“Making little ones out of big ones,” Mark said. “A hell of a job for an associate producer.” He grabbed an end of the piece they’d split off the rock as Harvey lifted the other end. They worked well together, no need for talk. They carried the rock to the wall. Harvey ran a practiced eye along the wall and pointed. The rock fit perfectly into the place he’d selected. Then they went for another.
They stood idle for a few seconds, and Harvey looked across the field where a dozen others were splitting and carrying rocks to the low wall. It could have been a scene from hundreds of years before. “John Adams,” Harvey said.
“Eh?” Mark made encouraging noises. Stories made the work go easier.
“Our second President of the United States.” Harvey forced the wedge into a tiny crack in the rock. “He went to Harvard. His father sold a field they called ‘The Stony Acres’ to get up the tuition. Adams would rather be a lawyer than clear the stones out.”
“Smart man,” Mark said. He held the wedge in place as Harvey lifted the sledge. “Not much left of Harvard now.”
“No.” Harvard was gone, and Braintree, Massachusetts, was gone, and the United States of America was gone, along with most of England. Would kids learn history now? But they have to, Harvey thought. One day we’ll dig out of this and there’ll be a time when it’s important whether we have a king or a president, and we’ll have to do it right this time so we can get off this goddam planet before another Hammer falls. Someday we’ll be able to afford history. Until then we’ll think of England the way they used to think of Atlantis…
“Hey,” Mark said. “Look at that.”
Harvey turned in time to see Alice Cox jump the big stallion over one of the low walls. She moved with the horse as a part of him, and again the impression of a centaur was very strong. It reminded Harvey of the first time he’d come to this ranch, a lifetime ago, a time when he could stand at the top of the big snailhead rock and at night talk about interstellar empires.
That had been a long time ago in another world. But this one wasn’t so bad. They were clearing the fields, and they controlled their boundaries. No one was raped or murdered here, and if there wasn’t as much to eat as Harvey would have liked, there was enough. Breaking rocks and building walls was hard work, but it was honest work. There weren’t endless conferences on unimportant matters. There weren’t deliberate frustrations, traffic jams, newspapers full of crime stories. This new and simpler world had its compensations.
Alice Cox trotted up to them. “Senator wants to see you up at the big house, Mr. Randall.”
“Good.” Harvey gratefully carried the sledge over to the wall and left it for someone else to use. He squinted up at the sun to estimate how much daylight was left, then called to Mark. “You may as well go on back,” he said. “You can put in the rest of the day on the cabin.”
“Right.” Mark waved cheerfully and started up the hill toward the small house where Harvey, the Hamners, Mark and Joanna, and all four Wagoners lived. It was crowded, and they were building on extra rooms, but it was shelter, and there was enough to eat. It was survival.
Harvey went the other way, downhill toward the Senator’s stone ranch house. It had additions built onto it, too. In one of them Jellison kept the Stronghold’s armory: spare rifles, cartridges, two field-artillery pieces (but no ammunition) that had been part of a National Guard training center before it was flooded out, hand-loading equipment to reload shotgun shells and rifle cartridges, loot recovered from a gunsmith’s shop in Porterville. The dies had been underwater and were rusty, but they still worked. Powder and primers had been sealed in tins that hadn’t yet rusted through when they were recovered, although that had been a near thing too.
In another annex the Senator’s son-in-law sat with a telegraph and radio. The telegraph at present ran only to the roadblock on the county road, and there was nothing coming in on the radio, but they had hopes of extending the telegraph lines. Besides, it gave Jack Turner something to do. He wasn’t good for a lot else, and he did know Morse code. He might as well be a telephone orderly, Harvey thought. Turner’s only attempt to supervise a ranch project had been a disaster, with the men finally going to the Senator and demanding Turner’s replacement…
Turner hailed him as he went past. “Hey, Randalll”
“Hello, Jack. What’s new?”
“We’ve got another President. A Hector Shorey of Colorado Springs. He proclaims martial law.”
Jack Turner seemed to think that was funny, and so did Harvey. He said, “Everybody always proclaims martial law.”
“Littman didn’t.”
“Yeah, I liked Emperor Pro Tem Charles Avery Littman. Even if he was getting most of his material out of ‘Monty Python’s Flying Circus.’ The others were too damn serious.”
“Shorey’s group sounds serious enough. I got some good recordings through the static.”
“Hold the fort, Jack,” Harvey said, and he went on. Four Presidents now, he thought. Littman was just a ham radio operator, and half mad. But Colorado Springs… that was near Denver, a mile above sea level. That could be for real.
The big front room was crowded. This was no ordinary meeting. The Senator sat near the fireplace in the big leather armchair that reminded Harvey of a throne — and was probably meant to. Maureen sat on one side, and Al Hardy on the other, heiress and chief of staff.
Mayor Seitz and the police chief were there; and Steve Cox, Jellison’s ranch foreman, the man now responsible for most of the agriculture in the valley; and half a dozen others who spoke for the valley people. And of course George Christopher, alone in one corner, with only one vote, though it counted for as much as the rest together except for Maureen’s.
Harvey smiled at Maureen. He got a quick impersonal smile and nod, nobody home, and he pulled his eyes away fast.
Bloody hell! She wore two faces, and so did he. Maureen had been up to see him in the hut at the top of the ridge several times when Harvey had night guard duty. She’d met him at other times and places, too, but always very privately. It was always the same. They talked of the future, but never of their future, because she wouldn’t. They made love with care and tenderness, as if they might never meet again; they made love, but never promises. She seemed to draw strength from him, as he knew he did from her; but never in public. It was as if Maureen had an armed, jealous, invisible husband. In public she barely knew him.
But in public she treated George Christopher no differently. She was a bit more friendly, but still cold. He wasn’t her invisible husband… was he? Was she different with him when they were alone? Harvey couldn’t know.
These thoughts ran through his head before an old reflex pushed them down below conscious thought. He didn’t have time for them. Harvey Randall wanted something, and these were the men who could refuse him. It was a familiar situation.
“Come in, Harvey.” Senator Jellison had not lost the warm smile that had won him elections. “We can start now. Thank you all for coming. I thought it might be wise to get a full report on how things are here.”
“Any reason for doing it now?” George Christopher asked.
Jellison’s smile didn’t falter. “Yes, George. Several. We have word from the telegraph that Deke Wilson’s coming in for a visit. Brought some visitors, too.”
“There’s news from Outside?” Mayor Seitz asked.
“Some,” Jellison said. “Al, would you begin, please?”
Hardy took papers from his briefcase and began to read. How many acres cleared of rocks, and how much they’d be able to plant in winter wheat. Livestock inventory. Weapons, and equipment. Most of the people in the room looked bored before Hardy finished. “The upshot is,” Hardy said, “that we’ll make it through the winter. With luck.”