The Year of the Jackpot by Robert Heinlein Read Free Book Online Page A

overstrained, all cut loose in one subsonic, stomach-twisting rumble.
    M eade sat down on the wet ground very suddenly; Breen stayed upright by dancing like a log-roller. When the ground quieted down somewhat, thirty seconds later, he helped her up.
    “You all right?”
    “My slacks are soaked.” She added pettishly, “But, Potty, it never quakes in wet weather.
Never
. You said so yourself.”
    “Keep quiet, can’t you?” He opened the car door and switched on the radio, waited impatiently for it to warm up.
    “—your Sunshine Station in Riverside, California. Keep tuned to this station for the latest developments. As of now it is impossible to tell the size of this disaster. The Colorado River aqueduct is broken; nothing is known of the extent of the damage nor how long it will take to repair it. So far as we know, the Owens River Valley aqueduct may be intact, but all persons in the Los Angeles area are advised to conserve water. My personal advice is to stick your washtubs out into this rain.
    “I now read from the standard disaster instructions, quote: ‘Boil all water. Remain quietly in your homes and do not panic. Stay off the highways. Cooperate with the police and render—’ Joe! Catch that phone! ‘—render aid where necessary. Do not use the telephone except for—’ Flash! An unconfirmed report from Long Beach states that the Wilmington and San Pedro waterfront is under five feet of water. I repeat, this is unconfirmed. Here’s a message from the commanding general, March Field: ‘Official, all military personnel will report—’”
    Breen switched it off. “Get in the car.”
    He stopped in the town, managed to buy six five-gallon tins and a jeep tank. He filled them with gasoline and packed them with blankets in the back seat, topping off the mess with a dozen cans of oil. Then they started rolling.
    “What are we doing, Potiphar?”
    “I want to get west of the valley highway.”
    “Any particular place west?”
    “I think so. We’ll see. You work the radio, but keep an eye on the road, too. That gas back there makes me nervous.”
    T hrough the town of Mojave and northwest on 466 into the Tehachapi Mountains—
    Reception was poor in the pass, but what Meade could pick up confirmed the first impression—worse than the quake of ’06, worse than San Francisco, Managua, and Long Beach lumped together.
    When they got down out of the mountains, the weather was clearing locally; a few stars appeared. Breen swung left off the highway and ducked south of Bakersfield by the county road, reached the Route 99 super-highway just south of Greenfield. It was, as he had feared, already jammed with refugees. He was forced to go along with the flow for a couple of miles before he could cut west at Greenfield toward Taft. They stopped on the western outskirts of the town and ate at an all-night joint.
    They were about to climb back into the car when there was suddenly “sunrise” due south. The rosy light swelled almost instantaneously, filled the sky, and died. Where it had been, a red-and-purple pillar of cloud was spreading to a mushroom top.
    Breen stared at it, glanced at his watch, then said harshly, “Get in the car.”
    “Potty! That was—”
    “That used to be Los Angeles. Get in the car!”
    He drove silently for several minutes. Meade seemed to be in a state of shock, unable to speak. When the sound reached them, he again glanced at his watch.
    “Six minutes and nineteen seconds. That’s about right.”
    “Potty,
we should have brought Mrs. Megeath
.”
    “How was I to know?” he said angrily. “Anyhow, you can’t transplant an old tree. If she got it, she never knew it.”
    “Oh, I hope so!”
    “We’re going to have all we can do to take care of ourselves. Take the flashlight and check the map. I want to turn north at Taft and over toward the coast.”
    “Yes, Potiphar.”
    S he quieted down and did as she was told. The radio gave nothing, not even the Riverside station;