Palma ignored Quantrill's lifted brow at her repetition of the word,'devil'. He persisted: "Maybe Willard should've used a silver bullet."
"Maybe—if that bullet were as big as your fist. You wouldn't expect to stop a Kodiak bear with a little thirty-thirty. Those animals that escaped from the Aggie pens were truly enormous; bigger by far than the Asiatic strain that reached over two hundred and fifty kilos; I've seen them. No, what Willard needed was an elephant gun and lots of intelli gence. I'm afraid guns are much more effective on humans than on game of equal size."
Sandys jurnal Sept. 3 Tus.
Mom and me found a store on Delrio road today. It was oful. 2 men and 1 woman dead, looked like sombody shot up the place with a
22.
All the licker was gone. We took cans of stuff. Cured ham, medisin, you name it me and mom got it. Mom says it wasnt swiping, I gess it isnt if you have to. When we got back I heard my dadyfrom outside. I never heard my dady like that. Mom made me stay out but I can work the c b and tried to call the dr. and coudnt. I felt so scared I was strong. I drug the stuff I found into my cave by the other hole, you know the one I call the side door. Mom says taking stuff from dead folks isnt swiping but I prayed God to forgive me
.
On Wednesday, Quantrill drove Palma to the Caverns of Sonora where, for the first time, he saw an effective relocation center. Laughing, chattering as though on a peacetime outing, hundreds of citizens exercised briefly on the surface, then returned below to be replaced by others. A few people labored to erect windmill towers, building a complex of twelve-volt lighting systems cannibalized from some of the many cars parked nearby.
Palma's requisition was quickly filled from the makeshift pharmacy near the cavern entrance. “In another week," said Cathy Palma, leading Quantrill toward the surface by a winding stair, "most of these people will be back home. Unless the SinoInds hit us again, or we get a duster." A dust storm, she added, would sweep up settled fallout, would make topside breathing hazardous for a day or so even though most of the ionizing radiation had decayed to bearable levels.
Quantrill squinted in the sunlight, moved to their van. "What was the stuff you picked up here?"
"Some drugs; opiates I'd hoped we wouldn't need, but the chelates didn't do the job." She coded the display as Quantrill drove along blacktop. "We've got another stop in the canyon a few klicks away. I told you about the Grange family; very tenacious in their ways, right or wrong. I'm afraid we're going to lose Wayland Grange, but he doesn't want the little girl to know that. So you keep her topside while I'm in their cave."
Quantrill found his orders easy to follow. The cave entrance was well-hidden in a tributary arroyo, and he would not have seen it but for the staunch little blonde figure in the pink dress, waving as they drew near. "Sandy, this is my helper. Why don't you show him the view," Palma said, indicating the broken countryside.
The girl nodded, her eyes large, solemn with surprise. She was small for an eleven-year-old, almost stocky, with scabs on both knees. She had not yet lost her baby fat, but her arms and legs hinted that she would develop a milkmaid's sturdiness. The little face was that of a worried angel, cheeks pink as her cotton dress, growing pinker yet as Quantrill extended his hand. The memory of another little blonde girl surfaced for an instant, was thrust vigorously back into the recesses of his mind. Endless mourning had not been a feature of the Quantrill family.
"Didn't expect company," she said, so softly he barely heard. She looked down at her feet, sockless in jogging shoes, as she offered her dirt-smeared hand.
Quantrill intuited her shyness in the handshake, resisted an impulse to hug the kid, realized he towered over her. He sat on a stone outcrop. "I'm Ted. I've got a bad leg," he said, "so take it easy on me."
It was the right tack. Soon she was guiding him by the hand, pointing to distant wreckage which had been winnowed for human remains, growing more animated as she showed him the places where she played outside. 'Do you still play, Ted?"
He grinned. "When I get the chance, Sandy. But I'm no good at 'tag' right now. Give me another week."
"It's a deal," she chortled, then grew serious. “When my daddy gets well I'll show you the cave. What's the matter, don't you like caves?"
His face had betrayed him. "Uh, sure. Just got a twinge from my leg. I saw the Caverns of Sonora this morning."
