They climbed in and found themselves in the principal's office. Three
men with sledge hammers and crow-bars were knocking the knob off the
safe. They turned menacingly.
"Go ahead." Groff shrugged. "I can't stop you."
"Get the hell out of here," one of them said.
"We came to get some oxygen," Polly said. "For the sick people across
the river."
"Sick people? Okay."
They went into the corridor and wandered from room to room; on the
second floor they found an old-fashioned lecture theater, bowl-shaped
with steep rows of seats focusing on a laboratory bench piped for water
and gas. There was a promising-looking door behind it.
It was locked. Groff kicked at the door and swore with pain; the
building was old-fashioned brick and its woodwork was old-fashioned
golden oak, the stuff you can hardly drive a nail into. He trudged down
to the office again. The three men were gone; the door of the safe
swung open. They had left one sledge; somehow he had expected to find
all the tools dropped, but apparently they were going to work their way
methodically through every safe they could find.
He returned with the sledge and bashed at the golden-oak door until
its latch sprung and it swung open. It was the storeroom for lecture
supplies and the gas flasks were neatly stacked on the top shelf.
There was a complete carton of a dozen twelve-inch cylinders marked
O_{2} and another carton with eight cylinders.
"Thank God," he said. "Let's go."
The things were horribly heavy.
As they retraced their way to the river bank they were stopped three
times by loungers collected in groups of half a dozen and had to show
them the cartons' contents and explain that it was for the sick people
across the river.
There was a long wait before they could hail one of the boats passing
back and forth; finally a rowboat with a roaring outboard motor pulled
up. Two men with American Legion caps manned it. They explained their
mission and were taken aboard. One of the Legionnaires asked: "How are
things in Old Town?"
"Breaking up fast," Groff said.
The man understood perfectly. "The goons," he said, nodding. "There's
talk about sending in the National Guard," he said. "Meanwhile I guess
it's our problem."
He took the heavier carton from Groff when they reached the river bank
and Groff took Polly's; together they walked to the gymnasium where
Harry Starkman lay.
One of the doctors--Brandeis?--looked at the lecture bottles dully,
took one and shambled over to the burgess's litter. He drew the blanket
over Starkman's face, slipped the bottle under and cracked the needle
valve for a few hissing minutes, then checked the old man's pulse.
"Very good," he said at last to Groff and Polly. "There's something to
hope for now. Now clear out, you two. Find something useful to do."
"There's going to be trouble in Old Town tonight," Groff said. "And it
may spill over here."
Polly, preoccupied, said, "The number is still imperfect. Two of us
will have to go. I do hope it won't be you, Mickey."