“Maybe you’re right,” Jeri said. “We don’t do the things we think we should, and we do things we’re ashamed of-what was it, in the Book of Common Prayer? We have done those things we ought not to have done, and we have left undone those things we ought to have done, and there is no health in us.’ People have wanted to do the right thing for most of history.”
“But nobody really knows what right and wrong are,” Dawson protested.
“Sure they do,” Jeri said. “C. S. Lewis saw that well enough. Most of us know what’s the right thing, at least most of the time. The problem is we don’t do it. That’s how we’re different from rocks. They don’t have any choice about obeying the laws. They do what they have to do. We do what we want. We sound like an undergraduate bull session.”
“Perhaps this is true,” Arvid said. “But we would not say laws, but—”
“Moral principle,” Dmitri said firmly. “Established by Marxist science.”
“Commies don’t have morals,” Carrie Woodward protested.
“This is unfair. It is also not true,” Arvid said. “Come, we do not so much disagree, you and I. It is your leader, your congressman who protests.”
Carrie looked to her husband. They didn’t say anything.
An hour later they were summoned to the theater again. This time the fithp stood in formal arrays, Herdmaster and mate at the top, others on steps below him, most with mates. Tashayamp stood near him. She trumpeted for silence.
The Herdmaster spoke at length.
Finally Tashayamp translated. “You are a race of rogues. You say you wish to live by your laws, but you do not do it. You say you have always wanted to live by your rules and you do not. Now you will. You will become part of Traveler Herd, live as fithp live, but under your rules. This we will give you. This we promise.
“You will teach us your laws. Then you will live by them.
“You go now.”
“Let us remember,” Lord Tweedsmuir had told a wartime audience in a ringing phrase, “that in this fight we arc God’s chivalry”
The British people, far from remembering they were God’s chivalry began to show such a detachment from what was variously called the Bore or the Phoney War that the government became seriously worried.
High fleecy clouds hung over the San Fernando Valley. The temperature stretched toward a hundred degrees, with a hot wind sweeping down to shrivel any vegetation not protected from it,
Ken Dutton carefully closed the door to his greenhouse. Once inside he dipped water from a bucket and threw it around, wetting down the lush growth. Then he hastened outside to turn the handle on the makeshift fan, drawing fresh hot dry air through the greenhouse.
When that was done, he went inside. The house had thick walls and cooled rapidly at night, so that it was tolerable in the daytime. Dutton lifted the phone and listened.
There was a dial tone. There often was. He took a list from the telephone drawer and began to make his calls.
“I’m still the chef,” he told Con Donaldson, “but I can use some help. Can you get here around noon? Bring whatever you can find in the way of food, and tell me what I can count on now.”
“Rice.”
“Rice.” He made a note. “How much rice?”
“Lots. I mean really a lot.” She giggled. “Only good thing about this war, I’m losing weight, because I’m getting sick of rice-hey, I look good. You’ll like the new me.”
“Great. Okay, then. Bye.” He inspected his list and dialed again.
There was no beef in the land, Sarge Harris complained. “Cattle cars are too big. Snouts blast ’em, think they’ve got tanks or weapons in them.”
Probably not. The major says they’re not doing that just now. But no point in arguing. “Yeah. Chicken costs an arm and a leg, too.”
“Maybe that’s how chicken farmers get red meat,” Sarge said.
“Heh-heh. Sure. Look, what can you bring?”
“Eggs. Traded some carpentry work for them.”
“Good. Bring ’em.” Ken hit the cutoff button and dialed another number.
Patsy Clevenger admitted to being one of the lucky ones. An occasional backpacker, she’d stored considerable freeze-dried food in sealed bags; but the steady diet was driving her nuts. She jumped at his offer. Sure, she could bring a freeze-dried dessert, and flavored coffee mix, and pick up Anthony Graves, who was seventy and couldn’t drive anymore. Ken shifted the receiver to his other ear.
The Copeleys lived at the northern end of the San Fernando Valley, They could get fresh corn and tomatoes, and almonds, and oranges. Could they bring a pair of relatives? Because the relatives had gas. Hell, yes!