Pride showed in Sandy's, "Pooh, they're nothin'. My daddy and mom don't know how big ours is. But I do. If I had a real good friend, I might show her what I found. Or him," faintly.
Charmed by her artless transparency, Quantrill hinted that he knew what she'd found, gradually leading her to guess that the backpack was his.
She caught her lower lip in her teeth, faltering, "I didn't mean to swipe your knapsack, I mean,—"
"We call it a backpack, and you didn't swipe it. It's yours, Sandy. From me to you. Okay?"
"Okay." Studied silence. Then, "I found some other stuff too. One thing like a big dress of ribbons but I think it's a parachute on a big heavy can. Is that yours, too?"
Supposing her singular treasure was a chute flare, Quantrill shook his head. "Finders keepers, Sandy. Just don't fiddle with the can. It might be dangerous," he said in understatement far beyond his comprehension. "A girl pretty as you could make a terrific dress from a chute. Maybe not as nice as the dress you're wearing," he finished, affecting not to notice the holes and smudges in the pink fabric.
"Aw, this ol' thing," she murmured, and covered her embarrassment by asking how his pack came to be in the delta. Quantrill spun a tale of his journey in the
Norway
, recognizing that the girl hungered for heroes, willing to present himself as such for a child in need. He did not perceive, as Palma did, that the friendship might be therapy for him as well.
In an hour, Quantrill and Sandy Grange were talking as equals, punning, exchanging riddles. Palma's call brought them back to the present; but before advancing to meet
Sandy's hollow-faced mother, Quantrill promised the girl he would return. Once more shy in the presence of the doctor, Sandy excused herself and, with a final wave, ducked from sight to seek her father.
"You'll have to tell Sandy soon," Palma said to Louise Grange.
"Wayland won't have it," was the sorrowing reply. "Better to have it sudden than have the child like I am, day and night."
"The relocation center has room," said Palma obliquely, “when it's over. And I'll do whatever I can; you know that."
"We'll make do," said the woman, and straightened her shoulders. "Just like when Sandy was sick and out of school."
Quantrill did not have to be told that their presence was an added burden on Louise Grange's composure. He started the van quickly and, with Palma's permission, illegally patched a video newscast into their dashboard display as he drove.
The news was increasingly an animated production. In Florida, Axis troops had advanced as far as the Everglades, where a small army of civilian 'swamp rats' was taking a heavy toll of invaders. Fort Myers and Miami suburbs were holding, thanks to a fleet of 'Frisbee' drones, the first solid evidence that RUS weapons would be expended for the benefit of Americans.
The disclike Frisbee, remotely deployed, three meters in diameter, squatted or floated inert until its sensors located a moving target. Frisbees did not discriminate friend from foe, but swarmed up briefly to discharge small particle-beam bursts while jittering in midair between obstacles. A hundred Frisbees made a fine defensive line against infantry or lightly armored vehicles—and so long as they held a line, neither invaders nor defenders were wise to enter the area. The only large moving thing a Frisbee disdained to zap was another Frisbee.
A truce was being negotiated between Israel and the AIR, with mediation by the UN, among rumors that all Israel might relocate with assistance provided by the Islamics. The site of New Israel was open to conjecture, but it was understood that the site would not be lands presently occupied by Moslems. With this understanding, Turkey trod a tightrope between her NATO Allies and her AIR neighbors.
Scattered commando raids, an undeclared war of limited reprisals, had been launched by European Allies and leased SinoInd bases in North Africa. Thus far, they had used no nuclear or biological weapons—perhaps because France, a reluctant ally of the US/RUS cause, had her own credible nuclear deterrent and an old grudge against some Africans.
Now relocated in Swiss bunkers, the UN continued its pleas against further use of genocidal weapons. One encouraging sign was the bombing of China's flood-control dams by high-flying RUS hive bombers, using guided bombs with conventional explosives. Since the RUS was still exchanging sporadic nuke strikes with India, the non-nuclear bombs suggested a RUS willingness to consider a nuclear moratorium—as long as it was mutual. RUS marksmen were obviously ready for conventional war, to judge from their success in turning back the 'migration' from Mongolia. China's plans for a smallpox epidemic had depended on live carriers, and few of those got through before the ploy was discovered. RUS Frisbees finished the job; smallpox vaccine developed a brief popularity south of Lake Baikal.
