ELECTION CAMPAIGN

Originally published in Universe Science Fiction, September 1953.

He stood on his hill and looked at his hands and stretched the ache out of his neck. His hands were blistered and sore; the nails of the first and second fingers of his left hand were black and throbbing.

He thought, I didn’t learn a hell of a lot in this civilization now gone. I never even learned to use a hammer and saw. All I really learned was the fast buck.

He hadn’t been a man given to talking to himself, Johnny Larson. Not when there was anybody else to talk to. There wasn’t—now. The wind was from the south and it brought him the stench from the village. He turned away from it.

His tools, his nails, his lumber had come from the village. He’d gone there, not knowing or caring if the plague was still active. He’d gone there in preference to Vialogo because Vialogo was undoubtedly still radioactive. A possible death he could risk; a certain death he was not ready for.

And why not? He remembered reading, somewhere, the statement of a man who’d claimed he’d rather live all his life on a ledge three feet wide and six feet long than be dead.

Why? There were a lot of ‘whys’. The big one was why Johnny Larson, of all people, should have survived the debacle. Why should he have been on the fringe between atomic blast and the swift plague? Had Somebody planned it that way? Johnny’s knowledge of Somebody was even more vague than his knowledge of home construction.

He turned, now, to look at the lop-sided, one room structure he called home. It wasn’t much, but he’d built it. With his own hands, now sore and scabbed over. Johnny Larson, home builder.

On a hill, he’d built it, in plain sight of anyone who might still be alive. In the hope that anyone still alive would see it, and drop in. Visitors welcome.

He went in and sat on the linoleum covered floor, thinking of the village, of Portsville. It had taken a strong stomach to make the necessary trips for lumber and canned goods and tools. Some had died in the streets and in their places of business. The hardware man had fallen across his open doorway. On three of the trips, Johnny had stepped over him; on the fourth he had moved him, dragging him over behind the counter and out of view.

If he had an excavator and a bull-dozer, he could bury them all in Portsville, just as they’d buried the Japs on Tarawa in that earlier war. That would kill the stench. Time, too, would kill the stench; it was already growing weaker.

All his life, he’d been a city boy. But the day his section of the world came to an end, he’d been coming back from Nick’s country place and got lost in this meadowed hinterland. He’d seen the scores of planes and the mushroom of smoke over Vialogo. He’d seen the cloud, like a dust cloud, over Portsville. He’d seen the glare and heard the earth-shaking boom of it—and lived.

Lucky Johnny Larson, that was his history. Up out of the lower east side into the land of the fast dollar. Big time bookie, right hand to Czar Nick Colias, he’d had a fine life. Caddy convertibles and leggy, bosomy blondes and sharp, well-washed friends and recognition in his trade.

Two hundred and six days of combat in that second world war and not a scratch to show for it. He’d come out of the service loaded with poker money and in three days he was working for Nick Colias. And how can you go wrong, working for Nick?

And then, in Korea, the spark had kindled, again. This one, Johnny sat out, while flame swept the world, while France burned and China crumpled and Russia erupted into wasteland. In the chaos of universal conflict, when everyone worked or fought, from eight to eighty, Johnny and Nick and a few of the chosen lived high off the hog at Nick’s lodge. Smart.

But being smart wasn’t enough. You had to be lucky, lucky enough not to be at Nick’s lodge, near Vialogo, when disaster came. Lucky enough to be lost in the exactly right spot at the right time.

His Caddy was still down on the highway and there were two filling stations in Portsville. But the pumps were electric, and there was no power. Later, he’d find a way to get gas. Later, when the stench was gone, and the bodies were bones.

Later, he’d make some patrols and find out who else had survived, if anybody. There wasn’t any reason to assume he was the last man in his or any world, but the feeling had been growing in him, as the silent days followed the quiet nights, as the only movement in sight was caused by the wind.

The grass waved, under the wind, the trees nodded and bent. In the last week, some of the dust haze had gone and clouds were again visible, drifting in front of the wind.

Me and the wind, Johnny thought, still on the job. And he’d seen a snake, a black creature about three feet long, down near the creek. Me and the snake, Johnny thought, and where’s my Eve, to complete the production?

He thought a lot of screwy things, there being no one to talk to. He even thought about Somebody, quite often, trying to remember what he’d heard in a non-jocular way about Him. All he remembered were the nativity scenes from department store windows at Christmas, and the stories about Him that could be worked into gags.

Now, sitting on his linoleum covered floor in his new one room house, Johnny was thinking about girls, again. About all the blondes, and why couldn’t he remember their faces? He could picture only one face, and that was none he recognized. It seemed to be a composite picture of all of them, and strangely cow-like.

He stood up, and went to the doorway, looking down the slope toward the road. Nothing but grass and trees and creek. At Vialogo, there was nothing at all. At Portsville, there was too much; blue and bloated bodies, lying where they’d fallen.

In the distance, down the road, something moved. Johnny stared, holding onto the doorway, trying to make out the dot coming up the road from Portsville.

