O’Neill pushed his blond hair back and loosened his tie. He lit a cigarette gratefully, then moved around the store, checking light switches, turning off the massive GEC displays and appliances. Finally he approached the huge bomb shelter that took up the center of the floor.
He climbed the ladder to the neck and stepped onto the lift. The lift dropped with a whoosh and a second later he stepped out in the cave-like interior of the shelter.
In one comer Mike Foster sat curled up in a tight heap, his knees drawn up against his chin, his skinny arms wrapped around his ankles. His face was pushed down; only his ragged brown hair showed. He didn’t move as the salesman approached him, astounded.
“Jesus!” O’Neill exclaimed. “It’s that kid.”
Mike said nothing. He hugged his legs tighter and buried his head as far down as possible.
“What the hell are you doing down here?” O’Neill demanded, surprised and angry. His outrage increased. “I thought your folks got one of these.” Then he remembered. “That’s right. We had to repossess it.”
Al Conners appeared from the descent-lift. “What’s
holding you up? Let’s get out of here and ” He saw
Mike and broke off. “What’s he doing down here? Get him out and let’s go.”
“Come on, kid,” O’Neill said gently. “Time to go home.” Mike didn’t move.
The two men looked at each other. “I guess we’re going to have to drag him out,” Conners said grimly. He took off his coat and tossed it over a decontamination-fixture. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
It took both of them. The boy fought desperately, without sound, clawing and struggling and tearing at them with his fingernails, kicking them, slashing at them, biting them when they grabbed him. They half-dragged, half-carried him to the descent-lift and pushed him into it long enough to activate the mechanism. O’Neill rode up with him; Conners came immediately after. Grimly, efficiently, they bundled the boy to the front door, threw him out, and locked the bolts after him.
“Wow,” Conners gasped, sinking down against the counter. His sleeve was tom and his cheek was cut and gashed. His glasses hung from one ear; his hair was rumpled and he was exhausted. “Think we ought to call the cops? There’s something wrong with that kid.” O’Neill stood by the door, panting for breath and gazing out into the darkness. He could see the boy sitting on the pavement. “He’s still out there,” he muttered. People pushed by the boy on both sides. Finally one of them
stopped and got him up. The boy struggled away, and then disappeared into the darkness. The larger figure picked up its packages, hesitated a moment, and then went on. O’Neill turned away. “What a hell of a thing.” He wiped his face with his handkerchief. “He sure put up a fight.” “What was the matter with him? He never said anything, not a god-damn word.”
“Christmas is a hell of a time to repossess something,” O’Neill said. He reached shakily for his coat. “It’s too bad. I wish they could have kept it.”
Conners shrugged. “No tickie, no laundly.”
“Why the hell can’t we give them a deal? Maybe ”
O’Neill struggled to get the word out. “Maybe sell the shelter wholesale, to people like that.”
Conners glared at him angrily. “Wholesale? And then everybody wants it wholesale. It wouldn’t be fair—and how long would we stay in business? How long would GEC last that way?”
“I guess not very long,” O’Neill admitted moodily.
“Use your head.” Conners laughed sharply. “What you need is a good stiff drink. Come on in the back closet— I’ve got a fifth of Haig and Haig in a drawer back there. A little something to warm you up, before you go home. That’s what you need.”
Mike Foster wandered aimlessly along the dark street, among the crowds of shoppers hurrying home. He saw nothing; people pushed against him but he was unaware of them. Lights, laughing people, the honking of car horns, the clang of signals. He was blank, his mind empty and dead. He walked automatically, without consciousness or feeling.
To his right a garish neon sign winked and glowed in the deepening night shadows. A huge sign, bright and colorful.
PEACE ON EARTH GOOD WILL TO MEN PUBLIC SHELTER ADMISSION 50c