* * * * *
He knew what she was thinking. Once in the very first weeks of the war,
before everyone had been evacuated from the surface, they had seen a
hospital train discharging the wounded, people who had been showered
with sleet. He remembered the way they had looked, the expression on
their faces, or as much of their faces as was left. It had not been a
pleasant sight.
There had been a lot of that at first, in the early days before the
transfer to undersurface was complete. There had been a lot, and it
hadn't been very difficult to come across it.
Taylor looked up at his wife. She was thinking too much about it, the
last few months. They all were.
"Forget it," he said. "It's all in the past. There isn't anybody up
there now but the leadys, and they don't mind."
"But just the same, I hope they're careful when they let one of them
down here. If one were still hot--"
He laughed, pushing himself away from the table. "Forget it. This is a
wonderful moment; I'll be home for the next two shifts. Nothing to do
but sit around and take things easy. Maybe we can take in a show. Okay?"
"A show? Do we have to? I don't like to look at all the destruction, the
ruins. Sometimes I see some place I remember, like San Francisco. They
showed a shot of San Francisco, the bridge broken and fallen in the
water, and I got upset. I don't like to watch."
"But don't you want to know what's going on? No human beings are getting
hurt, you know."
"But it's so awful!" Her face was set and strained. "Please, no, Don."
Don Taylor picked up his newspaper sullenly. "All right, but there
isn't a hell of a lot else to do. And don't forget, _their_ cities are
getting it even worse."
She nodded. Taylor turned the rough, thin sheets of newspaper. His good
mood had soured on him. Why did she have to fret all the time? They were
pretty well off, as things went. You couldn't expect to have everything
perfect, living undersurface, with an artificial sun and artificial
food. Naturally it was a strain, not seeing the sky or being able to go
any place or see anything other than metal walls, great roaring
factories, the plant-yards, barracks. But it was better than being on
surface. And some day it would end and they could return. Nobody
_wanted_ to live this way, but it was necessary.
He turned the page angrily and the poor paper ripped. Damn it, the paper
was getting worse quality all the time, bad print, yellow tint--
Well, they needed everything for the war program. He ought to know that.
Wasn't he one of the planners?
He excused himself and went into the other room. The bed was still
unmade. They had better get it in shape before the seventh hour
inspection. There was a one unit fine--
The vidphone rang. He halted. Who would it be? He went over and clicked
it on.
"Taylor?" the face said, forming into place. It was an old face, gray
and grim. "This is Moss. I'm sorry to bother you during Rest Period, but
this thing has come up." He rattled papers. "I want you to hurry over
here."
Taylor stiffened. "What is it? There's no chance it could wait?" The
calm gray eyes were studying him, expressionless, unjudging. "If you
want me to come down to the lab," Taylor grumbled, "I suppose I can.
I'll get my uniform--"
"No. Come as you are. And not to the lab. Meet me at second stage as
soon as possible. It'll take you about a half hour, using the fast car
up. I'll see you there."
The picture broke and Moss disappeared.
* * * * *
"What was it?" Mary said, at the door.
"Moss. He wants me for something."
"I knew this would happen."
"Well, you didn't want to do anything, anyhow. What does it matter?" His
voice was bitter. "It's all the same, every day. I'll bring you back
something. I'm going up to second stage. Maybe I'll be close enough to
the surface to--"
"Don't! Don't bring me anything! Not from the surface!"
"All right, I won't. But of all the irrational nonsense--"
She watched him put on his boots without answering.
* * * * *
Moss nodded and Taylor fell in step with him, as the older man strode
along. A series of loads were going up to the surface, blind cars
clanking like ore-trucks up the ramp, disappearing through the stage
trap above them. Taylor watched the cars, heavy with tubular machinery
of some sort, weapons new to him. Workers were everywhere, in the dark
gray uniforms of the labor corps, loading, lifting, shouting back and
forth. The stage was deafening with noise.
"We'll go up a way," Moss said, "where we can talk. This is no place to
give you details."
They took an escalator up. The commercial lift fell behind them, and
with it most of the crashing and booming. Soon they emerged on an
observation platform, suspended on the side of the Tube, the vast tunnel
leading to the surface, not more than half a mile above them now.
"My God!" Taylor said, looking down the Tube involuntarily. "It's a long
way down."