Jeannie turned to look back at the space behind them where the Italian family in the bright blue car, and others, had been. There were no cars there now. She turned back, to stare whittle through the windshield.
Tom was figuring. Two minutes for the ceiling sprays to work. Then the seven hundred cars in the funnel would be hauled out and emptied. Ten minutes for that, say. He wondered how long it was supposed to take for the giant fans to blow the cyanide gas away.
"Depopulation without Discrimination”, they called it at election time. Nobody would ever admit voting for it, but almost everybody did. Aloud, you had to rationalize: it was the fairest way to do a necessary thing. But in the unadmitted places of your mind, you knew it was more than that. A gamble, the one unpredictable element in the long, dreary process of survival. A game, Russian Roulette. A game you played to win? Or, maybe, to lose? The answer didn’t matter, because the Tunnel was excitement. The only excitement left.
Tom felt, suddenly, remarkably wide awake. He switched to Manual Drive and angled the round nose of the Topolino over to the Fourth Level exit.
He began to whistle between his teeth. “Beach again next weekend, sweetie, huh?”
Jeannie’s eyes were on his face. Defensively, he added, “Good for all of us, get out of the city, get a little fresh air once in a while."
He nudged her and pulled a pigtail gently, with affection.