Canada's missile launches had been almost entirely defensive MITVs, intercepting SinoInd birds in polar trajectory. So effective was Canada's umbrella that she had lost only Edmonton, Toronto, Montreal, and Ottawa among her larger cities. The same shower of MITVs that saved Vancouver had also saved Seattle, Portland, and Boise—for the time being. Canada's new capital was rumored to be somewhere near Winnipeg; nations were suddenly vague about their business addresses.
Somehow the newscast managed to convey a smooth transition to a new President of the United States without dwelling on classified details on the death of the previous incumbent. Official bulletins now came from White House Central, an unnamed site almost certainly west of the Mississippi. Only once did the title, 'President Hyatt' identify the ex-Speaker of the House. It was easy to infer that the system, not the man, counted most. The system was apparently healthy, had not gone into shock, was even now gearing for national elections while it trained millions of inductees for a systemic defense.
The newscast ended with a personal message from Eve Simpson, whose hologramed convexities adorned barracks walls across the nation. Little Evie still innocently adored her boys in uniform and proved it with blown kisses.
"Did you notice," asked Palma as she killed the display, "they're not telling us where all of Evie's boys are going?" Quantrill turned into Aggie Station with a shrug. "Florida, I thought. That's where we need defense most, isn't it?" Negative headshake. "Paranthrax will become a natural barrier until we lick it from here. No, Ted; our boys won't be training to fight there. For our west coast, maybe—but I'm guessing they'll be heading for an overseas offensive. Don't ask me how or where."
"It's about time," he said, slowing the van. "If you like being cannon-fodder," she snapped. "Anybody on an offensive in Asia is just asking for it. Don't even think about it, Ted. Think about little Sandy Grange back there;
that's
what we have to defend." Palma took her bag, stalked away.
Quantrill watched the angry set of Palma's shoulders, reflecting that some people were natural defenders—Dr. Catherine Palma, for instance. And that some might find their niche only on offense—himself, for instance.
Sandys jurnal Sep. 4 Wens.
The dr. came again she brout the nicest boy. I promised to show him the real cave. Ted told me a long fib about how the napsack was his and he was on the delta once. Why woud he make up such a wopper unless he likes me? He said I was pretty. Boy what a b'sartist! Teds real old, at least 15.1 tell you whos pretty jurnal, he is!! He limps. He brushd aginst me once, boy howdy I got trembly scared but I liked it. OK it was me brushd him. No fibs to you jurnal.
Have to stop now my dady has been asleep sinse the dr. left, that must mean hes better. Mom is asleep but sobing what will we do what will we do. I know what we will do. As soon as those platelets are gone my dady and me will build more rooms in a place I found way back in my big cave. I bet mom is pregnet and I bet I know why.
There was no precise moment when Quantrill could say he began to follow the global war news. He avoided friendships at Aggie Station with a distant politeness. He was drawn to the day-room holo set in the evenings, to books when he was idle during the day. He read Armstrong's
Grey Wolf
and judged that in every era there might be need for a pitiless, iron-willed Kemal Ataturk. From Pratt's
The Battles That Changed History
he learned that most bloody mass engagements end with, at best, expensive victories by exhausted victors. He decided, after Tinnin's
The Hit Team
, that greater victories are won when a small accurate concentration of intense force is thrust against an enemy's nerve center—as a single bullet might topple a mighty strategist and send an empire into shock.
He found himself still shockable the day he detoured on an errand to the relocation center. He'd found a child's plastic tea set, bartered a lapel dosimeter for it, and kept it hidden until he trailed old tire marks to the grotto where the Grange family maintained its miserable existence. The Grange vehicle was gone. He wondered if they, like others who had chosen separate shelters, had moved nearer town.
But Sandy met him at the entrance. He saw traces of tears in the patina of dust on her cheeks, saw her sunburst of delight as, silently, he pulled the tea set from behind him. "It's looooovely," she cooed, hugging it to her breast.
"Don't tell mom if you swiped it, she 'll be back from a swap meet soon."