Denton stood, at a height of about five feet, eight inches, and Tanner stood and looked down at him and chuckled.
"I'll make it," he said. "If that citizen from Boston made it through and died, I'll make it through and live. I've been as far as the Missus Hip."
"You're lying."
"No, I ain't, either, and if you ever find out that's Straight, remember I got this piece of paper in my pocket-- 'every criminal action,' and like that. It wasn't easy, and I was lucky, too. But I made it that far, and nobody else you know can say that. So I figure that's about halfway, and I can make the other half if I can get that far."
They moved toward the door.
"I don't like to say it and mean it," said Denton, "but good luck. Not for your sake, though."
"Yeah, I know."
Denton opened the door, and, "Turn him loose," he said. "He's driving."
The officer with the pistol handed it to the man who had given Tanner the cigarettes, and he fished in his pockets for the key. When he found it, he unlocked the cuffs, stepped back, and hung them at his belt; and, "I'll come with you," said Denton. "The motor pool is downstairs."
They left the office, and Mrs. Fiske opened her purse and took a rosary into her hands and bowed her head. She prayed for Boston, and she prayed for the soul of its departed messenger. She even threw in a couple for Hell Tanner.
The bell was ringing. Its one note, relentless, interminable, filled the square. In the distance, there were other bell notes, and together they formed a demon symphony that had been going on since the dawn of time, or at least seemed as if it had.
Franklin Harbershire, President of Boston, swallowed a mouthful of cold coffee and relit his cigar. For the sixth time he picked up the fatality report, read the latest figures, threw it down agath.
His desk was covered with papers covered with figures covered with ashes, and it was no good.
After seventy-six hours without sleep, nothing seemed to make sense. Least of all the attempt to quantify the death rate.
He leaned back in his leather chair, squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. From the inside they had been like wounds, red, swimming red.
He was aware that the figures were by now obsolete. They had also been inaccurate in the first place, for there bad to be many undiscovered dead, he knew.
The bells told him that his nation was sinking slowly into the blackness that always lies a half-inch below life, waiting for the crust to weaken.
"Why don't you go home, Mr. President? Or at least take a nap? We'll watch things for you. . .
He blinked his eyes and stared at the small man whose necktie had long ago vanished, along with his dark suit coat, and whose angular face now bore several days' dark growth of beard. Peabody hadn't been standing there a second ago. Had he been dozing?
He raised his cigar, to discover that it had gone out again.
"Thank you, Peabody. I couldn't sleep if I tried, though. I'm just built that way. There's nothing for me to do but wait, here."
"Well, then, would you like some fresh coffee?"
"Yes, thank you."
Peabody seemed gone for only a few seconds. Harbershire blinked his eyes, and a cup of fresh coffee was steaming beside his right hand.
"Thank you, Peabody."
"The latest figures have just come in, sir. It seems to be tapering off."
"Probably a bad sign. Fewer people to do the reporting, and fewer to handle the figures. . . . The only way we'll really know will be to take a count of the living--if there are any living--when this thing is passed, and then subtract from what we had to begin with. I don't trust these figures worth a damn."
"Neither do I, really, sir."
Harbershire burned his tongue on the coffee and drew on his cigar.
"The drivers may have made it by now, and help may be on the way."
"Possibly," said Harbershire.
"So why don't you let me get you a blanket and a pillow--and then you stretch out and get some sleep. There's nothing more to do."
"I can't sleep."
"I could find some whiskey. A couple shots might help you to relax."
"Thanks. I've had a couple."
"Even if the drivers don't make it, this thing may dry up on its own, you know."
"Maybe."
"Everybody's keeping to himself now. We've finally gotten across the idea that congregating is bad."
"That's good."
"Some people are leaving town."
"Not a bad idea. Head for the hills. May save their necks--or some of ours, if they've got it."
He took another sip of coffee, more gingerly this time. He studied the blue smoke ladders that bent above his ashtray.
"What about the looting?" he asked.
"It's still going on. The police have killed a dozen already this evening."
"That's all we need--more deaths. Take a message to the Chief. Have the cops try to arrest them--or only wound them, if possible. Let the public think they're still shooting to kill, though."
"Yes, sir."
"I wish I could sleep. I really do, Peabody. I just can't take much more of it."
"The deaths, sir?"