An animal? A man? Closer, it came, moving slowly, along the left edge of the road.

A woman.

She seemed to be looking his way, and now she waved, and came forward no further. Johnny ran down to the Caddy. He had only a few gallons left in the tank he was saving for an emergency, but this looked like an emergency.

Even as he started the motor, he saw her waver, then topple. As he swung the Caddy in a u-turn, he saw her trying to rise again. She was kneeling, bent forward, one hand on the ground, when he drew; abreast.

“Easy,” Johnny said. “Easy, sister. You’re going to be all right.”

She looked up, and tried to smile. Her eyes were glazed, her cheeks sunken, her dark hair disheveled and lusterless.

Johnny’s hands were supporting her under the arms, now, and she rose, with his help.

“I saw you in town,” she said. “I saw you, so often, and I tried to call, but—” Her eyes closed, and she slumped against him.

He carried her to the car. He drove her back to the house, and carried her up the hill and put her on the piled blankets in one corner of the room.

She was a woman in her late twenties, dressed in a jumper dress of some ribbed material with a soiled, blue silk blouse. Johnny opened a can of tomato juice, and brought it over to her.

“Food,” he said, and repeated it until her eyes opened.

She shook her head. “It’s not that. I managed to crawl next door and get some food. It’s just I’m still weak from the—plague—” Her eyes closed again.

He sat there for minutes, and her eyes opened. “Is there anyone else? Have you seen anyone else? Is there a radio, working, some place, so we’d know—”

“My car radio is working, but it’s only good for a couple hundred miles,” Johnny said. “I can’t get anything on it. Where were you?”

“In the library. I’m the librarian. I— There was nobody else in the library, when the planes came.” She stirred on the blankets. “Perhaps I could use some of that tomato juice.”

He brought it to her, and helped her sit up. She drank about a quarter of the can, and handed it back. “Could we sit—outside? I want to be in the sun, to see the sun. Today was the first time, I—”

“I know what you mean,” Johnny said. “Sure. Here, put your arm around my neck.” He knelt beside her.

Together, they moved slowly to the door, and she indicated the tree about twenty feet away. They sat under that. She rested her back against the trunk, facing down toward the road.

“In Portsville,” she said, they’re all—?” Her eyes searched his.

“They’re all dead, I guess. I didn’t see anybody alive. I didn’t investigate, much. It’s—” He shrugged.

“I knew them all,” she said, “every one of them. Children and adults and— Oh, Lord. We might be—”

“The last people in the world?” He looked down toward the road. “I was getting the news on the radio before it blanked out, before they hit Portsville and Vialogo. All the big cities are gone, and probably all the small towns. Portsville must have been one of the last to be hit. Russian planes, they were, suicide planes. Maybe some of the flyers are alive, and maybe not. Those jobs weren’t built to come back. And if they used chutes, there’s a ninety percent chance they landed in radioactive territory, which would take care of them. There’s a chance, all right, but I wouldn’t make book on it. There’s a chance we’re the last in the world.”

She was staring at him. “You sound so—so matter of fact.”

He stared back at her. “Why not? I’m alive. Lady, I’m no bleeding heart. It’s a cruel world.”

She seemed to cringe, staring at him. “What kind of—of monster are you?”

“Monster? Me? Johnny Larson? You got me wrong, sister.”

“You saw those people,” she whispered, “in the streets, in the stores, in their homes in Portsville. Children. That’s happened all over the world.”

“So? Did I start it? I fought one war, honey. For sixty-six dollars a month plus twenty percent overseas. Nobody called me a monster then. Let’s not argue, huh? Let’s get along.”

She said nothing, staring down at the road.

Typical hick wren, Johnny thought, even to the jumper. Drying up in a cow town library, living a second-hand life in books, picking up dust with the books, dehydrating.

She plucked a blade of grass and considered it. “Johnny, your name is, Johnny Larson? I’m Jane Deering.”

“A pleasure,” Johnny said.

“I’m sorry,” she went on, “I—said what I did. You’re no more monster than—any of us. I mean, we’re all to blame.”

“Not me,” he said. “And not you, probably. We’re just punks, both of us. We didn’t have any choice. We never had any choice. The big wheels decide all that.”

“We—elect the big wheels.”

“We didn’t elect Uncle Georgi. And nobody else did, either, sister. You read too much, probably, Jane.”

“Probably,” she said. “But—oh, what difference does it make, now?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Later, we can argue, if you want. Now, you’ve got to think about getting your strength back.”

“Oh?” she said. “Why? You’re alive. You’re no bleeding heart.”

He grinned at her. “A man likes company. I was getting punchy, talking to myself.”

She made no comment to that. She said, “Do you think that creek water is safe? I could certainly use a bath.”

“I’ve been drinking it; I hope it’s safe,” Johnny said. “I’ve some men’s clothes, clean ones, if you’d like to change. And a whole case of soap.” He paused. “Do you think you’re strong enough?”

