Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “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" basis — canned 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.

  “Potty — where’s your chart?"

  “Rolled up on the back seat shelf. I guess that’s all — hey, wait a minute!" 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?"

  “Huh? 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, woman! 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?"

  “Huh? Okay, I guess."

  “I mean, leaving while the banks are closed and everything." 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! I’m 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 seriously."

  “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 traffic — a 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 overstrained, 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 air!"

  “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 intact, but all persons in the Los Angeles area are advised to conserve water. My personal advice is to stick your washtubs 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 — ' Joe! Joe! Catch that phone! ' — render aid where necessary. Do not use the telephone except for — ' Flash! an unconfirmed report from Long Beach states that the Wilmington and San Pedro waterfront is under five feet of water. I repeat, this is unconfirmed. Here’s a message from the commanding general, March Field: 'official, all military personnel 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 so. We’ll see. You work the radio, but keep an eye on the road, too. That gas back there 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 impression — worse than the quake of '06, worse than San Francisco, 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 highway and ducked south of Bakersfield by the county road, reached the Route 99 superhighway just south of Greenfield. 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 toward 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, mounting — spreading to a mushroom top.

  Breen stared at it, glanced at his watch, then said harshly, “Get in the car."

  “Potty — that was … that was"

  “That was — that used to be — Los 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."

  “Potty — we 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 so!"

  “Forget it; straighten out and fly right. We’re going to have all we can do to take care of ourse
lves. Take the flashlight 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 upper lip — then slowly sagged away from the car.

  “Drive on!" Meade said in a high voice.

  Breen caught his breath. “Good girl —"

  “Drive on! Get rolling!"

  They followed the state road through Los Padres National 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 earthquake shock but that is all. Government officials and the Red Cross are on the spot to care for the victims, but — and I repeat — there 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 Angeles — and Kansas City — or all the big cities in the country. 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, “Potty — do 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 friends — an 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. “Potty!"

  “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 I’ll manage to smoke it." She yawned. “I’m suddenly terribly sleepy."

  “So am I. 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, uh — we 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. We’ll 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, “What’s 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 —"

  Chapter Three

  “OFFICIAL: STATIONS WITHIN RANGE RELAY TWICE. EXECUTIVE BULLETIN NUMBER NINE — ROAD LAWS PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED HAVE BEEN IGNORED IN MANY INSTANCES. PATROLS ARE ORDERED TO SHOOT WITHOUT WARNING AND PROVOST MARSHALS ABE DIRECTED TO USE DEATH PENALTY FOR UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION OF GASOLINE. B.W. AND RADIATION QUARANTINE REGULATIONS PREVIOUSLY ISSUED WILL BE RIGIDLY ENFORCED. LONG LIVE THE UNITED STATES! HARLEY J. NEAL, LIEUTENANT GENERAL, ACTING CHIEF OF GOVERNMENT. ALL STATIONS RELAY TWICE."

  “THIS IS THE FREE RADIO AMERICA RELAY NETWORK. PASS THIS ALONG, BOYS! GOVERNOR BRANDLEY WAS SWORN IN TODAY AS PRESIDENT BY ACTING CHIEF JUSTICE ROBERTS UNDER THE RULE-OF-SUCCESSION. THE PRESIDENT NAMED THOMAS DEWEY AS SECRETARY OF STATE AND PAUL DOUGLAS AS SECRETARY OF DEFENSE. HIS SECOND OFFICIAL ACT WAS TO STRIP THE RENEGADE NEAL OF RANK AND TO DIRECT HIS ARREST BY ANY CITIZEN OR OFFICIAL. MORE LATER. PASS THE WORD ALONG.

  “HELLO, CQ, CQ, CQ. THIS IS W5KMR, FREEPORT, QRR, QRR! ANYBODY READ ME? ANYBODY? WE’RE DYING LIKE FLIES DOWN HERE. WHAT’S HAPPENED? STARTS WITH FEVER AND A BURNING THIRST BUT YOU CAN’T SWALLOW. WE NEED HELP. ANYBODY BEAD ME? HELLO, CQ 75, CQ 75 THIS IS W5 KILO METRO ROMEO CALLING QRR AND CQ 75. BY FOR SOMEBODY. … ANYBODY!!!"

  “THIS IS THE LORD’S TIME, SPONSORED BY SWAN’S ELIXIR, THE TONIC THAT MAKES WAITING FOR THE KINGDOM OF GOD WORTHWHILE. YOU ARE
ABOUT TO HEAR A MESSAGE OF CHEER FROM JUDGE BROOMFIELD, ANOINTED VICAR OF THE KINGDOM ON EARTH. BUT FIRST A BULLETIN: SEND YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS 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 VICAR 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 YOURSELF AND WEAR A MASK: WE DON’T KNOW YET HOW YOU CATCH IT. PASS IT ALONG, ED."

  “— NO NEW LANDINGS REPORTED ANYWHERE ON THIS CONTINENT. THE PARATROOPERS WHO ESCAPED THE ORIGINAL SLAUGHTER ARE THOUGHT TO BE HIDING OUT IN THE POCONOS. SHOOT — BUT 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 winter — though 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 hands — he 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 radio — and 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.