ken felt relieved. Cora was the only one who knew how well he’d done by taking in city orphans. It hadn’t been as much trouble as he’d thought, with Sarge and his wife to help. They put the kids into two empty neighboring houses, and Sarge got them organized like a military outfit with their own leaders and everything. Ken hardly saw them.

And it had paid off nicely. Not only were there enough ration coupons and gas bottles to trade for a few luxuries, but everybody knew about the kids and his increased ration tickets, so the local ration wardens didn’t come searching his place. Hoarders weren’t highly regarded…

Ken had known food would be scarce. But who’d have thought that heat to cook it with would be the hardest thing to come by? No sun!

Cora was just beginning to bulge. I suppose I’ll have to marry her. Maybe not. Either way, she’s going to make me send Patsy away. Unless I can get somebody to marry Patsy? Somebody hungry who’ll act jealous?