She nodded. “After the fever, I guess it was just—shock. And the mind can absorb only so much of that. I’m sure a bath will help.” While she bathed, he started a fire in the stone fireplace he’d built in the front yard. He had coffee on and soup and was opening a box of crackers when she came back.

There was a noticeable improvement. Her skin was clear and fresh, her eyes less dull. She’d rolled up the legs of the slacks he’d given her, and the sleeves of the oxford shirt. She was no beauty, but she had something all of the blondes had lacked.

“I thought some soup would be good,” Johnny said. “In the hospital they feed you a lot of soup, I hear. But if there’s anything else you want, I’ve probably got it.”

“You got this in town? You—”

“I stepped right over them. Look, Jane, a fact’s a fact. They’re dead. It could have been worse. They died quick, and if there’s some place to go to, after that, they’re there, by now. Maybe you think I’m hard-boiled and maybe I am. But if you’re going to simper, don’t do it around me.”

She looked at him gravely, and sat down nearby. “You’re right. You’re probably more right on a lot of things than I am.”

They ate in silence. Johnny caught himself studying her from time to time, and she wasn’t the kind of girl he would have studied in the pre-debacle days. But he’d been a long time alone.

The sun was going down as they cleaned up the dishes in the creek. The dust haze from the west obscured it some, but they felt its warmth and saw the red pageant of the western sky.

Johnny said, “There’s—only the one room. You’ll have to believe I’m a gentleman.”

She didn’t answer.

“I’m kind of getting the hang of that hammer and saw,” he went on. “I can build another room. Or we can clean out one of those houses in town.”

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t go back there.” She looked at him evenly. “And what difference does it make? Who’s going to judge us?”

Which were five words you could take a couple of ways. By looking at her, Johnny couldn’t tell which way would be smart. It was a restless night.

In the morning, he was up with the sun. She still slept as he went down to the car and turned on the radio. Again, there was nothing.

He went to the creek and washed, bringing a bucket of water back with him to the fireplace.

The entire bucket of water was warm and he had a smaller can boiling for coffee, when she appeared in the doorway.

He said, “I heated some water. You can wash right here, if you want.”

“I should be doing the cooking,” she said. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I’m saving you for the big game,” he said brusquely. “There’s some warm water here, for washing.”

She came down to the fire, and poured the water from the bucket into a basin. Johnny put the big iron skillet onto the flat stones that held it over the fire. He kept his eyes on the skillet.

“You were restless, last night,” she said. She was drying her face.

“Was I? You want some eggs, too?”

She didn’t answer, and he looked at her. She looked better, more composed. She looked almost pretty. Well, they’d looked pretty on the islands, too, after a campaign.

She said, “I saw you go down to the car. Nothing on the radio?”

“Nothing. Maybe we ought to put a flag up, some kind of rag on a pole on top of the hill. Something that can be seen a long ways.”

“It might be a good idea. Why were you restless, last night?”

“Don’t heckle me,” he said. “You know why I was restless.”

“I wasn’t sure. Is that all you lived for before—before Armageddon? Was it just women with you?”

“I knew a lot of them. They’re better than books, I found out as a kid.”

“Too many thought that,” she said quietly. “And now—”

“And now you’re guessing, again,” he said scornfully. “What did you do but sit in that library, and maybe go to literary teas once in a while? What could you have done?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe—with your greater experience, you have some ideas.”

The sarcasm missed him. He said, “Sure. When a guy like Adolph or Quisling or Uncle Georgi starts to shape up, you kill him. There’s always another wheel to take his place, but there’s always a lot of ammunition, too. After a long and serious study of it, that’s the only solution I can find.”

“Very profound,” she said, and this time he didn’t miss the sarcasm.

“I’m not a profound guy. But it worked in Louisiana, maybe you’ll remember.”

“Did it?”

“It worked. There’ll be other jerks in Louisiana, but not with the same personality.”

“There won’t be other jerks in Louisiana any more,” she said. “Oh—Johnny—” She was crying. She held the huge bath towel to her face, while she sobbed.

He didn’t touch her, or say anything. Dames, dames, dames… No wonder most men confined them to limited uses.

She got hold of herself, after a few minutes. She folded the towel carefully and put it on the grass beside her. She said, “I’m pretty good with eggs. Let me do it.”

She was pretty good with eggs. And the bacon was just right. The heat of the fire brought some color to her cheeks, and the terror was leaving her eyes. Blue, her eyes were, blue as the sky before—what was that word she’d used—before Armageddon.

He said, “What does that mean—Armageddon?”

“Oh, actually it means the place where the last great battle is to be fought. Commonly, it means the end of the world, more or less. It’s from the Bible.”

“That’s why I missed it,” Johnny said.

“You and millions of others,” she said.

He grinned at her. “We’re arguing again. Okay, chew on this. My old lady was Russian. Peasant. Very religious people, the Russian peasants; they all had their Bibles. But not Uncle Georgi’s boys. Who wound up on top there?”

“And where are they, now?”

“They’re with the others, with the peasants. And the worms can’t taste the difference.”

