"Sniff," one of the boys said.
Ragle sniffed. Off and on, during his life, he had had occasion to get a noseful of carbon tet. It had no effect on him, except to make his head ache. He passed the bottle to Vic. "Here," he said.
"No thanks," Vic said.
One of the boys in a suit said in a high-pitched voice, "Necktie-fellows bedivere."
Everyone smiled cuttingly.
"That's a girl," Vic said. "That one there."
Those in suits, oxfords, shirts and argyles were girls. Their hair had been shaved right to their scalps. But, by their smaller, more delicate features, Ragle recognized them as girls. They wore no make-up. If one of them hadn't spoken, he would not have known.
Ragle said, "Pretty sissy woojy."
The room became silent.
One of the girls said, "Necktie-fellow, him play strange fruit by-an-by."
The faces of the boys had darkened. At last one of the boys arose, walked over to the corner of the room, and picked up a tall slim cloth bag. From the bag he slipped a plastic tube with holes spaced along it. He placed one end of the tube in his nose, covered the holes with his fingers, and then humming, began to play a tune on the tube. A nose-flute.
"Sweet flute-flute," one of the girls, in her suit, said.
The boy lowered the flute, wiped his nose with a small colored cloth which he drew from his sleeve, and then said in the general direction of Ragle and Vic, "How's it feel being a lunatic?"
The jargon has lapsed, Ragle thought. Now that they're sore. The others in the room, the girls especially, stared at Ragle and Vic.
"A lunatic?" one of the girls said faintly. "Really?" she asked the boy.
"Sure," the boy said. "Necktie-fellows lunatic." He smirked. But he, too, looked uneasy. "Isn't that right?" he demanded.
Ragle said nothing. Beside him Vic ignored the boy.
"You by yourselves?" another boy asked. "Or are there any more of you around?"
"Just us," Ragle said.
They stared at him wildly.
"Yes," he said. "I admit it." It seemed to command respect from them, unlike anything else. "We're lunatics."
None of the kids moved. They sat rigidly.
One of the boys laughed. "So necktie-fellows lunatic. So what?" Shrugging, he too went over and got his nose-flute.
"Strike up the flute-flute," a girl said. Now three flutes had started to whine.
"We're wasting our time here," Vic said.
"Yes," he agreed. "We better leave." He started to open the door, but as he did so, one of the boys removed the flute from his nose and said,
"Hey, necktie-fellows."
They stopped.
The boy said, "MP after you. You go outadoor, MP catch." He resumed his fluting. The others nodded.
"You know what MP do with lunatic?" a girl said. "MP give dose of cc."
"What's that?" Vic said.
All of them laughed. None of them answered. The fluting and humming continued.
"Necktie-fellows pale," a boy said, between breaths. Outside, on the stairs, a tread made the floor shake. The fluting ceased. A knock.
They have us now, Ragle thought. No one in the room moved as the door opened.
"You darn kids," a raspy voice muttered. A gray-haired elderly woman, immense in a shapeless silk wrapper, peered into the room. She had furred slippers on her feet. "I told you no piping after ten o'clock. Cut it out." She glared at them all, from half-shut eyes. At that point she noticed Ragle and Vic. "Oh," she said, with suspicion. "Who are you?"
They tell her, Ragle thought, and then she flounders back down the steps in a state of panic. And the tanks -- or whatever the MPs come in -- arrive at the bottom. Ted the driver has had plenty of time, by now. So has the waitress. So has everyone.
Anyhow, he thought, we've been out and we've seen that it is 1998, not 1959, and a war is in progress, and the kids now talk like and dress like West African natives and the girls wear men's clothing and shave their heads. And money as we know it has dropped out somewhere along the line. Along with diesel trucks. But, he thought with sudden pessimism, we didn't learn what it's all about. Why they set up the old town, the old cars and streets, kidded us for years
"Who are these two gentlemen?" the elderly woman inquired.
A pause, and then one of the girls, with a mischievous grin, said, "Looking for rooms."
"What?" the old woman said, with disbelief.
"Sure," a boy said. "They showed up here looking for a room to rent. Stumbling around. Don't you gotcha porch light on?"
"No," the old woman said. She got out a handkerchief and wiped at her soft, wrinkled forehead; under the pressure the flesh yielded. "I had retired." To Ragle and Vic, she said, "I'm Mrs. McFee. I own this apartment house. What kind of rooms did you want?"
Before Ragle could think of an answer, Vic said, "Anything will do. What do you have?" He glanced at Ragle, showing his relief.
"Well," she said, beginning to waddle back out onto the stairs, "if you two gentlemen will follow me, I'll just show you." On the stairs, she gripped the railing and swung her head to peer back at them. "Come on," she said, gasping for breath. Her face had swollen with exertion. "I've got some very attractive property. You wanted something together, the two of you?" Eying them doubtfully, she said, "Let's step into my office and I can chat with you about your employment and--" she started on down again, step by step -- "other particulars."
At the bottom, with much muttering and gasping she located a light switch; a bare bulb winked on, showing them the path that led along the side of the house to the front porch. On the porch an old-fashioned cane rocking chair could be seen. Old-fashioned even from their standpoint. Some things never change, Ragle thought.
"Right in here," Mrs. McFee called. "If you will." She disappeared into the house; he and Vic trailed after her, into a cluttered, dark, clothy-smelling living room filled with bric-a-brac, chairs, lamps, framed pictures on the walls, carpets, and, on the mantel, greeting cards by the score. Over the mantel, knitted or woven in many colors, hung a streamer with the words:
ONE HAPPY WORLD BRINGS BLESSINGS
OF JOY TO ALL MANKIND
"What I'd appreciate knowing," Mrs. McFee said, lowering herself into an easy chair, "is if you're regularly employed." Leaning forward she tugged a massive ledger from a desk, onto her lap.
"Yes," Ragle said. "We're regularly employed."
"What sort of business?"
Vic said, "Grocery business. I operate the produce section of a supermarket."
"A what?" the old woman gasped, twisting her head to hear. In its cage a black and yellow bird of some variety squawked hoarsely. "Be quiet, Dwight," she said.
Vic said, "Fruits and vegetables. Retail selling."
"What sort of vegetables?"
"All kinds," he said, with annoyance.
"Where do you get them?"
"From truckers," Vic said.
"Oh," she said, grunting. "And I suppose," she said to Ragle, "you're the inspector."
Ragle said nothing.
"I don't trust you vegetable men," Mrs. McFee said. "There was one of you around -- I don't think it was you, but it might have been -- last week. They looked good, but oh my, I would have died if I'd eaten any. They had r.a. written all over them. I can tell. Of course, the man assured me they didn't grow toptop; came from way down in the cellars. Showed me the tag that swore they grew a mile down. But I can smell r.a." Ragle thought, _Radio-activity_. Produce grown up on the surface, exposed to fallout. There've been bombings, in the past. Contamination of crops. Understanding rushed over him; the scene of trucks being loaded with food grown underground. _The cellars_. Dangerous peddling of contaminated tomatoes and melons.