“Okay—out!” Zena cried, leading the way. The bus shifted again, terrifying her as it added emphasis to the directive.
“I can’t!” Gus cried.
Floy showed him her claws. “Move!” she yelled.
She herded him like a frightened stallion, forcing him to the steps and down. Gus screamed as the rain struck him—but fear of the little beast behind him forced him on. They scrabbled out of the depression the bus was in following Thatch in a circuitous but secure route. Dust Devil hated the rain almost as much as Gus did, but bounded after Foundling on a parallel route.
Once clear of the bus they stopped to link up with the rope. Thatch took the lead, with Zena second; then Gus, and Floy right behind him. Gus’s eyes were tightly closed; only the tug of the rope and Floy’s screeched directions got him moving in the right direction. They forged on through the torrent, a motley party.
Thatch guided them to a rocky overhang. The water had undercut it, then changed course; now the stone offered partial shelter. “This is solid,” Thatch said. “And there’re several routes away from it.”
Gus huddled against the stone wall, taking no other interest in survival.
“There are still trees and rocks,” Floy said. “We’ll have to build our own shelter, here. And a covered fireplace, so we can cook. Gus and I will fetch in rocks; can’t have Zena lifting too much.”
Zena was angry at the girl’s assumptions, but realized after a moment that she was witnessing a promising phenomenon. The clumsy child, so recently become an effective woman, was now stepping into the leadership breach. Zena was unable to do that, especially in her present condition, and Thatch was not the type. Gus was a loss. If Floy could do it, why protest?
But could Floy do it? Gus seemed to be a lost cause.
“Come on, Gus,” Floy said. “You have more muscles than any of us; show us what you can carry.”
Gus did not move. Exposure to the storm had completely inactivated him.
Floy went to kneel beside him. “Now I’m going to show you three things,” she said gently. “First, the intellectuaclass="underline" we need your help, because Zena’s getting near baby-time, and Thatch has to forage where only he can go, and I just don’t have the ability to pick up a big slippery rock and move it. If you don’t pitch in, it won’t get done—and we’ll never get out of this rain, and we’ll die here like Gordon and Karen, and have to eat each other, one by one, and you’ll be the last to go, and you’ll be alone in the rain.”
“No!” Gus cried in terror.
“Second, a promise,” Floy said. She tore off her soaking clothing to reveal her slender but rather attractively developed body. “The moment we have shelter, you and I are going to have a lot of fun, you know what kind.”
That disgusted Zena—but not the way it once might have. It was evident that it was a very real inducement to Gus, who had always admired Floy’s body and had had recent experience of its potentials. Even Thatch was looking at Floy with male appreciation. Sex, obviously, always loomed large in the interests of men, and now it was an excellent tool. Perhaps that was why men had been evolved with the desire, the women with the appeal. If women had craved it as men did, they would never have been able to use it effectively.
“Third,” Floy continued, “if you do not move this instant I will give you this.” And she flicked one finger out from her palm, the long nail gleaming. The effect was like the sudden opening of a switchblade, right under Gus’s nose. The nail made a little quiver, as of an incipient thrust at the man’s left eye, and Gus hurled himself away and into the rain.
Floy did have the necessary qualities of leadership!
Zena lay under the shelter, feeling the pangs of what threatened to be forthcoming labor. “But it is only eight months!” she cried. “Too soon. Too soon!”
Floy came to sit beside her. In the past month of industry, the girl had grown subtly. Her coordination had become almost normal, and there was an air of competence about her that was reassuring. Of all the group, she had adapted best to the necessities of Mindel. “How do you know?” Floy asked.
“I kept count!”
“You started with Thatch just after Gunz.”
“That was ten months ago!” Zena sounded shrill in her own ears.
“Right. So it could be nine months now for the baby, or even overdue. Why worry about it?”
“It’s eight months! I know. I don’t want it premature!”
Floy had learned not to argue with unreasonable women. “I’ll get you some green soup.”
“Who’s going to deliver the baby?” Zena cried. “I wish Karen were here… or even Gloria.”
“Karen is here—in spirit. Her body is part of ours, part of your baby’s too. She makes us strong, the same way. Gloria, too.”
Floy’s only moments of weakness were still when she remembered Gordon. Now it was only a pause, a silence, a moment of rather pretty sadness.
Then something made them both listen, startled. “What is it?” Zena demanded.
“The rain’s stopping!” Floy cried. “Mindel’s down! And Ring Riss, and Ringworm…”
“Ringworm!” Zena echoed, and started laughing uncontrollably. Floy joined her. Together they lay and looked out of the rock shelter, weak from foolish mirth.
They crawled out and looked at the sky. A huge band of cloud remained, but the configuration had changed. To the south the sky was clear; to the north it looked as though the rain continued.
“The whole canopy is drifting into the polar opening,” Zena said. “There’s not enough vapor left to support the full cloud cover!”
“We made it through!” Floy said. “We made it!”
In a moment they heard a halloo, and Gus came charging up the mountain slope. “The rain stopped!” he yelled unnecessarily.
They waited for Thatch, then commenced an exploration of the post-canopy world. It was spectacular, now that the fog had lifted and the slanting sunlight touched the earth. Zena had to shield her eyes, unused to the direct sunlight for six months and more. The glare seemed intolerable at first, but she squinted happily.
Little vegetation of the old style remained, for the rain had washed out roots and soil. But the new moss that clung to rock was luxuriant, coating every partially protected surface with green and gray and brown.
The hardest rock had held up; but anything susceptible to erosion by water or gravel had been cleaned out. Gullies like the Grand Canyon opened below their residence. And the new volcanism had altered the landscape in its own fashion. Steam issued from cracks in the stone, and the water that flowed near these vents was hot.
To the west, Crack Toe smoked calmly. This was the first time they had actually seen it. Zena was almost disappointed to find that it was a rather small development, not even properly conical. It was a gap in the side of a regular mountain, with a dribble of solidified lava trailing beneath it. Who would have believed that all that noise and motion could have emanated from that!
Below was the ocean—the real ocean, now. They stood on an island a few miles across, surrounded by other islands: the tops of the former Appalachians. All the rest of the world had been drowned.
They picked their way down to that great sea, two thousand feet above the level of the old one. Already the moss was beginning to wither, as it was dependent on the thorough moisture of the rain and fog. But there was no concern about food; there was life in the ocean. Apparently the fish had adapted to the breakup of their spawning grounds and the dilution of the salt water and had multiplied during the storm.