“What a horrible thought,” she said. “You’re a strange man, Johnny Larson.”

“I’m standard,” he said, “except for the Caddy. You should have got out of that library more.”

“Maybe. I’m glad I didn’t. Let’s get to work on the flag.” They worked on it all morning. Johnny cut a long branch from one of the red oaks on the hill, and tied one of the brighter blankets to it. Then he wired it to the mammoth oak on top of the hill.

When he came down again, scratched and sweaty, she said, “It’s a symbol, isn’t it?”

“If you say so, it is. I could sure use some lunch.”

There wasn’t much dialogue during lunch. Johnny wasn’t sure if she was miffed about something, or just remembering the past days. He was tired, and he went into the house after lunch, for a nap.

He could hear the house creak in the slight breeze, and the rattle of the pans she was washing, outside. He lay on the blankets, staring at the ceiling—and it hit him, like a delayed fever.

He felt completely alone, suddenly, completely alone for the first time. There was a dry, aching burn in him and he trembled like the poorly hung window in the west wall.

Weakly, he called out and heard her quick footsteps before the darkness came.…

* * * *

It was a curious time. Rose was there, following him around, adoring him, and he was chasing her home, again. He saw his mother, saw her sad brown eyes, forever on her Bible, saw his big, blond father, coming home drunk, heard him singing, saw him throwing the packages in, first. The dress for his mother, the doll for Rose, the nickel-plated, four-bladed super pocket knife for Johnny.

“Hit ’em again, Anna, I hit ’em again. The dice know me, Anna baby, they know how hard I work. Are we unhappy, Anna? Are you going to scorch me, with that tongue?”

She never did. Maybe because he won, so often. Or maybe because she knew he had to have this sense of power, anyway. A man who spends six long days a week in the ditch needs some outlet beyond his home.

With the dice, he was a lucky man, Einar Larson. With the cards, he was no prize, but the dice did his bidding, more often than not. A big, hard working, happy man.

Until he’d gone back into the flat, to get Rose out, that night of the fire. Back up to the fifth floor to get his darling Rose. Neither of them came out.

How often had the building been condemned as a fire trap? And how often had somebody got to the right guy with the right price, to release the condemnation, again? There must be a record of it, somewhere.

No Rose, no Einar; Anna died. Wasn’t Johnny enough? Evidently not. Anna died.

Thirteen and in the first year of high school, and he quit that to take Hymie Aaron’s corner with the News and the Trib. Paid for it, out of earnings, and lied about his age, and got away with it. From the night his dad went in for Rose, Johnny had looked older than his age.

Well, that’s water over the dam, and so was the rest. Now, he was Johnny Larson, with a bookful of blondes and a sweet Caddy convertible.

Only he wasn’t. He was a sick man on a pile of blankets in the corner of a one room house on a hill.

He opened his eyes and saw Jane and asked, “How long?”

“Six days. You’re past the crisis, now. There are some people, here, Johnny. They came yesterday.”

“What kind? Men, women?”

“All men. One of them you know—a Nick Colias?”

“Nick? Nick was at Vialogo. He couldn’t have—”

“He had a bomb shelter there, he claimed, and it must have been adequate.”

“Bomb shelter? At the lodge? Nick never told me about that.”

“It wasn’t a very big shelter, I guess, Johnny.”

Her face blurred, became clear, again. Her eyes were weary, her face thin and shadowed.

Then, Nick’s hearty voice. “Johnny boy, my right hand. You’re with us, again, huh, kid?” Over her shoulder, he saw Nick, big and broad and dark, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Hello, Nick. Surprised to see you.”

“You’re surprised. I’m amazed. But it’s Lucky Johnny. I’d almost forgotten how lucky you are.”

“Who’s with you, Nick? Some of the boys?”

“No, Johnny, they didn’t make it. I got a Brain, though, Johnny. Oh, a bright, bright guy. M.I.T. man, and he’s rigged up one of those code transmitters. We’ve been in contact with some spots around the country. There’s people, yet. Maybe a hundred, even more. Nothing from Europe, though.”

“Women, too,” Jane said quietly. “Brave new world, maybe, Johnny.”

Nick chuckled. “As soon as I saw her, I should have known you’d be around, somewhere, kid. If there’s one dame left in the world, Johnny’d have her, I always said.”

Johnny’s smile was weak. “We’re getting things cleaned up in Portsville, Johnny,” Nick went on. “This Brain of mine found a way to get gas out of those filling stations tanks, and we’re burning what we can’t bury. It will make a good base. Organization, that’s what gets things done, huh, kid?”

“You’re the man who can organize,” Johnny agreed. “I want to talk to my—my nurse, Nick.” For a moment, suspicion darkened the broad face. Then Nick’s white teeth gleamed in a smile. “Sure, sure, I get you, kid.” Heavy feet on the linoleum of the floor and silence. Johnny looked at Jane, and she seemed to be crying.

“Tired?” he asked.

“I suppose that’s it, mostly.”

“Was I delirious? I talked a lot, I’ll bet.”

