At first Potiphar Breen did not notice the*girl who was
undressing.
She was standing at a bus stop only ten feet away. He
was indoors but that would not have kept him from notic-
ing; he was seated in a drugstore booth adjacent to the bus
stop; there was nothing between Potiphar and the young
lady but plate glass and an occasional pedestrian.
Nevertheless he did not look up when she began to peel.
Propped up in front of him was a Los Angeles Times; beside
it,  still  unopened,  were  the  Herald-Express  and  the  Daily
News. He was scanning the newspaper carefully but the
headline stories got only a passing glance. He noted the
maximum and minimum temperatures in Brownsville, Texas
and entered them in a neat black notebook; he did the
same with the closing prices of three blue chips and two
dogs on the New York Exchange, as well as the total number
of shares. He then began a rapid sifting of minor news
stories, from time to time entering briefs of them in his little
book; the items he recorded seemed randomly unrelated
among them a publicity release in which Miss National
Cottage Cheese Week announced that she intended to
marry and have twelve children by a man who could prove
that he had been a life-long vegetarian, a circumstantial but
wildly unlikely flying saucer report, and a call for prayers
for rain throughout Southern California.
Potiphar had just written down the names and addresses
of three residents of Watts, California who had been miracu-
lously healed at a tent meeting of the God-is-AII First Truth
Brethren by the Reverend Dickie Bottomley, the eight-year-
old evangelist, and was preparing to tackle the Herald-Ex-
press, when he glanced over his reading glasses and saw the
amateur ecdysiast on the street comer outside. He stood up,
placed his glasses in their case, folded the newspapers and
put them carefully in his right coat pocket, counted out the
exact amount of his check and added twenty-five cents. He
then took his raincoat from a hook, placed it over his arm,
and went outside.
By now the girl was practically down to the buff. It
seemed to Potiphar Breen that she had quite a lot of buff.
Nevertheless she had not pulled much of a house. The cor-
ner newsboy had stopped hawking his disasters and was
grinning at her, and a mixed pair of transvestites who were
apparently waiting for the bus had their eyes on her. None
of the passers-by stopped. They glanced at her, then with the
self-conscious indifference to the unusual of the true South-
ern Californian, they went on their various ways. The trans-
vestites were frankly staring. The male member of the team
wore a frilly feminine blouse but his skirt was a conservative
Scottish kilthis female companion wore a business suit and
Homburg hat; she stared with lively interest.
As Breen approached the girl hung a scrap of nylon on
the bus stop bench, then reached for her shoes. A police of-
ficer, looking hot and unhappy, crossed with the lights and
came up to them. "Okay," he said in a tired voice, "that'll
be all, lady. Get them duds back on and clear out of here."
The femalte transvestite took a cigar out of her mouth.
"Just," she said, "what business is it of yours, officer?"
The cop turned to her. "Keep out of this I" He ran his eyes
over her get up, that of her companion. "I ought to run both
of you in, too."
The transvestite raised her eyebrows. "Arrest us for being
clothed, arrest her for not being. I think I'm going to like
this." She turned to the girl, who was standing still and say-
ing nothing, as if she were puzzled by what was going on.
"I'm a lawyer, dear." She pulled a card from her vest pocket.
"If this uniformed Neanderthal persists in annoying you,
I'll be delighted to handle him."
The man in the kilt said, "Grace! Pleasel"
She shook him off. "Quiet, Normanthis is our business."
She went on to the policeman, "Well? Call the wagon. In
the meantime my client will answer no questions."
The official looked unhappy enough to cry and his face
was getting dangerously red. Breen quietly stepped forward
and slipped his raincoat around the shoulders of the girl.
She looked startled and spoke for the first time. "Uh
thanks." She pulled the coat about her, cape fashion.
The female attorney glanced at Breen then back to the
cop. "Well, officer? Ready to arrest us?"
He shoved his face close to hers. "I ain't going to give
you the satisfaction]" He sighed and added, "Thanks, Mr.
Breenyou know this lady?"
"Ill take care of her. You can forget it, Kawonski."
"I sure hope so. If she's with you, III do just that. But get
her out of here, Mr. Breenpleasel"
The lawyer interrupted. "Just a momentyou're interfer-
ing with my client."
Kawonski said, "Shut up, you! You heard Mr. Breenshe's
with him. Right, Mr. Breen?"
"Wellyes. 1m a friend. I'll take care of her."
The transvestite said suspiciously, "I didn't hear her say
that."
Her companion said, "Gracepleasel There's our bus."
"And I didn't hear her say she was your client," the cop
retorted. "You look like a" His words were drowned out
by the bus's brakes, "and besides that, if you don't climb
on that bus and get off my territory, I'll . . . I'll . . ."
"YouTI what?"
"Grace! We'll miss our bus."
"Just a moment, Norman. Dear, is this man really a friend
of yours? Are you with him?"
The girl looked uncertainly at Breen, then said in a low
voice, "Uh, yes. That's right."
"Well . . ." The lawyer's companion pulled at her arm.
She shoved her card into Breen's hand and got on the bus;
it pulled away.
Breen pocketed the card. Kawonski wiped his forehead.
"Why did you do it, lady?" he said peevishly.
The girl looked puzzled. "I . . . I don't know."
"You hear that, Mr. Breen? That's what they all say. And
if you pull 'em in, there's six more the next day. The Chief
said" He sighed. "The Chief saidwell, if I had arrested
her like that female shyster wanted me to. I'd be out at a
hundred and ninety-sixth and Ploughed Ground tomorrow
morning, thinking about retirement. So get her out of here,
will you?"
The girl said, "But-"
"No 'buts,' lady. Just be glad a real gentleman like Mr.
Breen is willing to help you." He gathered up her clothes,
handed them to her. When she reached for them she again
exposed an uncustomary amount of skin; Kawonski hastily
gave them to Breen instead, who crowded them into his
coat pockets.
She let Breen lead her to where his car was parked, got in
and tucked the raincoat around her so that she was rather
more dressed than a girl usually is. She looked at him.
She saw a medium-sized and undistinguished man who
was slipping down the wrong side of thirty-five and looked
older. His eyes had that mild and slightly naked look of tlie
habitual spectacles wearer who is not at the moment with
glasses; his hair was gray at the temples and thin on top.
His herringbone suit, black shoes, white shirt, and neat tie
smacked more of the East than of California.
He saw a face which he classified as "pretty" and "whole-
some" rather than "beautiful" and "glamorous," It was
topped by a healthy mop of light brown hair. He set her
age at twenty-five, give or take eighteen months. He smiled
gently, climbed in without speaking and started his car.
He turned up Doheny Drive and east on Sunset. Near La
Cienega he slowed down. "Feeling better?"
"Uh, I guess so Mr.'Breen'?"
"Call me Potiphar. What's your name? Don't tell me if
you don't want to,"
"Me? I'm . . . I'm Meade Barstow."
"Thank you, Meade. Where do you want to go? Home?"
"I suppose so. IOh my no! I can't go home like this."
She clutched the coat tightly to her.
"Parents?"
"No. My landlady. She'd be shocked to death."
"Where, then?"
She thought. "Maybe we could stop at a filling station and
I could sneak into the ladies' room."
"Mmm, . . . maybe. See here, Meademy house is six
blocks from here and has a garage entrance. You could get
inside without being seen." He looked at her.
She stared back. "Potipharyou don't look like a wolf?"
"Oh, but I am! The worst sort." He whistled and gnashed
his teeth. "See? But Wednesday is my day off from it."
She looked at him and dimpled. "Oh, well! I'd rather
wrestle with you than with Mrs. Megeath. Let's go."
He turned up into the hills. His bachelor diggings were
one of the many little frame houses clinging like fungus to
the brown slopes of the Santa Monica Mountains. The ga-
rage was notched into this hill; the house sat on it. He drove
in, cut the ingition, and led her up a teetei-y inside stairway
into the living room. "In there," he said, pointing. "Help
yourself." He pulled her clothes out of his coat pockets and
handed them to her.
She blushed and took them, disappeared into his bed-
room. He heard her turn the key in the lock. He settled down
in his easy chair, took out his notebook, and opened the
Herald-Exprew.
