CHAPTER 3

At the power-house everything looked as usual. He heard the whir of the big

generators, and saw the streams of foaming water still bursting out from

beneath. A light was burning on the bridge. He thought to himself, "I

suppose nobody bothers ever to turn that out. They have so much electricity

that they don't need to economize."

He considered going across the bridge to the power-house, just to see

somebody and allay the strange fears which he had begun to feel. But the

sight and sound of everything running normally were reassuring, signs that

after all the power-house was working as usual, even though he saw no

people. There was nothing remarkable about not seeing people. The process

was so nearly automatic that only a few men were employed there, and they

kept indoors mostly.

Just as he was leaving the power-house behind, a large collie ran out from

behind one of the buildings. From the other side of the creek, it barked

loudly and violently at Ish. It ran back and forth excitedly.

"Fool dog!" he thought. "What's it so excited about? Is it trying to tell

me not to steal the power-house?" People certainly tended to overestimate

the intelligence of dogs!

Rounding the curve, he left the sound of barking behind. But the sight of

the dog had been another evidence of normality. Ish began to whistle

contentedly. It was ten miles now until he came to the first town, a little place called Hutsonville.

He came over the rise, and saw Hutsonville a mile away. Just as he started

to slide down the grade, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of

something which turned him inwardly cold. Automatically he tramped hard on

the brake. He walked back, scarcely believing that he had really seen it.

Just there at the side of the road, in full view, lay the body of a fully

clothed man; ants were crawling over the face. The body must have lain

there a day or two at least. Why had it not been seen? He did not look

closely or long, obviously the thing to do was to get into Hutsonville, and

tell the Coroner as soon as possible. He hurried back to the car.

Yet as he started again, he had a deep feeling inside him somewhere,

strangely, that this was not a case for the Coroner, and that possibly

there would even be no Coroner. He had seen no one at the Johnson's or at

the power-house, and he had not met a single car on the road. The only

things that seemed real from all the old life had been the light burning at

the power-house and the quiet hum of the great generators at their work.

Then, as he came to the first houses, he suddenly breathed more easily, for

there on a vacant lot a hen was quietly scratching in the dust, a

half-dozen chicks beside her, and a little farther on, a black-and-white

cat wandered across the sidewalk as unconcernedly as it would have done

upon any other June day.

The heat of the afternoon lay heavy on the street, and he saw no one. "Bad

as a Mexican town," he thought, "everyone taking a siesta." Then suddenly

he realized that he had said it as a man whistles to keep up his courage.

He came to the business center, stopped the car by the curb, and got out.

There was nobody.

He tried the door of a little restaurant. It was open. He went in.

"Hi!" he yelled.

Nobody came. Not even an echo spoke back to reassure him.

The door of the bank was locked, although the hour was well before closing

time, and he was sure (the more he thought of it) that the day must be

Tuesday or Wednesday or possibly Thursday. "What am I anyway?" he thought.

"Rip van Winkle?" Even so, Rip van Winkle, though he had slept twenty years, had come back to a village that was still full of people.

The door of the hardware store beyond the bank was open.

He went in, and again he called, and again there was not even an echo

coming back for answer. He looked in at the bakery; this time there was

only a tiny noise such as a scuttling mouse could make.

Had the people all gone to a baseball game? Even so, they would have closed

the stores. He went back to his car, got into the seat, and looked around.

Was he himself delirious, still lying on his bunk, really? He was half

inclined merely to drive on; panic was rising up inside him. Now he noticed

that several cars were parked along the street, just as they might be on

any not too busy afternoon. He could not merely drive on, he decided,

because he must report the dead man. So he pushed upon the horn-rig, and

the great blatant squawk resounded obscenely along the deserted street

through the quiet of the afternoon. He blew twice, waited, and blew twice

again. Again and again, in -rising panic, he pressed down. As he pressed,

he looked around, hoping to see somebody come popping out from a door or at

least a head at a window. He paused, and again there was only silence,

except that somewhere far off he heard the strident cackling of a hen.

"Must have scared an egg out of her!" he thought.

A fat dog came waddling around the comer and down the sidewalk, the kind of

dog you see along Main Street in any small town. Ish got out of the car,

and confronted the dog. "You haven't been missing any meals, anyway," he

said. (Then he had a sudden feeling of tightness in die throat when he

thought of things the dog might be eating.) The dog was not friendly; it

skirted him, keeping distance; then it went on down the street. He made no

effort to call it closer or to follow it; after all, the dog could not tell

him.

I could play detective by going into some of these stores and looking

around," he thought. Then he had a better idea.

Across the street was a little pool-room where he had often stopped to buy

a newspaper. He went over to it. The door was locked. He looked through the

window, and saw newspapers in the rack. He stared hard against the

reflection of the light in the window, and suddenly he saw that there were

headlines as large as for Pearl Harbor...