Читать книгу We Who Survived - Sterling Noel - Страница 15

AT 11:05 that night (Friday, September 20) a Garbut Transport settled softly at the jetshield at Harrow farm and we went out to help unload the snowmobile. Rance Goodrich assumed command of the operation, since it was “his” machine, and no one objected. The rest of us—Gabe, Jack Osborne, Bob Jordan, and the two Lawrences, Fred and Sam Houston, acted as the work gang under his direction. Libby Jordan, Florence and Marge were the kibitzers (a Bridge term which means one who comments on the play of the Bridge hands) and I was elated to see that these three had so quickly accepted each other and apparently were becoming friends.

We got the Garbut unloaded in less than half an hour, with the aid of Corning jacks and a Localus carrier which, fortunately, was part of the ample equipment of the Harrow farm. We stowed the boxed parts of the snowmobile in the East Barn, which was closest to the jetshield. We had to melt a path to the barn with a Corry converter, but that took only a few minutes.

“Bill Wernecke will start reinforcement of the East Barn roof in a few days,” Gabe told me. “I have all of the material he will need to reinforce the barn and the house. The West Barn is stacked to the rafters with lomax alloy beams and siding. Before the Chinese War I was going to build my own Ionoscope Tower and observation station. Now they’re against the law. . . . I sometimes wonder, Vic, whether Gamberelli was a wise choice for President.”

“I guess it won’t make much difference in a few months,” I said.

“No, it won’t. . . . Is this girl you’ve brought the one you told Elaine and me about a couple of years ago?”

“Yes. I dropped her for a time but I couldn’t forget her.”

“You planning to marry her?”

“Of course.”

“She looks like a good choice to me, Vic. Elaine told me she likes her very much. You’ve complied with the trial-period regulations, I trust?”

“Oh yes. We’ve lived together the requisite number of days—in fact, twice the requisite. I’ve got the certificates somewhere.”

“You’d better have them here if you’re going to make it legal.”

“I’m sure they’re in my bag. . . . Gabe, what do you honestly think our chances are? I know the reasons for a lot of this—the elaborate plans, the snowmobile, the board of directors. We just can’t quit. It isn’t in you and it isn’t in any of this group you’ve gathered here. But—what’s the answer?”

He looked at me long and hard in the dim worklight that came through the open barn door. He shook his head, then, and said, “I wish the hell I knew, Vic.”