He was finishing the Daily News and had added several
notes to his collection when she came out. Her hair was
neatly rolled; her face was restored; she had brushed most
of the wrinkles out of her skirt. Her sweater was neither too
tight nor deep cut, but it was pleasantly filled. She reminded
him of well water and farm breakfasts.
He took his raincoat from her, hung it up, and said, "Sit
down, Meade."
She said uncertainly, "I had better go."
"Go if you mustbut I had hoped to talk with you."
"Well" She sat down on the edge of his couch and
looked around. The room was small but as neat as his neck-
tie, clean as his collar. The fireplace was swept; the floor was
bare and polished. Books crowded bookshelves in every pos-
sible space. One corner was filled by an elderly flat-top
desk; the papers on it were neatly in order. Near it, on its
own stand, was a small electric calculator. To her right,
French windows gave out on a tiny porch over the garage.
Beyond it she could see the sprawling city; a few neon signs
were already blinking.
She sat back a little. "This is a nice roomPotiphar. It
looks like you."
"I take that as a compliment. Thank you." She did not
answer; he went on, "Would you like a drink?"
"Oh, would II" She shivered. "I guess I've got the jitters."
He got up. "Not surprising. What'll it be?"
She took Scotch and water, no ice; he was a Bourbon-
and-gingcr-ale man. She had soaked up half her highball in
silence, then put it down, squared her shoulders and said,
"Potiphar?"
"Yes, Meade?"
"Lookif you brought me here to make a pass, I wish
you'd go ahead and make it. It won't do you a bit of good,
but it makes me nervous to wait for it."
He said nothing and did not change his expression. She
went on uneasily, "Not that I'd blame you for tryingunder
the circumstances. And I am grateful. But . . . wellit's just
that I don't-"
He came over and took both her hands. "My dear, I
haven't the slightest thought of making a pass at you. Nor
need you feel grateful. I butted in because I was interested
in your case."
"My case? Are you a doctor? A psychiatrist?"
He shook his head. "I'm a mathematician. A statistician,
to be precise."
"Hub? I don't get it."
"Don't worry about it. But I would like to ask some ques-
tions. May I?"
"Uh, sure, sure! I owe you that muchand then some."
"You owe me nothing. Want your drink sweetened?"
She gulped it and handed him her glass, then followed
him out into the kitchen. He did an exact job of measuring
and gave it back. "Now tell me why you took your clothes
off?"
She frowned. "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
I guess I just went crazy." She added round-eyed, "But I
don't feel crazy. Could I go off my rocker and not know it?"
"You're not crazy . . . not moi-e so than the rest of us," he
amended. "Tell mewhere did you see someone else do
this?"
"Hub? But I never have."
"Where did you read about it?"
"But I haven't. Wait a minutethose people up in Canada.
Dooka-somethings."
"Doukhobors. That's all? No bareskin swimming parties?
No strip poker?"
She shook her head. "No. You may not believe it but I
was the kind oi a little girl who undressed under her
nightie." She colored and added, "I still dounless I re-
member to tell myself it's silly."
"I believe it. No news stories?"
"No. Yes, there was tool About two weeks ago, I think it
was. Some girl in a theater, in the audience, I mean. But I
thought it was just publicity. You know the stunts they pull
here."
He shook his head. "It wasn't. February 3rd, the Grand
Theater, Mrs. Alvin Copley. Charges dismissed."
"Hub? How did you know?"
"Excuse me." He went to his desk, dialed the City News
Bureau. "Alf? This is Pot Breen. They still sitting on that
story? . . . yes, yes, the Gypsy Rose file. Any new ones
today?" He waited; Meade thought that she could make
out swearing. "Take it easy, Alfthis hot weather can't last
forever. Nine, eh? Well, add anotherSanta Monica Bou-
levard, late this afternoon. No arrest." He added, "Nope,
nobody got her namea middle-aged woman with a cast in
one eye. I happened to see it . . . who, me? Why would I
want to get mixed up? But it's rounding up into a very,
very interesting picture." He put the phone down.
Meade said, "Cast in one eye, indeed!"
"Shall I call him back and give him your name?"
"Oh, nol"
"Very well. Now, Meade, we seemed to have located the
point of contagion in your caseMrs. Copley. What I'd like
to know next is how you felt, what you were thinking about,
when you did it?"
She was frowning intently. "Wait a minute, Potiphai do
I understand that nine other girls have pulled the stunt I
pulled?"
"Oh, nonine others today. You are" He paused briefly.
"the three hundred and nineteenth case in Los Angeles
county since the first of the year. I don't have figures on the
rest of the country, but the suggestion to clamp down on the
stories came from the eastern news services when the papers
here put our first cases on the wire. That proves that it's a
problem elsewhere, too."
"You mean that women all over the country are peel-
ing off their clothes in public? Why, how shocking!"
He said nothing. She blushed again and insisted, "Well,
it is shocking, even if it was me, this time."
"No, Meade. One case is shocking; over three hundred
makes it scientifically interesting. That's why I want to know
how it felt. Tell me about it."
"But All right, I'll try. I told you I don't know why I
did it; I still don't. I-"
"You remember it?"
"Oh, yesi I remember getting up off the bench and pulling
up my sweater. I remember unzipping my skirt. I remember
thinking I would have to hurry as I could see my bus stopped
two blocks down the street. I remember how good it felt
when I finally, uh" She paused and looked puzzled. "But
I still don't know why."
"What were you thinking about just before you stood
up?"
"I don't remember."
"Visualize the street. What was passing by? Where were
your hands? Were your legs crossed or uncrossed? Was there
anybody near you? What were you thinking about?"
"Uh . . . nobody was on the bench with me. I had my
hands in my lap. Those characters in the mixed-up clothes
were standing near by, but I wasn't paying attention. I
wasn't thinking much except that my feet hurt and I wanted
to get homeand how unbearably hot and sultry it was.
Then" Her eyes became distant, "suddenly I knew what
I had to do and it was very urgent that I do it. So I stood up
and I . . . and I" Her voice became shrill.
"Take it easy!" he said. "Don't do it again."
"Hub? Why, Mr. Breeni I wouldn't do anything like that."
"Of course not. Then what?"
"Why, you put your raincoat around me and you know
the rest." She faced him. "Say, Potiphar, what were you
doing with a raincoat? It hasn't rained in weeksthis is the
driest, hottest rainy season in years."
"In sixty-eight years, to be exact."
"Hub?"
"I carry a raincoat anyhow. Uh, just a notion of mine, but
I feel that when it does rain, it's going to rain awfully hard."
He added, "Forty days and forty nights, maybe."
She decided that he was being humorous and laughed.
He went on, "Can you remember how you got the idea?"
She swirled her glass and thought. "I simply don't know."
He nodded. "That's what I expected."
"I don't understand youunless you think I'm crazy. Do
you?"
"No. I think you had to do it and could not help it and
don't know why and can't know why."
"But you know." She said it accusingly.
"Maybe. At least I have some figures. Ever take any
interest in statistics, Meade?"
She shook her head. "Figures confuse me. Never mind
statistics1 want to know why I did what I didl"
He looked at her very soberly. "I think we're lemmings,
Meade."
She looked puzzled, then horrified. "You mean those little
furry mouselike creatures? The ones that"
"Yes. The ones that periodically make a death migration,
until millions, hundreds of millions of them drown them-
selves in the sea. Ask a lemming why he does it. If you
could get him to slow up his rush toward death, even money
says he would rationalize his answer as well as any college
graduate. But he does it because he has toand so do we."
"That's a horrid idea, Potiphar."
"Maybe. Come here, Meade. I'll show you figures that
confuse me, too." He went to his desk and opened a drawer,
took out a packet of cards. "Here's one. Two weeks ago
a man sues an entire state legislature for alienation of his
wife's affectionand the judge lets the suit be tried. Or this
onea patent application for a device to lay the globe over
on its side and warm up the arctic regions. Patent denied,
but the inventor took in over three hundred thousand dol-
lars in down payments on South Pole real estate before the
postal authorities stepped in. Now he's fighting the case and
it looks as if he might win. And hereprominent bishop
proposes applied courses in the so-called facts of life in high
schools." He put the card away hastily. "Here's a dilly: a bill
introduced in the Alabama lower house to repeal the laws
of atomic energynot the present statutes, but the natural
laws concerning nuclear physics; the wording makes that
plain." He shrugged. "How silly can you get?"