“You talked about your father and mother. And a Rose—?”

“My sister,” Johnny said. “She died, as a kid, burned to death in a crummy tenement fire.”

“Oh.”

“My dad died trying to get her out. My mother died soon after that.”

“And how old were you?”

“Thirteen, when my mother died. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

“Look, why I wanted Nick to vamoose for a second, I want to—to tell you—I mean—thanks. You brought me through it, didn’t you?”

She shook her head. “I was around, that’s all. You brought yourself through it, with your will to live.”

He smiled. “We don’t want to argue, now. You know, when it first came on, I got the damnedest feeling. Like I was—all alone, like there just wasn’t anybody else—like—”

“I know,” she said. “Don’t talk too much. You’re still weak.”

“I’m all right. I’m fine. What are the others like, besides Nick?”

“There’s a farmer, a Mr. Greene. And this electrical Brain of Nick’s and a young fellow, who was out here on a hiking trip and a truck driver. That’s all.”

“Four of them, and Nick?”

“That’s about it, the way you put it. He’s the—what did you call it—the big wheel?”

Johnny nodded. “That’s Nick. He’s a great organizer.”

“Try and rest. Don’t think about anything.”

“I’m not thinking. I’ll let Nick do that.”

“Try and rest.”

He got up that afternoon. His legs were weak and his head a bit giddy, but he got out into the sun of the front yard and met the others, when they came back from the village.

Greene was a big, lank man, weather-beaten, bony, about fifty. The young man was Gerald Downing, a thin, intense, almost fragile looking lad. Pete Anconi was the M.I.T. gent, dark, short and square faced. The fourth man, the truck driver, was Al Schwartz and he was a lot of man, well over two hundred with forearms like a man’s leg.

Johnny met them all and Nick said, “Used to be my good right arm. Once he’s up and around, we’ll really get this show on the road.”

Pete Anconi smiled and said, “Nick’s got us all out of the mental funk we were in. He’s been a great—leader.” Some emphasis on that last word.

Schwartz said, “I’ll bet you were a promoter, huh, Mr. Colias?”

“More or less,” Nick said. “Had a lot of—of varied interests.”

Young Downing said, “We thought this would be an ideal place for the new—the new world.” He said this quickly, as though it was important to get it out.

Johnny looked at Anconi, whose square darkness made him resemble Nick. Anconi and Colias, he thought, minority group Joes, as they say. One had gone into the rackets, and one into M.I.T. Why?

Jane said, “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” and went over to the fire.

Johnny looked at young Downing. “New world?” and a phrase came to him, “Brave new world? Why here?”

Downing looked at Anconi and Anconi answered for him. “So far as we’ve been able to tell, this is one of the least affected areas in America. The water’s still clean, and those who are still alive that we’ve been able to contact are willing to come here. We’ve mapped a route for most of them through the plague area rather than the blast area, because that blasted land is far more dangerous. We’re going to have to set up some kind of government and begin training all the survivors in as many skills and fields as they can absorb or accomplish. We don’t intend to go back to savagery.”

Greene said, “For my money, I’d like something simpler than the civilization that’s gone. But I’ll abide by the others, on that.” Anconi frowned, but said nothing.

Schwartz said, “About all I can furnish is muscle, but there’s plenty of it.”

Johnny looked at Downing. Downing said quietly, “I don’t think it’s nearly as important to preserve the mechanical gimmicks of our—former civilization as it is to preserve and record what was—worthwhile in its culture.”

Anconi grinned. “I wouldn’t argue with you on that, lad. But that would have to be your department. It’s beyond me.”

“And me,” Nick said.

“And me,” Schwartz said, “and Greene, too, I’d bet money. You know, with all this gab, we haven’t decided what kind of government to set up.”

“I can’t think of anything wrong with the one we had,” Downing said.

“I can think of a million things wrong with it,” Greene said, “but maybe I belonged to the wrong party. I say, for now, a leader. I mean a real, strong guy who’ll put out the orders and get some efficiency.”

Downing seemed to be on the point of protesting, but Jane said, “Dinner’s ready. Johnny, do you want to eat out here, with the rest of us?”

“I’m feeling a little dizzy,” he lied. “Would it be too much if I had something in the house?”

She said, “Of course not. Help him get to the house, Pete. I’ll bring something in to you, in a minute.”

Gerald Downing came over to help, too, and Johnny put a hand on the shoulder of each man as he moved toward the house.

He hadn’t been there more than a minute before she entered with a bowl of soup. “Invalid,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re—out of that delirium.”

He smiled. “Have you been cooking for that whole gang?”

“Just since they came, and that was only yesterday, remember.”

“They slept here, last night?”

“No. They’ve a place in town. Here, have some soup. Why all the questions, Johnny?”

“I don’t know. How long have they been in town?”

“For four days. Will you eat your soup?”

“My hands are kind of shaky. Would you—”

She looked at him in mock suspicion. “Your hands don’t look shaky to me.”

