Eileen came back with papers. Hardy studied them for awhile. “It all depends on what you find,” he said. “We need more fields cleared. We haven’t got enough land cleared to plant all the winter seed. On the other hand, if you can find more materials to make greenhouses out of, we won’t need so much land planted for the winter. Same for fertilizer and animal feed, if you can get those. Then there’s the gasoline. …”
It was gasoline and man-hours against a return that could only be guessed at. So they guessed, and they talked it around, and presently Senator Jellison said, “Harvey, you’re proposing that we take a risk. Granted it’s a risk with a high payoff, and we don’t lose much, but it’s still a risk — and at the moment we don’t need risks to stay alive.”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” Harvey said. “I think it’s worth it, but I can’t guarantee it.” He stopped for a moment and looked around the room. He liked these people. Even George Christopher was an honest man and a good one to have on your side if there was trouble. “Look, if it was left to me I’d stay here forever. You can’t imagine how good it felt to get into this valley, to feel safe after what we saw in Los Angeles. If I had my druthers I’d never leave this valley again. But — we do have to look ahead. Hardy says we’ll get through the winter, and if he says so, we will. But after winter there’s spring, and the winter after that, and more years — years and years — and maybe it’s worth some effort right now to make those future years easier.”
“Sure, provided it don’t cost so much there aren’t any more years,” Mayor Seitz said. He laughed. “You know, I was talking to that lady head doctor. Doc Ruth says it’s a ‘survivor syndrome.’ Everybody who lives through Hammerfall gets changed by it. Some go completely nuts, and life isn’t worth a damn to them, they’ll do anything. But most get like us, so cautious we jump at our shadows. I know I’m that way. I don’t want to take any chances at all. Still, Harvey’s got a point. There is a lot of stuff out there we could use. Maybe we’ll even find Harv’s—”
“Blue van!” cried at least four men, and Hardy winced. Randall might have stopped talking about the blue van, but nobody else had. Black pepper, spices, beef jerky, pemmican, canned soup and canned ham, coffee, liquor and liqueurs and a partridge in a pear tree, everything you could dream of and all measured in ton lots. Machine tools, hah! If Hardy could read the minds of fifty men as they set out on this fool expedition, he knew what he would find: fifty images of a blue van, just behind their eyes.
Presently Senator Jellison ended the meeting. “It’s obvious we can’t decide anything until Deke gets here to tell us what things are like out there. Let’s wait for him.”
“I’ll see if Mrs. Cox has the tea,” Al Hardy said. “Harvey, would you help me a minute, please?”
“Sure.” Harvey went out to the kitchen. Al Hardy was waiting for him.
“Actually,” Hardy said, “Mrs. Cox knows what to do. I wanted a word with you. In the library, please.” He turned and led the way.
Now what? Harvey wondered. It was obvious Hardy didn’t care for the salvage expedition, but wasn’t this something more? When Al Hardy ushered him into the big room and then closed the door, Harvey felt a familiar fear.
Al Hardy liked things neat.
There was an admiral Harvey had interviewed, years ago. Harvey had been struck by the man’s desk. It was absolutely symmetricaclass="underline" the blotter precisely centered, the identical IN and OUT baskets on either side, inkwell in the middle with a pen on either side… everything but the pencil the admiral was using to gesture. Harvey looked it over; and then he aimed the camera exactly down the middle of the desk, and he put the pencil right in front of him, in line with his tie tack.
And the admiral loved it!
“Sit down, please,” Hardy said. The assistant reached into a drawer of the Senator’s big desk and took out a bottle of bourbon. “Drink?”
“Thanks.” Now Harvey was definitely worried. Al Hardy held almost as much power as the Senator; he executed the Senator’s commands. And Hardy liked things neat. He precisely matched the network executives who would order Randall to cut the man-in-the-street crap and use motivational research; who would have found their jobs much easier if all men had been created not just equal but identical.
Could it be a problem with Mark? And if so, could Harvey save him again? Mark had almost got himself thrown out of the Stronghold: Hardy hadn’t appreciated Mark’s sign proclaiming the Stronghold “Senator Jellison’s Trading Post and Provisional Government”; neither had George Christopher. They hadn’t cared for the wasted paint, either.
Maybe it wasn’t Mark. If Al Hardy decided that Harvey Randall was upsetting his neat patterns… the Stronghold couldn’t survive without Hardy’s mania for organization. The road was always there, and nobody ever forgot it. Harvey shifted nervously in the hard chair.
Al Hardy sat across from him, pointedly not taking the big chair behind the desk. No one but the Senator would ever sit there if Al Hardy had any choice in the matter. He waved toward the big desk with its litter of paper. Maps, with penciled lines showing the current shore of the San Joaquin Sea; manpower assignments; inventories of food and equipment, anything they could locate, and another list of needed items they didn’t have; planting schedules; work details; all the paper work associated with keeping too many people alive in a world suddenly turned hostile. “Think all that’s worth anything?” Al asked.
“It’s worth a lot,” Harvey said. “Organization. That’s all that keeps us alive.”
“Glad you think so.” Hardy raised his glass. “What shall we drink to?”
Harvey waved toward the empty chair behind the desk. “To the duke of Silver Valley.”
Al Hardy nodded. “I’ll drink to that. Skoal.”
“Prosit.”
“He is a duke, you know,” Hardy said. “With the high, middle and low justice.”
That knot of fear in Harvey’s stomach began to grow.
“Tell me, Harvey, if he dies tomorrow, what becomes of us?” Hardy asked.
“Jesus. I don’t even want to think about it.” The question had startled Harvey Randall. “But there’s not much chance of that—”
“There’s every chance,” Hardy said. “I’m telling you a secret, of course. If you let it get out, or let him know I’ve told you, it won’t be pleasant.”
“So why tell me? And what’s wrong with him?”
“Heart,” Al said. “Bethesda people told him to take it easy. He was going to retire after this term, if he lived that long.”
“That bad?”
“Bad enough. He could last two years, or he could die in an hour. More likely a year than an hour, but there’s a chance of either.”
“Jesus… but why tell me?”
Hardy didn’t answer, not directly. “You said it yourself, organization is the key to survival. Without the Senator there’d have been no organization. Can you think of anyone who could govern here if he died tomorrow?”
“No. Not now…”
“How about Colorado?” Hardy asked.
Harvey Randall laughed. “You heard them in there. Colorado can’t keep us alive. But I know who would take over.”
“Who?”
“You.”
Hardy shook his head. “It wouldn’t work. Two reasons. One, I’m not a local. They don’t know me, and they take my orders only because they’re his orders. Okay, in time I could get around that. But there’s a better reason. I’m not the right man.”