"They're crazy."
"No, Meade. One such is crazy; a lot of them is a lemming
death march. No, don't objectI've plotted them on a curve.
The last time we had anything like this was the so-called
Era of Wonderful Nonsense. But this one is much worse."
He delved into a lower drawer, hauled out a graph. "The
amplitude is more than twice as great and we haven't
reached peak. What the peak will be I don't dare guess
three separate rhythms, reinforcing."
She peered at the curves. "You mean that the laddy with
the artic real estate deal is somewhere on this line?"
"He adds to it. And back here on the last crest are the flag-
pole sitters and the goldfish swallowers and the Ponzi hoax
and the marathon dancers and the man who pushed a pea-
nut up Pikes Peak with his nose. You're on the new crest-
or you will be when I add you in."
She made a face. "I don't like it."
"Neither do 1. But it's as clear as a bank statement. This
year the human race is letting down its hair, flipping its lip
with a finger, and saying, 'Wubba, wubba, wubba."'
She shivered. "Do you suppose I could have another
drink? Then I'll go."
"I have a better idea. I owe you a dinner for answering
questions. Pick a place and we'll have a cocktail before."
She chewed her lip. "You don't owe me anything. And
I don't feel up to facing a restaurant crowd. I might . . . I
might"
"No, you wouldn't," he said sharply. "It doesn't hit twice."
"You're sure? Anyhow, I don't want to face a crowd." She
glanced at his kitchen door. "Have you anything to eat in
there? I can cook."
"Urn, breakfast things. And there's a pound of ground
round in the freezer compartment and some rolls. I some-
times make hamburgers when I don't want to go out."
She headed for the kitchen. "Drunk or sober, fully dressed
ornaked, I can cook. YouTI see."
He did see. Open-faced sandwiches with the meat mar-
ried to toasted buns and the flavor garnished rather than
suppressed by scraped Bermuda onion and thin-sliced dill,
a salad made from things she had scrounged out of his re-
frigerator, potatoes crisp but not vulcanized. They ate it on
the tiny balcony, sopping it down with cold beer.
He sighed and wiped his mouth. "Yes, Meade, you can
cook."
'"Some day III arrive with proper materials and pay you
back. Then III prove it."
"You've already proved it. Nevertheless I accept. But I
tell you three times, you owe me nothing."
"No? If you hadn't been a Boy Scout, I'd be in jail."
Breen shook his head. "The police have orders to keep it
quiet at all coststo keep it from growing. You saw that.
And, my dear, you weren't a person to me at the time. I
didn't even see your face; I"
"You saw plenty else!"
"Truthfully, I didn't look. You were just aa statistic."
She toyed with her knife and said slowly, "I'm not sure,
but I think I've just been insulted. In all the twenty-five
years that I've fought men off, more or less successfully, I've
been called a lot of namesbut a 'statistic'why I ought to
take your slide rule and beat you to death with it."
"My dear young lady"
"1m not a lady, that's for sure. But I'm not a statistic."
"My dear Meade, then. I wanted to tell you, before you
did anything hasty, that in college I wrestled varsity
middleweight."
She grinned and dimpled. "That's more the talk a girl
likes to hear. I was beginning to be afraid you had been
assembled in an adding machine factory. Potty, you're
rather a dear."
"If that is a diminutive of my given name, I like it. But if
it refers to my waist line, I resent it."
She reached across and patted his stomach. "I like your
waist line; lean and hungry men are difficult. If I were cook-
ing for you regularly, I'd really pad it."
"Is that a proposal?"
"Let it lie, let it liePotty, do you really think the whole
country is losing its buttons?"
He sobered at once. "It's worse than that."
"Hub?"
"Come inside. Ill show you." They gathered up dishes
and dumped them in the sink, Breen talking all the while.
"As a kid I was fascinated by numbers. Numbers are pretty
things and they combine in such interesting configurations.
I took my degree in math, of course, and got a ]'ob as a
junior actuary with Midwestem Mutualthe insurance out-
fit. That was funno way on earth to tell when a particular
man is going to die, but an absolute certainty that so many
men of a certain age group would die before a certain date.
The curves were so lovelyand they always worked out.
Always. You didn't have to know why; you could predict
with dead certainty and never know why. The equations
worked; the curves were right.
"I was interested in astronomy too; it was the one science
where individual figures worked out neatly, completely,
and accurately, down to the last decimal point the instru-
ments were good for. Compared with astronomy the other
sciences were mere carpentry and kitchen chemistry.
"I found there were nooks and crannies in astronomy
where individual numbers won't do, where you have to go
over to statistics, and I became even more interested. I
joined the Variable Star Association and I might have gone
into astronomy professionally, instead of what I'm in now
business consultationif I hadn't gotten interested in
something else."
'"Business consultation'?" repeated Meade. "Income tax
work?"
"Oh, nothat's too elementary. I'm the numbers boy for a
firm of industrial engineers. I can tell a rancher exactly how
many of his Hereford bull calves will be sterile. Or I tell a
motion picture producer how much rain insurance to carry
on location. Or maybe how big a company in a particular
line must be to carry its own risk in industrial accidents.
And 1m right, 1m always right."
"Wait a minute. Seems to me a big company would have
to have insurance."
"Contrariwise. A really big corporation begins to resemble
a statistical universe."
"Hub?"
"Never mind. I got interested in something elsecycles.
Cycles are everything, Meade. And everywhere. The tides.
The seasons. Wars. Love. Everybody knows that in the
spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to what the girls
never stopped thinking about, but did you know that it runs
in an eighteen-year-plus cycle as well? And that a girl born
at the wrong swing of the curve doesn't stand nearly as good
a chance as her older or younger sister?"
"What? Is that why I'm a doddering old maid?"
"You're twenty-five?" He pondered. "Maybebut your
chances are picking up again; the curve is swinging up. Any-
how, remember you are just one statistic; the curve applies
to the group. Some girls get married every year anyhow."
"Don't call me a statistic."
"Sorry. And marriages match up with acreage planted to
wheat, with wheat cresting ahead. You could almost say
that planting wheat makes people get married."
"Sounds silly."
"It is silly. The whole notion of cause-and-effect is proba-
bly superstition. But the same cycle shows a peak in house
building right after a peak in marriages, every time."
"Now that makes sense."
"Does it? How many newlyweds do you know who can
afford to build a house? You might as well blame it on wheat
acreage. We don't know why; it just is."
"Sun spots, maybe?"
"You can correlate sun spots with stock prices, or Colum-
bia River salmon, or women's skirts. And you are just as
much justified in blaming short skirts for sun spots as you
are in blaming sun spots for salmon. We don't know. But the
curves go on just the same."
"But there has to be some reason behind it."
"Does there? That's mere assumption. A fact has no 'why.'
There it stands, self demonstrating. Why did you take your
clothes off today?"
She frowned. "That's not fair."
"Maybe not. But I want to show you why I'm worried."
He went into the bedroom, came out with a large roll of
tracing paper. "We'll spread it on the floor. Here they are,
all of them. The 54-year cyclesee the Civil War there? See
how it matches in? The 18 & % year cycle, the 9-plus cycle,
the 41-month shorty, the three rhythms of sun spots
everything, all combined in one grand chart. Mississippi
River floods, fur catches in Canada, stock market prices,
marriages, epidemics, freight-car loadings, bank clearings,
locust plagues, divorces, tree growth, wars, rainfall, earth
magnetism, building construction patents applied for, mur-
dersyou name it; I've got it there."
She stared at the bewildering array of wavy lines. "But,
Potty, what does it mean?"
"It means that these things all happen, in regular rhythm,
whether we like. it or not. It means that when skirts are due
to go up, all the stylists in Paris can't make 'em go down.
It means that when prices are going down, all the controls
and supports and government planning can't make 'em go
up." He pointed to a curve. "Take a look at the grocery ads.
Then turn to the financial page and read how the Big Brains
try to double-talk their way out of it. It means that when an
epidemic is due, it happens, despite all the public health
efforts. It means we're lemmings."
She pulled her lip. "I don't like it. 1 am the master of my
fate,' and so forth. I've got free will, Potty. I know I have
I can feel it."