“I know. I—wanted to say ‘thanks’, again. Or maybe I just wanted to talk to you. Things are going to be all right, aren’t they? There’ll be a new world.”

“I guess. What kind, though, Johnny?” She was feeding him the soup.

“The kind we make.”

“The kind Nick makes, you mean.”

He stared at her. “What have you got against Nick? He’s just a natural—leader.”

She said nothing.

“Look, Jane, there’s nothing small about Nick. He’s a big wheel.” And then he stopped.

She nodded. “He’s a big wheel nobody elected.” She stood up. “Try and get some rest, Johnny.” She went out.

Johnny lay there, thinking of the dream, thinking of the arguments he and Jane had had and thinking, for some reason, of young Gerald Downing.

He could hear them talking, outside, hear Nick’s genial, persuasive voice. An operator, Nick was. Nobody but Johnny really knew what a smooth and apparently guileless operator Nick was.

He came in, before going back to town. “Awake, Johnny?”

“I’m awake. How’s it going, Nick?”

“It’s going too good, almost.” The room was twilight dim, and Nick’s squat form was outlined by the fire from the yard. His voice cut to a whisper. “Nicholas the First. How does that sound?”

“You been drinking, Nick?”

“Nope. Nicholas the First. Johnny, it’s like destiny. I suppose you think I’m screwy, but since I was a punk in knee pants, I knew there was nothing too big for Nick.”

“Relax, Nick. There are only seven of us. The others that are coming are going to—”

“They’re coming here” Nick interrupted quickly. “Don’t you see it, Johnny? What’s the word that plough jockey used, that Greene? ‘Abide’—that’s it. He’ll abide by what the others want, and so will the ones who are coming. They’re coming into a set-up. How many are going to argue?”

“Not many. There won’t be much fight in them. But what does this gang think of your—dream, Nick?”

“They’re for it. They’re not against it, anyway. Schwartz thinks I’m the right man, and you heard Greene. That Brain doesn’t care what kind of government we have, just so he can work in peace. That—Downing, that punk, well—I guess I can take care of him.” Johnny stared, shaking his head. “And you, Johnny, won’t I take care of you. You’ll be my right hand, again.”

“That’s the best part,” Johnny said. “How did you work it, Nick?”

“I let them work it out, with all their blather. Just a word, here and there, to keep the dialogue along the right lines. I was thinking and they were talking. I don’t have to explain that to you, kid. You’ve seen me operate.”

“I sure have. Lordy, there comes that dizziness, again. I’ve got to get some shut-eye, Nick.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe it would look better, Johnny, if the girl went back to town with us, huh?”

From the doorway, Jane said, “I’m staying here. He needs me.”

Nick’s chuckle was as coarse as any words he could voice. He said, “You haven’t lost your touch, Johnny. See you tomorrow.”

She stood there, in the doorway, until they’d gone. Then she came over to sit near Johnny. “Feeling better?”

“Much. That was just malarkey about the dizziness. I was getting sick of Nick’s pipe dreams.”

She said nothing.

“He must think he’s Napoleon, or something,” Johnny went on. “You think he might have a touch of the plague? There’s plenty for all of us, plenty of everything.”

“Everything but power, everything but people to command. Johnny, how blind are you?” Her voice was rough, husky. “Do you suppose for a second he can’t do it?”

“Of course he can do it, but why? There’s no reason to. There are stores full of things to be used, probably food enough for a million years. Cars, clothes, tools, everything—”

It was almost dark, now, and he could scarcely see her. She said, “Let’s not talk about it. You’re too weak to get worked up.”

“Worked up? Me? Why should I worry?”

“That’s right,” she said. “You’re alive. You’re no bleeding heart. And next time, maybe Nick’s bomb shelter will be big enough for two.”

“Hell,” he said peevishly, “why do we always have to argue.”

“We don’t,” she said, and reached out to take his hand. “Johnny, there are times when I think you’re almost human.” Johnny Larson, holding hands with a librarian. It was a new world, all right, a strange new world.

Later, after she fell asleep, he lay quietly, staring at the unseen ceiling, remembering the onslaught of the plague and that terrible, frightening sense of being alone. We die alone, he thought. All our lives, we live with people, and then die alone. Rose and Pa—had they died alone? Or had Pa got to her? Ma had died alone, and for a long time after that, Johnny had lived alone.

Until he was big enough for blondes.

He listened to the sound of Jane’s breathing, and then moved the blankets carefully. He didn’t put on shoes, but stopped at the doorway, to make sure he had the keys to the car.

There was a full moon somewhere behind the haze, and it afforded enough light for him to reach the car without trouble. The door was open, and he didn’t start the motor.

He’d brought the keys because he wanted to get into the glove compartment, and he always kept that locked.

* * * *

In the morning, Jane said, “I suppose we might as well move into town, soon. The houses are empty, now, Pete tells me. And the town cleaned up.”

“What’s wrong with this place?” Johnny said, grinning, “It’s hand built. Or is it because there’s somebody to judge us, now?”

She returned his grin. “Probably. Chipper this morning, aren’t you?”

