Jubal swore. “I knew it! I knew it all along! That’s what comes of mucking around with religion. Dorcas, get me a taxi. Anne—no, finish feeding your child. Larry, pack me a small bag. Anne, I’ll want most of the iron money and Larry can go into town tomorrow and replenish the supply.”

“But, Boss,” protested Larry, “we’re all going.”

“Certainly we are,” Anne agreed crisply.

“Pipe down, Anne. And close your mouth, Dorcas. This is not a time when women have the vote. That city is the front line at the moment and anything can happen. Larry, you are going to stay here and protect two women and a baby. Forget that about going to the bank; you won’t need cash because none of you is to stir off the place until I’m back. Somebody is playing rough and there is enough hookup between this house and that church that they might play rough here, too. Larry, flood lights all night long, heat up the fence, don’t hesitate to shoot. And don’t be slow about getting everybody into the vault if necessary—better put Abby’s crib in there at once. Now get with it, all of you—I’ve got to change clothes.”

Thirty minutes later Jubal was alone, by choice, in his suite; the rest were busy at assigned tasks. Larry called up, “Boss! Taxi about to land.”

“Be right down,” he called back, then turned to take a last look at the Fallen Caryatid. His eyes were filled with tears. He said softly, “You tried, didn’t you, youngster? But that stone was always too heavy . . . too heavy for anyone.”

Gently he touched a hand of the crumpled figure, turned and left.



35

Jubal had a miserable trip. The taxi was automatic and it did just what he expected of machinery, developed trouble in the air and homed for maintenance instead of carrying out its orders. Jubal wound up in New York, farther from where he wanted to be than when he started. There he found that he could make better time by commercial schedule than he could by any charter available. So he arrived hours later than he expected to, having spent the time cooped up with strangers (which he detested) and watching a stereo tank (which he detested only slightly less).

But it did inform him somewhat. He saw an insert of Supreme Bishop Short proclaiming a holy war against the Antichrist, i.e., Mike, and he saw too many shots of what was obviously an utterly ruined building—he failed to see how any of them had escaped alive. Augustus Greaves, in his most solemn lippmann tones, viewed with alarm everything about it . . . but pointed out that, in every spite-fence quarrel, one neighbor supplies the original incitement—and made it plain that, in his weasel-worded opinion, the so-called Man from Mars was at fault.

At last Jubal stood on a municipal landing flat sweltering in winter clothes unsuited to the blazing sun overhead, noted that palm trees still looked like a poor grade of feather duster, regarded bleakly the ocean beyond them, thinking that it was a dirty unstable mass of water, certainly contaminated with grape fruit shells and human excrement even though he couldn’t see such at this distance—and wondered what to do next.

A man wearing a uniform cap approached him. “Taxi, sir?”

“Uh, yes, I think so.” At worst he could go to a hotel, call in the press, and give out an interview that would publicize his whereabouts—there was occasionally some advantage to being newsworthy.

“Over this way, sir.” The cabby led him out of the crowd and to a battered Yellow Cab. As he put his bag in after Jubal, the pilot said quietly, “I offer you water.”

“Eh? Never thirst.”

“Thou art God.” The hack driver sealed the door and got into his own compartment.

They wound up on a private landing flat on one wing of a big beach hotel—a four-car space, the hotel’s own landing flat being on another wing. The pilot set the cab to home-in alone, took Jubal’s bag and escorted him inside. “You couldn’t have come in too easily via the lobby,” he said conversationally, “as the foyer on this floor is filled with some very bad-tempered cobras. So if you decide you want to go down to the street, be sure to ask somebody first. Me, or anybody—I’m Tim.”

“I’m Jubal Harshaw.”

“I know, brother Jubal. In this way. Mind your step.” They entered the hotel suite of the large, extreme luxury sort, and Jubal was led on into a bedroom with bath; Tim said, “This is yours,” put Jubal’s bag down and left. On the side table Jubal found water, glasses, ice cubes, and a bottle of brandy, opened but untouched. He was unsurprised to find that it was his preferred brand. He mixed himself a quick one, sipped it and sighed, then took off his heavy winter jacket.