"I imagine every little neutron in an atom bomb feels the
same way. He can go spungi or he can sit still, just as he
pleases. But statistical mechanics work out anyhow. And
the bomb goes offwhich is what I'm leading up to. See
anything odd there, Meade?"
She studied the chart, trying not to let the curving lines
confuse her. "They sort of bunch up over at the right end."
"You're dem tootin' they dol See that dotted vertical line?
That's right nowand things are bad enough. But take a
look at that solid vertical; that's about six months from now
and that's when we get it. Look at the cyclesthe long
ones, the short ones, all of them. Every single last one of
them reaches either a trough or a crest exactly onor almost
onthat line."
"That's bad?"
"What do you think? Three of the big ones troughed in
1929 and the depression almost ruined us . . . even with
the big 54-year cycle supporting things. Now we've got the
big one troughingand the few crests are not things that
help. I mean to say, tent caterpillars and influenza don't do
us any good, Meade, if statistics mean anything, this tired
old planet hasn't seen a jackpot like this since Eve went into
the apple business. I'm scared."
She searched his face. "Pottyyou're not simply having
fun with me? You know I can't check up on you."
"I wish to heaven I were. No, Meade, I can't fool about
numbers; I wouldn't know how. This is it. The Year of the
Jackpot."
She was very silent as he drove her home. As they ap-
proached West Los Angeles, she said, "Potty?"
"Yes, Meade?"
"What do we do about it?"
"What do you do about a hurricane? You pull in your
ears. What can you do about an atom bomb? You try to
out-guess it, not be there when it goes off. What else can
you do?"
"Oh." She was silent for a few moments, then added,
"Potty? Will you tell me which way to jump?"
"Hub? Oh, sure! If I can figure it out."
He took her to her door, turned to go. She said, "Pottyl"
He faced her. "Yes, Meade?"
She grabbed his head, shook itthen kissed him fiercely
on the mouth. "Thereis that just a statistic?"
"Uh, no."
"It had better not be," she said dangerously. "Potty, I
think I'm going to have to change your curve."
II
"RUSSIANS BEJECT UN NOTE"
"MISSOURI FLOOD DAMAGE EXCEEDS 1951 BECORD"
"MISSISSIPPI MESSIAH DEFIES COURT"
"NUDIST CONVENTION STORMS BAILEY'S BEACH"
"BBITISH-IRAN TALKS STILL DEAD-LOCKED"
"FASTER-THAN-LIGHT WEAPON PROMISED"
"TYPHOON DOUBLING BACK ON MANILA"
"MAKBIAGE SOLEMNIZED ON FLOOB OF HUDSONNew York,
13 July, In a specially-constructed diving suit built for two,
Merydith Smithe, caf6 society headline girl, and Prince
Augie Schleswieg of New Vork and the Riviera were united
today by Bishop Dalton in a service televised with the aid
of the Navy's ultra-new"
As the Year of the Jackpot progressed Breen took melan-
choly pleasure in adding to the data which proved that the
curve was sagging as predicted. The undeclared World War
continued its bloody, blundering way at half a dozen spots
around a tortured globe. Breen did not chart it; the head-
lines were there for anyone to read. He concentrated on the
odd facts in the other pages of the papers, facts which,
taken singly, meant nothing, but taken together showed a
disastrous trend.
He listed stock market prices, rainfall, wheat futures, but
it was the "silly season" items which fascinated him. To be
sure, some humans were always doing silly thingsbut at
what point had prime damfoolishness become common-
place? When, for example, had the zombie-like professional
models become accepted ideals of American womanhood?
What were the gradations between National Cancer Week
and National Athlete's Foot Week? On what day had the
American people finally taken leave of horse sense?
Take transvestismmale-and-female dress customs were
arbitrary, but they had seemed to be deeply rooted in the
culture. When did the breakdown start? With Marlene Die-
trich's tailored suits? By the late forties there was no "male"
article of clothing that a woman could not wear in public-
but when had men started to slip over the line? Should he
count the psychological cripples who had made the word
"drag" a byword in Greenwich Village and Hollywood long
before this outbreak? Or were they "wild shots" not belong-
ing on the curve? Did it start with some unknown normal
man attending a masquerade and there discovering that
skirts actually were more comfortable and practical than
trousers? Or had it started with the resurgence of Scottish
nationalism reflected in the wearing of kilts by many
Scottish-Americans?
Ask a lemming to state his motives! The outcome was in
front of him, a news story. Transvestism by draft-dodgers
had at last resulted in a mass arrest in Chicago which was
to have ended in a giant joint trialonly to have the deputy
prosecutor show up in a pinafore and defy the judge to
submit to an examination to determine the judge's true sex.
The judge suffered a stroke and died and the trial was
postponedpostponed  forever  in  Breen's  opinion;  he
doubted that this particular blue law would ever again be
enforced.
Or the laws about indecent exposure, for that matter. The
attempt to limit the Gypsy-Rose syndrome by ignoring it
had taken the starch out of enforcement; now here was a
report about the All Souls Community Church of Spring-
field: the pastor had reinstituted ceremonial nudity. Prob-
ably the first time this thousand years, Breen thought, aside
from some screwball cults in Los Angeles. The reverend
gentleman claimed that the ceremony was identical with
the "dance of the high priestess" in the ancient temple of
Kamak.
Could bebut Breen had private information that the
"priestess" had been working the burlesque & nightclub cir-
cuit before her present engagement. In any case the holy
leader was packing them in and had not been arrested.
Two weeks later a hundred and nine churches in thirty-
three states offered equivalent attractions. Breen entered
them on his curves.
This queasy oddity seemed to him to have no relation to
the startling rise in the dissident evangelical cults through-
out the country. These churches were sincere, earnest and
poorbut growing, ever since the War. Now they were
multiplying like yeast. It seemed a statistical cinch that the
United States was about to become godstruck again. He
correlated it with Transcendentalism and the trek of the
Latter Day Saintshmm . . . yes, it fitted. And the curve
was pushing toward a crest.
Billions in war bonds were now falling due; wartime mar-
riages were reflected in the swollen peak of the Los Angeles
school population. The Colorado River was at a record low
and the towers in Lake Mead stood high out of the water.
But the Angelenos committed slow suicide by watering
lawns as usual. The Metropolitan Water District commis-
sioners tried to stop itit fell between the stools of the police
powers of fifty "sovereign" cities. The taps remained open,
trickling away the life blood of the desert paradise.
The four regular party conventionsDixiecrats, Regular
Republicans, the other Regular Republicans, and the Demo-
cratsattracted scant attention, as the Know-Nothings had
not yet met. The fact that the "American Rally," as the
Know-Nothings preferred to be called, claimed not to be a
party but an educational society did not detract from their
strength. But what was their strength? Their beginnings had
been so obscure that Breen had had to go back and dig into
the December 1951 filesbut he had been approached twice
this very week to join them, right inside his own officeonce
by his boss, once by the janitor.
He hadn't been able to chart the Know-Nothings. They
gave him chills in his spine. He kept column-inches on them,
found that their publicity was shrinking while their numbers
were obviously zooming.
Krakatau blew up on July i8th. It provided the first im-
portant transpacific TV-cast; its effect on sunsets, on solar
constant, on mean temperature, and on rainfall would not
be felt until later in the year. The San Andreas fault, its
stresses unrelieved since the Long Beach disaster of 19331
continued to build up imbalancean unhealed wound run-
ning the full length of the West Coast. PelBe and Etna
erupted; Mauna Loa was still quiet.
Flying saucers seemed to be landing daily in every state.
No one had exhibited one on the groundor had the De-
partment of Defense sat on them? Breen was unsatisfied
with the off-the-record reports he had been able to get; the
alcoholic content of some of them had been high. But the
sea serpent on Ventura Beach was real; he had seen it. The
troglodyte in Tennessee he was not in a position to verify.
Thirty-one domestic air crashes the last week in July . , .
was it sabotage? Or was it a sagging curve on a chart? And
that neo-polio epidemic that skipped from Seattle to New
York? Time for a big epidemic? Breen's chart said it was.
But how about B.W.P Could a chart know that a Slav bio-
chemist would perfect an efficient virus-and-vector at the
right time? Nonsensel
But the curves, if they meant anything at all, included
"free will"; they averaged in all the individual "wills" of a
statistical universeand came out as  a smooth function,
Every morning three million "free wills" flowed toward the
center of the New York megapolis; every evening they
flowed out againall by "free will," and on a smooth and
predictable curve.