“I’m a man with a purpose, now. We’ve a new world to build, lady. After I take my bath.”

She studied him. “You’ve been thinking. You’ve been using that brain of yours.”

“That’s right. You know what I’ve been thinking?”

“That you’re going to have your say in the making of the new world.”

“Right. Hey, how did you know that?”

“Because I think we’ve got a new Johnny, too, since you were sick.”

“Not completely, baby. It’s the same model, but there’ve been some small changes. I just don’t intend to get pushed around, by anybody.”

“Including Nick?”

“Including Nick.”

“You—weren’t thinking of becoming the big wheel, yourself?”

“Why, Jane,” Johnny said. “What kind of monster do you think I am?” His voice was mocking.

* * * *

In town, that afternoon, Jane went back to the home she’d occupied as a boarder; Johnny chose a cottage near the heart of town. He worked under Pete Anconi, the rest of the day, getting things ready at the power house.

“Another reason why we think this is the logical spot,” Pete told him. “They’ve their own power and their own water system. Most of these small towns get their power from Metropolitan. Self-sufficient and stiff-necked little town, this Portsville was.”

“Thank God,” Johnny said.

“Pete, have you heard anything from those who’re coming here?”

Pete nodded. “There’s a party of five cars, twenty people, who should be here this evening. They went through Deming, this morning, according to a lad I hear from, there. Eight women, ten men, and two kids, a boy and girl.”

“I see. Did—you decide on a government, last night?”

Pete’s smile was tolerant. “No. I kind of favor Nick’s plans. Though it’s not a word to use around hot-heads.”

“Word?”

“Dictatorship. Don’t flinch—there’s another word to add to it, benevolent dictatorship. There’s no doubt about it being the most efficient form of government, though it probably isn’t the fairest. But it’s a way to get things done.”

“And Nick’s—benevolent?”

“Isn’t he? You know him. Promoter, wasn’t he?”

“Racketeer.”

“Oh. And—you worked for him?”

“That’s right.”

Pete smiled easily. “Conscience, Johnny? Or competition?”

“I don’t know, Pete. I really don’t know. I just got a feeling I want to get into the act.”

Pete shrugged. “I never messed in politics. All I ever asked for was a chance to learn and work. Nick’s promised me that.” He picked up a wrench. “We’d better check the feed in that auxiliary tank. Wish I had a man who understood Diesels. I hope there’ll be one in this party.”

Dinner was in the assembly room of the Town Hall, that evening. Jane had prepared it; Gerald Downing and Al Schwartz would clean up the kitchen. Nick’s orders, Nicholas the First.

Johnny looked them over, counting the house. Schwartz, Greene, Pete would ride with Nick. Downing and Jane, what kind of allies were they? And if it came to a vote, they were out-numbered.

Jane was bringing in the coffee, when Johnny said, “As soon as that first party of twenty arrives, I think we ought to have an election.”

From the far end of the table, Nick looked sharply his way.

Johnny returned Nick’s stare. “Don’t you think so, Nick?”

“Election?” Nick shrugged. “Sounds like politics, Johnny. That going to be your rack—game, from now on?”

“It should be everybody’s game,” Gerald Downing said quickly. His voice was unnecessarily high.

Pete Anconi looked from Nick to Johnny, saying nothing.

Jane said, “Have you a better idea, Mr. Colias?”

Nick smiled at her. “I haven’t given it much thought. I’m a great organization man, myself. Science and the farmer and labor and the business man are what made America great, I always said. I don’t put much faith in politics.”

Gerald Downing laughed. “Science and the farmer and labor and the businessman. You overlooked me and Jane. You should have added ‘and the student and the love of our women’. Then you’d have us solid.”

Anconi smiled.

Johnny said, “And the racketeer—to include you and me, Nick.”

For the briefest second, Nick froze. And then his geniality came back, like the mask it was. “Racketeer, Johnny? Just because I had a little income tax trouble? That would make us all racketeers, I’ll bet.”

Al Schwartz said, “That’s for sure. All the kick-backs I used to get from the filling stations. Boy, those muggs in Washington were bleeding us white. If a guy didn’t chisel, he didn’t eat.”

Pete Anconi said, “I don’t remember any illegal deductions, but some of my best friends were guilty. You’ll have to do better than that, Johnny.”

Jane said, “This isn’t Washington, it’s Portsville. We don’t need to assume the vices of a government because we adopt its virtues.”

Greene said heavily, “Maybe the little lady could name one of the virtues. I’ve got a short memory.”

Jane’s chin went up, and she looked steadily at Greene. “I shouldn’t have to tell a farmer about the biggest virtue. That was freedom, whether you remember it, or not.”

“I remember it,” Greene said, “and I can’t see that I’ve lost it. Not yet, anyway, lady.”

Johnny said, “Not yet, you haven’t. But, of course, you boys don’t know Nick. Not like I do.” There was a silence. There was a silence that reminded Johnny of the pre-Jane days, and there was a sudden recurrence of the plague’s loneliness, and there was a quick, sharp memory of his dad going in for Rose.

