the flood of light any growing apprehension that we may have felt diminished, but as we looked through the windows we noticed that outside it was dusk though the time was but 10:00 a.m.
Our faces looked strangely drawn and haggard, but it was the expression on young Marden’s face that caught and held my attention. I believe as I review those dreadful times in my mind, that Oscar Marden knew then what ailed this old world of ours, but he said not a word at that time.
We turned our faces to the televisio again and were amazed at the scene which was there presented. President Bedford had ceased speaking and was engaged in earnest conversation with other men who had joined him. The growing darkness outside the capitol made it difficult to distinguish our leader’s figure among the others, who in ever-growing numbers thronged the steps of the great edifice. Presently the president again turned to the invisible millions seated behind their radios and televisios, and spoke. His voice was calm, as befitted the leader of so great a nation, but it was fraught with an emotion that did not escape observing watchers and listeners.
“Tune in your instruments to Paris,” said the great man. “The noted astronomer, La Rue, has something of importance to tell us. Do this at once,” he added, and his voice took on a somewhat sterner quality.
I arose somewhat shakily, and fumbled futilely with the dials.
“Put on more speed there, Griffin,” said Marden.
It was the first time I had ever heard him speak in any other than a courteous manner, and I realized he was greatly perturbed. I fumbled awhile longer until Ed Zutell spoke up.
“Can I help you, Jim?” he asked.
“Only by shutting up and staying that way,” I growled, at the same time giving a vicious twist to the stubborn long-distance dial.
In a little while I had it: Paris, France, observatory of Leon La Rue. We all instantly recognized the bearded Frenchman of astronomical fame; he who with Henry Shipley had informed the world of the fate of Mars. He was speaking in his quick, decisive way with many gesticulations.
“I repeat for the benefit of any tardy listeners that Earth is about to suffer the fate of Mars. I will take no time for any scientific explanations. You have had those in the past and many of you have scoffed at them. It is enough to tell you positively that we are leaving the sun at a terrific rate of speed and are plunging into the void of the great Universe. What will be the end no man knows. Our fate rests in the hands of God.
“Now hear, my friends, and I hope the whole world is listening to what I say: Choose wisely for quarters where you will have a large supply of food, water and fuel (whether you use atomic energy, electricity, oil, or even the old-fashioned coal). I advise all electrical power stations to be used as stations of supply, and the men working there will be the real heroes who will save the members of their respective communities. Those who possess atomic heat machines are indeed fortunate. There is no time for detailed directions. Go—and may your conduct be such that it will be for the future salvation of the human race in this crisis.”
The picture faded, leaving us staring with white faces at one another.
“I’ll get the children,” screamed Vera, but I caught her arm.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. We must not any of us be separated. The children will return when they are thoroughly cold.”
My prediction was correct. The words had scarcely left my lips when the three ran into the hall crying. It was growing insufferably cold. We all realized that. We rushed about in addle-pated fashion, all talking at once, grabbing up this and that until we were acting like so many demented creatures.
Suddenly a voice, loud and stern, brought us to our senses. It was young Marden who was speaking.
“We are all acting like fools,” he cried. “With your permission I will tell you what to do if you want to live awhile longer.”
His self-control had a quieting effect upon the rest of us. He continued in lower tones, but with an undeniable air of mastery, “My observatory across the street is the place for our hibernation. It is heated by atomic energy, so there will be no danger of a fuel shortage. Ed, will you and Mrs. Zutell bring from your home in your car all the provisions you have available at once? Jim” (I rather winced at being addressed in so familiar a manner by a man younger in years than myself, but upon this occasion my superior), “you and Mrs. Griffin load your car with all your available food. I was going to add that you buy more, but an inevitable stampede at the groceries might make that inadvisable at present. My wife and I will bring all the concentrated food we have on hand—enough for two or three years, I think, if carefully used. Kiddies,” he said to the three who stood looking from one to the other of us in uncomprehending terror, “gather together all the coats and wraps you find here in the Griffin house!”
A new respect for this man possessed me as we all set about carrying out his orders.
“You watch the children and gather together provisions,” I called to Vera. “I am going to see if I can’t get more from the store. We must have more concentrated and condensed foods than we are in the habit of keeping on hand for daily use. Such foods will furnish a maximum amount of nourishment with a minimum bulk.”
IV.
I opened the door but returned immediately for my overcoat. The breath of winter was out-of-doors, though it was the month of June. The streets were lighted, and in the imperfect glow I could see panicky figures flitting to and fro. I hurried toward the square, which was exactly what everyone else seemed to be doing. A man bumped my elbow. Each of us turned and regarded the other with wide eyes. I recognized Sam McSween.
“My God, Griffin,” he cried, “what does it all mean? Ella’s been laid up for a week—no food, and I thought I’d—”
I left him to relate his woes to the next passerby. My goal was Barnes’s Cash Grocery. There was a mob inside the store, but old man Barnes, his son and daughter and two extra clerks were serving the crowd as quickly as possible. Guy Barnes’s nasal tones reached my ears as I stood shivering in the doorway.
“No—terms are strictly cash—friends.”
“Cash!” bawled a voice near my ear. “What good will cash do you, pard, in the place we’re all headed for?”
“I have cash, Guy. Gimme ten dollars’ worth o’ canned goods and make it snappy,” yelled another.
Petty thievery was rife, but no one was vested with authority to attempt to stop it. One thought actuated all: to get food, either by fair means or foul.
At length I found myself near the counter frantically waving in the air a ten-dollar bill and two ones.
“You’ve always let me have credit for a month or two at a time, Guy,” I said coaxingly.
The old grocer shook his head in a determined manner. “Cash is the surest way to distribute this stuff fairly. The bank’s open, Jim, but the mob’s worse there than here, they tell me.”
I shrugged my shoulders in resignation. “Give me ten dollars’ worth of condensed milk, meat tablets, some fruits and vegetables.”
He handed me my great basket of groceries and I forced a passage through the crowd and gained the street. There were fewer people on the square than there had been an hour earlier. On their faces had settled a grim resignation that was more tragic than the first fright had been.
On the corner of Franklin and Main Streets I met little Dora Schofield, a playmate of Eleanor’s. She was crying pitifully, and the hands that held her market basket were purple with the cold that grew more intense every moment.
“Where are you going, Dora?” I asked.
“Mother’s ill and I am going to Barnes’s grocery store for her,” replied the little girl.
“You can never get in there,” I said. My heart was wrung at the sight of the pathetic little figure. “Put your basket down and I’ll fill it for you. Then