Ask a lemming! Ask (dl the lemmings, dead and alive-
let them take a vote on it! Breen tossed his notebook aside
and called Meade, "Is this my favorite statistic?"
"Potty! I was thinking about you."
"Naturally. This is your night off."
"Yes, but another reason, too. Potiphar, have you ever
taken a look at the Great Pyramid?"
"I haven't even been to Niagara Falls. I'm looking for a
rich woman, so I can travel."
"Yes, yes, I'll let you know when I get my first million,
but-"
"That's the first time you've proposed to me this week."
"Shut up. Have you ever looked into the prophecies they
found inside the pyramid?"
"Hub? Look, Meade, that's in the same class with
astrologystrictly for squirrels. Grow up."
"Yes, of course. But Potty, I thought you were interested
in anything odd. This is odd."
"Oh. Sorry. If it's 'silly season' stuff, let's see it."
"All right. Am I cooking for you tonight?"
"It's Wednesday, isn't it?"
"How soon?"
He glanced at his watch. "Pick you up in eleven minutes."
He felt his whiskers. "No, twelve and a half."
"I'll be ready. Mrs. Megeath says that these regular dates
mean that you are going to marry me."
"Pay no attention to her. She's just a statistic. And I'm
a wild datum."
"Oh, well, I've got two hundred and forty-seven dollars
toward that million. 'Bye!"
Meade's prize was the usual Rosicrucian come-on, elabo-
rately printed, and including a photograph (retouched, he
was sure) of the much disputed line on the corridor wall
which was alleged to prophesy, by its various discon-
tinuities, the entire future. This one had an unusual time
scale but the major events were all marked on itthe fall of
Rome, the Norman Invasion, the Discovery of America, Na-
poleon, the World Wars.
What made it interesting was that it suddenly stopped
now.
"What about it. Potty?"
"I guess the stonecutter got tired. Or got fired. Or they
got a new head priest with new ideas." He tucked it into his
desk. "Thanks. I'll think about how to list it." But he got it
out again, applied dividers and a magnifying glass. "It says
here," he announced, "that the end comes late in August
unless that's a fly speck."
"Morning or afternoon? I have to know how to dress."
"Shoes will be worn. All God's chilluns got shoes." He
put it away.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, "Potty, isn't it
about time to jump?"
"Hub? Girl, don't let that thing affect youl That's 'silly
season' stuff."
"Yes. But take a look at your chart."
Nevertheless he took the next afternoon off, spent it in
the reference room oi the main library, confirmed his opin-
ion of soothsayers.  Nostradamus was pretentiously silly,
Mother Shippey was worse. In any of them you could find
what you looked for.
He did find one item in Nostradamus that he liked: "The
Oriental shall come forth from his seat . . . he shall pass
through the sky, through the waters and the snow, and he
shall strike each one with his weapon."
That sounded like what the Department of Defense ex-
pected the commies to try to do to the Western Allies.
But it was also a description of every invasion that had
come out of the "heartland" in the memory of mankind.
Nuts!
When he got home he found himself taking down his
father's Bible and turning to Revelations. He could not find
anything that he could understand but he got fascinated by
the recurring use of precise numbers. Presently he thumbed
through the Book at random; his eye lit on: "Boast not thy-
self of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may
bring forth." He put the Book away, feeling humbled but
not cheered.
The rains started the next morning. The Master Plumbers
elected Miss Star Morning "Miss Sanitary Engineering" on
the same day that the morticians designated her as "The
Body I would Like Best to Prepare," and her option was
dropped by Fragrant Features. Congress voted $1.37 to
compensate Thomas Jefferson Meeks for losses incurred
while an emergency postman for the Christmas rush of i936>
approved the appointment of five lieutenant generals and
one ambassador and adjourned in eight minutes. The fire
extinguishers in a midwest orphanage turned out to be
filled with air. The chancellor of the leading football  in-
stitution sponsored a fund to send peace messages and vita-
mins to the Politburo. The stock market slumped nineteen
points and the tickers ran two hours late. Wichita, Kansas,
remained flooded while Phoenix, Arizona, cut off drinking
water to areas outside city limits. And Potiphar Breen found
that he had left his raincoat at Meade Barstow's rooming
house.
He phoned her landlady, but Mrs. Megeath turned him
over to Meade. "What are you doing home on a Friday?"
he demanded.
"The theater manager laid me off. Now you'll have to
marry me."
"You can't afford me. Meadeseriously, baby, what
happened?"
"I was ready to leave the dump anyway. For the last six
weeks the popcorn machine has been carrying the place.
Today I sat through I Was A Teen-Age Beatnik twice. Noth-
ing to do."
"I'll be along."
"Eleven minutes?"
"It's raining. Twentywith luck."
It was more nearly sixty. Santa Monica Boulevard was a
navigable stream; Sunset Boulevard was a subway jam.
When he tried to ford the streams leading to Mrs. Megeath's
house, he found that changing tires with the wheel wedged
against a storm drain presented problems.
"Potty! You look like a drowned rat."
"I'll live," But presently he found himself wrapped in a
blanket robe belonging to the late Mr. Megeath and sipping
hot cocoa while Mrs. Megeath dried his clothing in the
kitchen.
"Meade . . . I'm 'at liberty,' too."
"Hub? You quit your job?"
"Not exactly. Old Man Wiley and I have been having
differences of opinion about my answers for monthstoo
much 'Jackpot factor' in the figures I give him to turn over
to clients. Not that I call it that, but he has felt that I was
unduly pessimistic."
"But you were right!"
"Since when has being right endeared a man to his boss?
But that wasn't why he fired me; that was just the excuse.
He wants a man willing to back up the Know-Nothing pro-
gram with scientific double-talk. And I wouldn't join." He
went to the window. "It's raining harder."
"But they haven't got any program."
"I know that."
"Potty, you should have joined. It doesn't mean any-
thing1 joined three months ago."
"The hell you did!"
She shrugged. "You pay your dollar and you turn up for
two meetings and they leave you alone. It kept my job for
another three months. What of it?"
"Uh, wellI'm sorry you did it; that's all. Forget it.
Meade, the water is over the curbs out there."
"You had better stay here overnight."
"Mmm . . . I don't like to leave 'Entropy' parked out in
this stuff all night. Meade?"
"Yes, Potty?"
"We're both out of jobs. How would you like to duck
north into the Mojave and find a dry spot?"
"I'd love it. But look, Pottyis this a proposal, or just a
proposition?"
"Don't pull that 'either-or' stuff on me. It's just a sugges-
tion for a vacation. Do you want to take a chaperone?"
XT  
No.
"Then pack a bag."
"Right away. But look, Potipharpack a bag how? Are
you trying to tell me it's time to jumpP"
He faced her, then looked back at the window. "I don't
know," he said slowly, "but this rain might go on quite a
while. Don't take anything you don't have to havebut don't
leave anything behind you can't get along without."
He repossessed his clothing from Mrs. Megeath while
Meade was upstairs, She came down dressed in slacks and
carrying two large bags; under one arm was a battered and
rakish Teddy bear. "This is Winnie."
"Winnie the Pooh?"
"No, Winnie Churchill. When I feel bad he promises me
'blood, toil, tears, and sweat'; then I feel better. You said to
bring anything I couldn't do without?" She looked at him
anxiously.
"Right." He took the bags. Mrs. Megeath had seemed
satisfied with his explanation that they were going to visit
his (mythical) aunt in Bakersfield before looking for jobs;
nevertheless she embarrassed him by kissing him good-by
and telling him to "take care of my little girl."
Santa Monica Boulevard was blocked off from use. While
stalled in traffic in Beverly Hills he fiddled with the car
radio, getting squawks and crackling noises, then finally one
station nearby: "in effect," a harsh, high, staccato voice
was saying, "the Kremlin has given us till sundown to get
out of town. This is your New York Reporter, who thinks
that in days like these every American must personally keep
his powder dry. And now for a word from" Breen switched
it  off  and  glanced  at  her  face.  "Don't  worry,"  he  said.
"They've been talking that way for years,"
"You think they are bluffing?"