And the remembrance that somebody had got to somebody, to keep that tenement the fire-trap it was. In Johnny’s mind, there was an abrupt and determined decision.

He said, “I’m not running for the office. I’m not good enough. And neither is Nick. We need an honest man, elected by all of us, or an honest woman. I think all of you will qualify for that, with the exception of Nick and me.” Johnny turned, to catch Jane’s glance, and it was like holding hands, again.

Nick shook his head sadly. “To think my character reference would have to come from a man who’s envied me since the day I put him to work. Everything he’s got, including the Caddy, I gave him. And still this envy eats him. Gentlemen, I don’t want trouble. Until Johnny came, there was no trouble.”

“That’s right,” Greene said. “You’ve sure got a point there, Nick.”

Al Schwartz nodded agreement.

Pete seemed to be on the fence, but Pete was a man who loved peace. He’d had it, under Nick.

Johnny said, “There are twenty people due soon, including two kids. Before you make any decisions, think of the kids. And the others to follow. Maybe it’s not important to you, to us, but it’s going to be important as hell to the kids. We didn’t earn anything better than we got; we haven’t got the right to saddle them with anything worse.”

Even Greene didn’t protest, this time. Heart appeal, Johnny thought. If I could work in a flag curtain.

Nick’s smile was sad, his brown eyes paternal. “Gentlemen—” he bowed to Jane, “—and lady, we’ve too much work to do to waste time quibbling. Basically, Johnny and I understand each other. I’d like to suggest that he and I go into the committee room and decide if we can’t reach a compromise agreement.”

“That makes sense,” Greene said. “We’ve got to get along, all of us.”

“Agreeable to you, Johnny?” Nick said.

Johnny nodded, and looked at Jane.

Fear in her eyes, and maybe she guessed. Maybe, with all her reading, she’d read about Nick’s kind of people. She knew about the bomb shelter; she, alone of the group, had grasped the significance of that.

But she didn’t know he was prepared, because she hadn’t seen him go to the car, that night.

He and Nick rose, and Nick started for the door at his end of the room. On the way, Johnny paused to put a hand on Downing’s shoulder.

He said quietly, “If things go wrong, you’ll watch over Jane, huh, punk?”

Downing nodded, looked up, and managed a grin.

Nick was waiting, when Johnny got to the small, bare, committee room. He’d left his mask behind.

“You dumb bastard,” he said. “What the hell kind of racket you trying to pull?”

“None. Maybe I got religion, Nick.”

“Cut it out. The babe, that’s it, huh? Trying to be a big shot for her. You can have her. Did you think I was going to move in on a wren like that? I’m not that hard up.”

“I just don’t think you’d make a good boss, Nick. It’s nothing you’d understand. It’s too big for you. And I don’t think you’re going to be boss. I know you’re not.”

“Do you? You double-crossing blonde-chaser, you think I wasn’t prepared for something like this? You think all I got is words and angles? You think there’s anything Nick Colias overlooked?”

The thing in Nick’s hand wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small enough to be overlooked. It was a .32 Banker’s Special, a small gun, but big enough to put an adequate number of holes in Johnny.

Johnny smiled at it and said quietly, “I’ve seen you in corners before, Nick. I didn’t guess you’d overlook anything. Got a little gadget here, myself, that’s along the same lines.”

It was a bigger gun, a service .45. It hadn’t ever been used by Johnny, but it had been in his glove compartment since he’d first bought the Caddy. You never know, in Johnny’s business.

Nick looked at it, and back at Johnny’s smiling face. The smile was what must have slowed Nick. And the knowledge that the .32 had better hit bone or heart, because once that .45 started to blast, it made awfully big holes.

Nick looked at Johnny, trying to figure him, obviously. Finally, the smile found its way back to Nick’s face. He chuckled. “What a sucker play. The only two hep gents in the whole known world, bumping each other off. There’s a better answer than that, huh, Johnny? We can divide it up.”

“We can elect a temporary leader, and abide by his decisions. But you wouldn’t do that. You’d pretend you were, and keep working, looking for the angle, looking for the opportunity, waiting, smart and greedy. You know, Jane and I talked about a situation like this, and I think I had the only right answer.”

“Well, maybe. I’m a man who’ll listen to reason, Johnny. Especially if it means I’ll live.” Nick’s gun was dropping toward his side, and Johnny automatically lowered his.

Then Nick’s hand moved quickly, his finger tightening as he swept the little .32 back up.…

* * * *

In the assembly room, they heard the shots, and all of them stiffened. Pete Anconi started to get up, as did Downing.

But the door from the committee room was opening, and a man came out, and into the larger room. It was Johnny.

His face was white, and he was holding his right side with one clenched hand. Blood dripped out from between his fingers.

He said quietly, “You can hold the election, now.” His eyes were on Jane. “And then, I think, whoever’s elected had better appoint a jury.” He turned from Jane to face them all squarely. “I’ve just killed a man.”