"I won't run amuck," Ragle said. "Or at least I have no reason to think I will."
"We all have to live together in the same house," Vic pointed out. "Suppose I told you I--"
Ragle interrupted, "If I feel I'm a menace, I'll leave. I'll be leaving anyhow, probably in the next couple of days. So if you can last that long, everything will be okay."
"Margo won't let you go."
At that, he laughed. "Margo," he said, "will just have to let me go."
"Are you sure you're not just feeling sorry for yourself because your love-life is fouled up?"
Ragle didn't answer that. Getting up from the table he walked into the living room, where Sammy lay watching "Gunsmoke." Throwing himself down on the couch, he watched too.
I can't talk to him, he realized.
Too bad. Too darn bad.
"How's the Western?" he said to Sammy, during the midpoint commercial.
"Fine," Sammy said. From the boy's shirt pocket, crumpled white paper stuck up. The paper had a stained, weathered appearance, and Ragle leaned over to see. Sammy paid no attention.
"What's that in your pocket?" Ragle asked.
"Oh," Sammy said, "I was setting up defense bastions over at the Ruins. And I dug up a board, and I found a bunch of old telephone books and magazines and stuff."
Reaching down, Ragle pulled the paper from the boy's pocket. The paper fell apart in his hands. Stringy slips of paper, and on each was a block-printed word, smeared by rain and decay.
GAS STATION
COW
BRIDGE
"You got these' at those city lots?" he demanded, unable to think clearly. "You dug them up?"
"Yes," Sammy said.
"Can I have them?"
"No," Sammy said.
He experienced a maniacal wrath. "All right," he said, as reasonably as possible. "I'll trade you something for them. Or buy them."
"What do you want them for?" Sammy said, ceasing to watch the TV set. "Are they valuable or something?"
He answered, truthfully, "I'm collecting them." Going to the hall closet he reached into his coat, got out the box, and carried it back to the living room. Sitting down beside Sammy, he opened the box and showed the boy the six slips that he had already acquired.
"A dime apiece," Sammy said.
The boy had five slips in all, but two were so badly weatherdamaged that he couldn't read the word on them. But he paid him fifty cents anyhow, took the slips, and went off by himself to think.
Maybe it's a gag, he thought. I'm the victim of a hoax. Because I'm a Hero Contest Winner First Class.
Publicity by the paper.
But that made no sense. No sense at all.
Baffled, he smoothed the five slips out as best he could, and then added them to the box. In some respects he felt worse than before.
Later that evening he located a flashlight, put on a heavy coat, and set off in the direction of the Ruins.
His legs ached already from the hike with Junie, and by the time he reached the empty lots he wondered if it was worth it. At first his flashlight beam picked up only the shape of broken concrete, pits half-filled with spring rain, heaps of boards and plaster. For some time he prowled about, flashing his light here and there. At last, after stumbling and falling over a tangle of rusted wire, he came upon a crude shelter of rubble, obviously made by the boys.
Getting down, he turned his light on the ground near the shelter. And by golly, there in the light the edge of yellowed paper gleamed back at him. He wedged his flashlight under his arm and with both hands rooted until he had dislodged the paper. It came loose in a thick pack. Sammy had been right; it seemed to be a telephone book, or at least part of one.
Along with the telephone book he managed to dig loose the remains of large, slick family magazines. But after that he found himself shining his light down into a cistern or drainage system. Too risky, he decided. Better wait until day.
Carrying the telephone book and magazines from the lot, he started back to the house.
What a desolate place, he thought to himself. No wonder Margo wants the city to clear it. They must be out of their minds. One broken arm and they'd have a lawsuit on their hands.
Even the houses near the lots seemed dark, uninhabited. And ahead of him the sidewalk was cracked, littered with debris.
Fine place for kids.
When he got back to the house he carried the phone book and magazines into the kitchen. Both Vic and Margo were in the living room, and neither of them noticed that he had anything with him. Sammy had gone to bed. He spread wrapping paper on the kitchen table, and then, with care, he laid out what he had got.
The magazines were too damp to handle. So he left them near the circulating heater to dry. At the kitchen table, he began to examine the phone book.
As soon as he opened it he realized that he did not have either the covers or the first and last pages. Only the middle part.
It was not the phone book he was used to. The print had a darker quality; the typeface was larger. The margins were greater, too. He guessed that it represented a smaller community.
The exchanges were unfamiliar to him. Florian. Edwards. Lakeside. Walnut. He turned the pages, not searching for anything in particular; what was there to search for? Anything, he thought. Out of the ordinary. Something that would leap up and hit him in the eye. For instance, he could not tell how old the book was. Last year's? Ten years ago? How long had there been printed phone books?
Entering the kitchen, Vic said, "What have you got?"
He said, "An old phone book."
Vic bent over his shoulder to see. Then he went to the refrigerator and opened it. "Want some pie?" he said.
"No thanks," Ragle said.
"Are these yours?" Vic pointed to the drying magazines.
"Yes," he said.
Vic disappeared back into the living room, taking two pieces of berry pie with him.
Picking up the phone book, Ragle carried it into the hall, to the phone. He seated himself on the stool, chose a number at random, lifted the receiver and dialed. After a moment he heard a series of clicks and then the operator's voice.
"What number are you calling?"
He read off the number. "Bridgeland 3-4465."
Then a pause. "Would you please hang up and dial that number again?" the operator said, in her lofty, no-nonsense voice.
He hung up, waited a moment, and dialed the number again.
Immediately the circuit was broken. "What number are you calling?" an operator's voice -- not the same one -- sounded in his ear.
"Bridgeland 3-4465," he said.
"Just a moment, sir," the operator said.
He waited.
"I'm sorry, sir," the operator said. "Would you please look up that number again?"
"Why?" he said.
"Just a moment, sir," the operator said, and at that point the line went dead. No one was on the other end; he heard the absence of a living substance there. He waited, but nothing happened.
After a time he hung up, waited, and dialed the number again.
This time he got the squalling siren-sound, up and down in his ear, deafening him. The racket that indicated that he had misdialed.
Choosing other numbers he dialed. Each time he got the racket. Misdial. Finally he closed the phone book, hesitated, and dialed for the operator.
"Operator."
"I'm trying to call Bridgeland 3-4465," he said. He could not tell if she was the same operator as before. "Would you get it for me? All I get is the misdial signal."
"Yes sir. Just a moment sir." A long pause. And then, "What was that number again, sir?"
He repeated it.
"That number has been disconnected," the operator said.