"I didn't say that. I said, 'don't worry.' "
But his own packing, with her help, was clearly on a
"Survival Kit" basiscanned goods, all his warm clothing,
a sporting rifle he had not fired in over two years, a first-aid
kit and the contents of his medicine chest. He dumped the
stuff from his desk into a carton, shoved it into the back
seat along with cans and books and coats and covered the
plunder with all the blankets in the house. They went back
up the rickety stairs for a last check.
"Pottywhere's your chart?"
"Rolled up on the back seat shelf. I guess that's allhey,
wait a minutel" He went to a shelf over his desk and began
taking down small, sober-looking magazines. "I dern near
left behind my file of The Western Astronomer and of the
Proceedings of the Variable Star Association."
"Why take them?"
"Hub? I must be nearly a year behind on both of them.
Now maybe I'll have time to read."
"Hmm . . . Potty, watching you read professional journals
is not my notion of a vacation."
"Quiet, womani You took Winnie; I take these."
She shut up and helped him. He cast a longing eye at his
electric calculator but decided it was too much like the
White Knight's mouse trap. He could get by with his slide
rule.
As the car splashed out into the street she said, "Potty,
how are you fixed for cash?"
"Hub? Okay, I guess."
"I mean, leaving while the banks are closed and every-
thing." She held up her purse. "Here's my bank. It isn't much,
but we can use it."
He smiled and patted her knee. "Stout fellow! 1m sitting
on my bank; I started turning everything to cash about the
first of the year."
"Oh. I closed out my bank account right after we met."
"You did? You must have taken my maunderings seri-
ously."
"I always take you seriously."
Mint Canyon was a five-mile-an-hour nightmare, with
visibility limited to the tail lights of the truck ahead. When
they stopped for coffee at Halfway, they confirmed what
seemed evident: Cajon Pass was closed and long-haul traffic
for Route 66 was being detoured through the secondary
pass. At long, long last they reached the Victorville cut-off
and lost some of the traffica good thing, as the windshield
wiper on his side had quit working and they were driving
by the committee system. Just short of Lancaster she said
suddenly, "Potty, is this buggy equipped with a snorkel?"
"Nope."
"Then we had better stop. But I see a light off the road."
The light was an auto court. Meade settled the matter of
economy versus convention by signing the book herself;
they were placed in one cabin. He saw that it had twin
beds and let the matter ride. Meade went to bed with her
Teddy bear without even asking to be kissed goodnight. It
was already gray, wet dawn.
They got up in the late afternoon and decided to stay
over one more night, then push north toward Bakersfield.
A high pressure area was alleged to be moving south,
crowding the warm, wet mass that smothered Southern
California. They wanted to get into it. Breen had the wiper
repaired and bought two new tires to replace his ruined
spare, added some camping items to his cargo, and bought
for Meade a .32 automatic, a lady's social-purposes gun; he
gave it to her somewhat sheepishly.
"What's this for?"
"Well, you're carrying quite a bit of cash."
"Oh. I thought maybe I was to use it to fight you off."
"Now, Meade"
"Never mind. Thanks, Potty."
They had finished supper and were packing the car with
their afternoon's purchases when the quake struck. Five
inches of rain in twenty-four hours, more than three billion
tons of mass suddenly loaded on a fault already over-
strained, all cut loose in one subsonic, stomach-twisting
rumble.
Meade sat down on the wet ground very suddenly; Breen
stayed upright by dancing like a logroller. When the
ground quieted down somewhat, thirty seconds later, he
helped her up. "You all right?"
"My slacks are soaked." She added pettishly, "But, Potty,
it never quakes in wet weather. Never."
"It did this time."
"But-"
"Keep quiet, can't you?" He opened the car door and
switched on the radio, waited impatiently for it to warm up.
Shortly he was searching the entire dial. "Not a confounded
Los Angeles station on the airl"
"Maybe the shock busted one of your tubes?"
"Pipe down." He passed a squeal and dialed back to it:
"your Sunshine Station in Riverside, California. Keep
tuned to this station for the latest developments. It is as of
now impossible to tell the size of the disaster. The Colorado
River aqueduct is broken; nothing is known of the extent
of the damage nor how long it will take to repair it. So far
as we know the Owens River Valley aqueduct may be in-
tact, but all persons in the Los Angeles area are advised to
conserve water. My personal advice is to stick your wash-
tubs out into this rain; it can't last forever. If we had time,
we'd play Cool Water, just to give you the idea. I now read
from the standard disaster instructions, quote: 'Boil all
water. Remain quietly in your homes and do not panic. Stay
off the highways. Cooperate with the police and render'
Joel Joel Catch that phonel 'render aid where necessary.
Do not use the telephone except for' Flashi an uncon-
firmed report from Long Beach states that the Wilmington
and San Pedro waterfront is under five feet of water. I re-
peat,  this  is  unconfirmed.  Here's  a  message  from  the
commanding general, March Field: 'official, all military per-
sonnel will report' "
Breen switched it off. "Get in the car."
"Where are we going?"
"North."
"We've paid for the cabin. Should we"
"Get in!"
He stopped in the town, managed to buy six five-gallon-
tins and a jeep tank. He filled them with gasoline and
packed them with blankets in the back seat, topping off the
mess with a dozen cans of oil. Then they were rolling.
"What are we doing, Potiphar?"
"I want to get west on the valley highway."
"Any particular place west?"
"I think si i. .Veil see. You work the radio, but keep an
eye on the road, too. That gas back thpre makes me
nervous."
Through the town of Mojave and northwest on 466 into
the Tehachapi Mountains Reception was poor in the pass
but what Meade could pick up confirmed the first impres-
sionworse than the quake of '06, worse than San Fran-
cisco, Managua, and Long Beach taken together.
When they got down out of the mountains it was clearing
locally; a few stars appeared. Breen swung left off the high-
way and ducked south of Bakersfield by the county road,
reached the Route 99 superhighway just south of Green-
field.  It  was,  as  he  had  feared,  already  jammed  with
refugees; he was forced to go along with the flow for a
couple of miles before he could cut west at Greenfield to-
ward Taft. They stopped on the western outskirts of the
town and ate at an all-night truckers' joint.
They were about to climb back into the car when there
was suddenly "sunrise" due south. The rosy light swelled
almost instantaneously, filled the sky, and died; where it
had been a red-and-purple pillar of cloud was mounting,
mountingspreading to a mushroom top.
Breen stared at it, glanced at his watch, then said harshly,
"Get in the car."
"Pottythat was . . . that was"
"That wasthat used to beLos Angeles. Get in the car!"
He simply drove for several minutes. Meade seemed to
be in a state of shock, unable to speak. When the sound
reached them he again glanced at his watch. "Six minutes
and "nineteen seconds. That's about right."
"Pottywe should have brought Mrs. Megeath."
"How was I to know?" he said angrily. "Anyhow, you can't
transplant an old tree. If she got it, she never knew it."
"Oh, I hope sol"
"Forget it; straighten out and fly right. We're going to
have all we can do to take care of ourselves. Take the flash-
light and check the map. I want to turn north at Taft and
over toward the coast."
"Yes, Potiphar."
"And try the radio."
She quieted down and did as she was told. The radio
gave nothing, not even the Riverside station; the whole
broadcast range was covered by a curious static, like rain
on a window. He slowed down as they approached Taft,
let her spot the turn north onto the state road, and turned
into it. Almost at once a figure jumped out into the road in
front of them, waved his arms violently. Breen tromped on
the brake.
The man came up on the left side of the car, rapped on
the window; Breen ran the glass down. Then he stared
stupidly at the gun in the man's left hand. "Out of the car,"
the stranger said sharply. "I've got to have it." He reached
inside with his right hand, groped for the door lever.
Meade reached across Breen, stuck her little lady's gun
in the man's face, pulled the trigger. Breen could feel the
flash on his own face, never noticed the report. The man
looked puzzled, with a neat, not-yet-bloody hole in his up-
per lipthen slowly sagged away from the car.
"Drive onl" Meade said in a high voice.
Breen caught his breath. "Good girl"
"Drive on! Get rolling!"
They followed the state road through Los Padres Na-
tional Forest, stopping once to fill the tank from their cans.
They turned off onto a dirt road. Meade kept trying the
radio, got San Francisco once but it was too jammed with
static to read. Then she got Salt Lake City, faint but clear:
"since there are no reports of anything passing our radar
screen the Kansas City bomb must be assumed to have been
planted rather than delivered. This is a tentative theory
but" They passed into a deep cut and lost the rest.
When the squawk box again came to life it was a new
voice: "Conelrad," said a crisp voice, "coming to you over
the combined networks. The rumor that Los Angeles has
been hit by an atom bomb is totally unfounded. It is true
that the western metropolis has suffered a severe earth-
quake shock but that is all. Government officials and the
Red Cross are on the spot to care for the victims, butand I
repeatthere has been no atomic bombing. So relax and
stay in your homes. Such wild rumors can damage the
United States quite as much as enemy's bombs. Stay off the
highways and listen for" Breen snapped it off.
"Somebody," he said bitterly, "has again decided that
'Mama knows best.' They won't tell us any bad news."
"Potiphar," Meade said sharply, "that was an atom bomb
. . . wasn't it?"
"It was. And now we don't know whether it was just Los
Angelesand Kansas Cityor all the big cities in the coun-
try. All we know is that they are lying to us."
"Maybe I can get another station?"
"The hell with it." He concentrated on driving. The road
was very bad.
As it began to get light she said, "Pottydo you know
where we're going? Are we just keeping out of cities?"
"I think I do. If I'm not lost." He stared around them.
"Nope, it's all right. See that hill up forward with the triple
gendarmes on its profile?"
"Gendarmes?"
"Big rock pillars. That's a sure landmark. I'm looking for a
private road now. It leads to a hunting lodge belonging to
two of my friendsan old ranch house actually, but as a
ranch it didn't pay."
"Oh. They won't mind us using it?"
He shrugged. "If they show up, we'll ask them. If they
show up. They lived in Los Angeles, Meade."
"Oh. Yes, I guess so."
The private road had once been a poor grade of wagon
trail; now it was almost impassable. But they finally topped
a hogback from which they could see almost to the Pacific,
then dropped down into a sheltered bowl where the cabin
was. "All out, girl. End of the line."
Meade sighed. "It looks heavenly."
"Think you can rustle breakfast while I unload? There's
probably wood in the shed. Or can you manage a wood
range?"
"Just try me."
Two hours later Breen was standing on the hogback,
smoking a cigarette, and staring off down to the west. He
wondered if that was a mushroom cloud up San Francisco
way? Probably his imagination, he decided, in view of the
distance. Certainly there was nothing to be seen to the
south.
Meade came out of the cabin. "Pottyl"
"Up here."
She joined him, took his hand, and smiled, then snitched
his cigarette and took a deep drag. She expelled it and said,
"I know it's sinful of me, but I feel more peaceful than I
have in months and months."
"I know."
"Did you see the canned goods in that pantry? We could
pull through a hard winter here."
"We might have to."
"I suppose. I wish we had a cow."
"What would you do with a cow?"
"I used to milk four cows before I caught the school bus,
every morning. I can butcher a hog, too."
"I'll try to find one."
"You do and III manage to smoke it." She yawned. "I'm
suddenly terribly sleepy."
"So am 1. And small wonder."
"Let's go to bed."
"Uh, yes. Meade?"
"Yes, Potty?"
"We may be here quite a while. You know that, don't
you?"
"Yes, Potty."
"In fact it might be smart to stay put until those curves all
start turning up again. They will, you know."
"Yes. I had figured that out."
He hesitated, then went on, "Meade . . . will you marry
me?"
"Yes." She moved up to him.
After a time he pushed her gently away and said, "My
dear, my very dear, uhwe could drive down and find a
minister in some little town?"
She looked at him steadily. "That wouldn't be very
bright, would it? I mean, nobody knows we're here and
that's the way we want it. And besides, your car might not
make it back up that road."
"No, it wouldn't be very bright. But I want to do the right
thing."
"It's all right. Potty. It's all right."
"Well, then . . . kneel down here with me. Well say
them together."
"Yes, Potiphar." She knelt and he took her hand. He
closed his eyes and prayed wordlessly.
When he opened them he said, "Whats the matter?"
"Uh, the gravel hurts my knees."
"Well stand up, then."
"No. Look, Potty, why don't we just go in the house and
say them there?"
"Hub? Hells bells, woman, we might forget to say them
entirely.  Now repeat  after me:  I,  Potiphar,  take  thee,
Meade-"
"Yes, Potiphar. I, Meade, take thee, Potiphar-"
III
"OFFICIAL: STATIONS WITHIN RANGE BELAY TWICE. EXECUTIVE
BULLETIN NUMBER NINEROAD LAWS PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED
HAVE BEEN IGNOBED IN MANY INSTANCES. PATBOLS ABE OB-
DEBED TO SHOOT WITHOUT WARNING AND PBOVOST MARSHALS
ABE DIBECTED TO USE DEATH PENALTY FOB UNAUTHOMZED
POSSESSION OF GASOLINE. B.W. AND BADIATION QUABANTINE
BEGULATIONS PREVIOUSLY ISSUED WILL BE BIGIDLY ENFOBCED.
LONG LIVE THE UNITED STATES! HABLEY J. NEAL, LIEUTENANT
GENEBAL, ACTING CHIEF OF GOVERNMENT. ALL STATIONS RE-
LAY TWICE."
"THIS IS THE FREE RADIO AMERICA BELAY NETWOBK. PASS THIS
ALONG, BOYS I GOVERNOR BBANDLEY WAS SWORN IN TODAY
AS PRESIDENT BY ACTING CHIEF JUSTICE BOBEBTS UNDEB THE
BULE-OF-SUCCESSION. THE PBESIDENT NAMED THOMAS DEWEY
AS SECRETARY OF STATE AND PAUL DOUGLAS AS SECRETARY OF
DEFENSE. HIS SECOND OFFICIAL ACT WAS TO STBIP THE BENE-
GADE NEAL OF BANK AND TO DIRECT HIS ABBEST BY ANY
CITIZEN OR OFFICIAL. MORE LATEB. PASS THE WORD ALONG.
"HELLO, CQ, CQ, CQ. THIS IS WgKMB, FBEEPOBT, QBB, QBRi
ANYBODY READ ME? ANYBODY? WE'RE DYING LIKE FLIES
DOWN HERE. WHAT'S HAPPENED? STARTS WITH FEVER AND A
BUBNING THIRST BUT YOU CAN'T SWALLOW. WE NEED HELP.
ANYBODY BEAD ME? HELLO, CQ 75, CQ 75 THIS IS "5 KILO
METBO BOMEO CALLING QBB AND CQ 75- BY FOR SOMEBODY.
... ANYBODYIII"
"THIS IS THE LORD'S TIME, SPONSOBED BY SWAN'S ELIXIB, THE
TONIC THAT MAKES WAITING FOR THE KINGDOM OF GOD
WORTHWHILE. YOU ARE ABOUT TO HEAB A MESSAGE OF CHEER
FROM JUDGE BBOOMFIELD, ANOINTED VICAB OF THE KINGDOM
ON EABTH. BUT FIKST A BULLETIN: SEND YOUR CONTRIBU-
TIONS TO 'MESSIAH,' CLINT, TEXAS. DON'T TRY TO MAIL
THEM: SEND THEM BY A KINGDOM MESSENGER OR BY SOME
PILGRIM JOURNEYING THIS WAY. AND NOW THE TABERNACLE
CHOIR FOLLOWED BY THE VOICE OF THE VICAB ON EARTH"
"THE FIRST SYMPTOM IS LITTLE RED SPOTS IN THE ARMPITS.
THEY ITCH. PUT 'EM TO BED AT ONCE AND KEEP 'EM COVERED
UP WARM. THEN GO SCRUB YOUBSELF AND WEAR A MASK: WE
DON'T KNOW YET HOW YOU CATCH IT. PASS IT ALONG, ED."
"NO NEW LANDINGS REPORTED ANYWHERE ON THIS CON-
TINENT. THE PARATROOPERS WHO ESCAPED THE ORIGINAL
SLAUGHTER ARE THOUGHT TO BE HIDING OUT IN THE POCONOS.
SHOOTBUT BE CAREFUL; IT MIGHT BE AUNT TESSIE. OFF AND
CLEAR, UNTIL NOON TOMORROW"
The curves were turning up again. There was no longer
doubt in Breen's mind about that. It might not even be
necessary to stay up here in the Sierra Madres through the
winterthough he rather thought they would. He had
picked their spot to keep them west of the fallout; it would
be silly to be mowed down by the tail of a dying epidemic,
or be shot by a nervous vigilante, when a few months' wait
would take care of everything.
Besides, lie had chopped all that firewood. He looked
at his calloused handshe had done all that work and, by
George, he was going to enjoy the benefits!
He was headed out to the hogback to wait for sunset and
do an hour's reading; he glanced at his car as he passed it,
thinking that he would like to try the radio. He suppressed
the yen; two thirds of his reserve gasoline was gone already
just from keeping the battery charged for the radioand
here it was only December. He really ought to cut it down
to twice a week. But it meant a lot to catch the noon bulletin
of Free America and then twiddle the dial a few minutes to
see what else he could pick up.
But for the past three days Free America had not been on
the airsolar static maybe, or perhaps just a power failure.
But that rumor that President Brandley had been assassi-
natedwhile it hadn't come from the Free radio . . . and it
hadn't been denied by them, either, which was a good sign.
Still, it worried him.
And that other story that lost Atlantis had pushed up dur-
ing the quake period and that the Azores were now a little
continentalmost certainly a hang-over of the "silly season"
but it would be nice to hear a follow-up.
Rather sheepishly he let his feet carry him to the car.
It wasn't fair to listen when  Meade wasn't  around.  He
warmed it up, slowly spun the dial, once around and back.
Not a peep at full gain, nothing but a terrible amount of
static. Served him right.
He climbed the hogback, sat down on the bench he had
dragged up theretheir "memorial bench," sacred to the
memory of the time Meade had hurt her knees on the gravel
sat down and sighed. His lean belly was stuffed with veni-
son and corn fritters; he lacked only tobacco to make him
completely happy. The evening cloud colors were spectacu-
larly beautiful and the weather was extremely balmy for
December; both, he thought, caused by volcanic dust, with
perhaps an assist from atom bombs.
Surprising how fast things went to pieces when they
started to skid I And surprising how quickly they were go-
ing back together, judging by the signs. A curve reaches
trough and then starts right back up. World War III was
the shortest big war on recordforty cities gone, counting
Moscow and the other slave cities as well as the American
onesand then whoosh! neither side fit to fight. Of course,
the fact that both sides had thrown their ICBMs over the
pole through the most freakish arctic weather since Peary
invented the place had a lot to do with it, he supposed. It
was amazing that any of the Russian paratroop transports
had gotten through at all.
He sighed and pulled the November 1951 copy of the
Western Astronomer out of his pocket. Where was he? Oh,
yes, Some Notes on the Stability of G-Type Stars with
Especial Reference to Sol, by A. G. M. Dynkowski, Lenin
Institute, translated by Heinrich Ley, F. R. A. S. Good boy,
Skisound mathematician. Very clever application of har-
monic series and tightly reasoned. He started to thumb for
his place when he noticed a footnote that he had missed.
Dynkowski's own name carried down to it: "This mono-
graph was denounced by Pravda as romantic reactionariism
shortly after it was published. Professor Dynkowski has
been unreported since and must be presumed to be liqui-
dated,"
The poor geekl Well, he probably would have been atom-
ized by now anyway, along with the goons who did him in.
He wondered if they really had gotten all the Russki para-
troopers? Well, he had killed his quota; if he hadn't gotten
that doe within a quarter mile of the cabin and headed
right back, Meade would have had a bad time. He had shot
them in the back, the swinel and buried them beyond the
woodpileand then it had seemed a shame to skin and eat
an innocent deer while those lice got decent burial.
Aside from mathematics, just two things worth doing-
kill a man and love a woman. He had done both; he was
rich.
He settled down to some solid pleasure. Dynkowski was
a treat. Of course, it was old stuff that a G-type star, such
as the sun, was potentially unstable; a G-O star could ex-
plode, slide right off the Russell diagram, and end up as a
white dwarf. But no one before Dynkowski had defined
the exact conditions for such a catastrophe, nor had any-
one else devised mathematical means of diagnosing the in-
stability and describing its progress.
He looked up to rest his eyes from the fine print and saw
that the sun was obscured by a thin low cloudone of those
unusual conditions where the filtering effect is just right to
permit a man to view the sun clearly with the naked eye.
Probably volcanic dust in the air, he decided, acting al-
most like smoked glass.
He looked again. Either he had spots before his eyes or
that was one fancy big sun spot. He had heard of being
able to see them with the naked eye, but it had never hap-
pened to him. He longed for a telescope.
He biinked. Yep, it was still there, upper right. A big
spotno wonder the car radio sounded like a Hitler speech.
He turned back and continued on to the end of the
article, being anxious to finish before the light failed. At
first his mood was sheerest intellectual pleasure at the man's
tight mathematical reasoning. A 3% imbalance in the solar
constantyes, that was standard stuff; the sun would nova
with that much change. But Dynkowski went further; by
means of a novel mathematical operator which he had
dubbed "yokes" he bracketed the period in a star's history
when this could happen and tied it down further with sec-
ondary, tertiary, and quaternary yokes, showing exactly the
time of highest probability. Beautiful) Dynkowski even as-
signed dates to the extreme limit of his primary yoke, as a
good statistician should.
But, as he went back and reviewed the equations, his
mood changed from intellectual to personal. Dynkowski
was not talking about just any G-O star; in the latter part
he meant old Sol himself, Breen's personal sun, the big boy
out there with the oversized freckle on his face.
That was one hell of a big freckle! It was a hole you could
chuck Jupiter into and not make a splash. He could see it
very clearly now.
Everybody talks about "when the stars grow old and the
sun grows cold"but it's an impersonal concept, like one's
own death. Breen started thinking about it very personally.
How long would it take, from the instant the imbalance was
triggered until the expanding wave front engulfed earth?
The mechanics couldn't be solved without a calculator even
though they were implicit in the equations in front of him.
Half an hour, for a horseback guess, from incitement until
the earth went phutti
It hit him  with  gentle  melancholy.  No  more?  Never
again? Colorado on a cool morning . . . the Boston Post
road with autumn wood smoke tanging the air . . . Bucks
county bursting in the spring. The wet smells of the Fulton
Fish Marketno, that was gone already. Coffee at the
Morning Call. No more wild strawberries on a hillside in
Jersey, hot and sweet as lips. Dawn in the South Pacific
with the light airs cool velvet under your shirt and never a
sound but the chuckling of the water against the sides of
the old rust bucketwhat was her name? That was a long
time agothe S. S. Mary Brewster.
No more moon if the earth was gone. Starsbut no one
to look at them.
He looked back at the dates bracketing Dynkowski's
probability yoke. "Thine Alabaster Cities gleam, undimmed
by-
He suddenly felt the need for Meade and stood up.
She was coming out to meet him. "Hello, Pottyl Safe to
come in nowI've finished the dishes."
"I should help."
"You do the man's work; I'll do the woman's work. That's
fair." She shaded her eyes. "What a sunsetl We ought to
have volcanoes blowing their tops every year."
"Sit down and we'll watch it."
She sat beside him and he took her hand. "Notice the
sun spot? You can see it with your naked eye."
She stared. "Is that a sun spot? It looks as if somebody
had taken a bite out of it."
He squinted his eyes at it again. Damned if it didn't look
bigger!
Meade shivered. "I'm chilly. Put your arm around me."
He did so with his free arm, continuing to hold hands with
the other. It was biggerthe thing was growing.
What good is the race of man? Monkeys, he thought,
monkeys with a spot of poetry in them, cluttering and wast-
ing a second-string planet near a third-string star. But some-
times they finish in style.
She snuggled to him. "Keep me warm."
"It will be warmer soon. I mean I'll keep you warm."
"Dear Potty."
She looked up. "Pottysomething funny is happening to
the sunset."
"No darlingto the sun."
"1m frightened."
"I'm here, dear."
He glanced down at the journal, still open beside him. He
did not need to add up the two figures and divide by two
to reach the answer. Instead he clutched fiercely at her
hand, knowing with an unexpected and overpowering burst
of sorrow that this was
The End