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

the whole broadcast range was covered by a curious static, like rain on a window.
    He slowed down as they approached Taft, let her spot the turn north onto the state road, and turned into it. Almost at once a figure jumped out into the road in front of them, waved his arms violently. Breen tromped on the brake.
    The man came up on the left side of the car, rapped on the window. Breen ran the glass down. Then he stared stupidly at the gun in the man’s left hand.
    “Out of the car,” the stranger said sharply. “I’ve got to have it.”
    Meade reached across Breen, stuck her little lady’s gun in the man’s face and pulled the trigger. Breen could feel the flash on his own face, never noticed the report. The man looked puzzled, with a neat, not-yet-bloody hole in his upper lip—then slowly sagged away from the car.
    “Drive on!” Meade said in a high voice.
    Breen caught his breath. “But you—”
    “Drive on!
Get rolling!
”
    They followed the state road through Los Padres National Forest, stopping once to fill the tank from their cans. They turned off onto a dirt road. Meade kept trying the radio, got San Francisco once, but it was too jammed with static to read. Then she got Salt Lake City, faint but clear;
    “—since there are no reports of anything passing our radar screen, the Kansas City bomb must be assumed to have been planted rather than delivered. This is a tentative theory, but—”
    They passed into a deep cut and lost the rest.
    When the squawk box again came to life, it was a crisp new voice: “Air Defense Command, coming to you over the combined networks. The rumor that Los Angeles has been hit by an atom bomb is totally unfounded. It is true that the western metropolis has suffered a severe earthquake shock, but that is all. Government officials and the Red Cross are on the spot to care for the victims, but—and I repeat—there has
been no atomic bombing
. So relax and stay in your homes. Such wild rumors can damage the United States quite as much as enemy bombs. Stay off the highways and listen for—”
    Breen snapped it off. “Somebody,” he said bitterly, “has again decided that ‘Mama knows best.” They won’t tell us any bad news.”
    “Potiphar,” Meade said sharply, “that
was
an atom bomb, wasn’t it?”
    “It was. And now we don’t know whether it was just Los Angeles—and Kansas City—or every big city in the country. All we know is that they are lying to us.”
    He concentrated on driving. The road was very bad.
    A s it began to get light, she said, “Potty, do you know where we’re going? Are we just keeping out of cities?”
    “I think I know. If I’m not lost.” He stared around them. “Nope, it’s all right. See that hill up forward with the triple gendarmes on its profile?”
    “Gendarmes?”
    “Big rock pillars. That’s a sure landmark. I’m looking for a private road now. It leads to a hunting lodge belonging to two of my friends—an old ranch house actually, but as a ranch it didn’t pay.”
    “They won’t mind us using it?”
    He shrugged. “If they show up, we’ll ask them.
If
they show up. They lived in Los Angeles.”
    The private road had once been a poor grade of wagon trail; now it was almost impassable. But they finally topped a hogback from which they could see almost to the Pacific, then dropped down into a sheltered bowl where the cabin was.
    “All out, girl. End of the line.”
    Meade sighed. “It looks heavenly.”
    “Think you can rustle breakfast while I unload? There’s probably wood in the shed. Or can you manage a wood range?”
    “Just try me.”
    Two hours later Breen was standing on the hogback, smoking a cigarette and staring off down to the west. He wondered if that was a mushroom cloud up San Francisco way. Probably his imagination, he decided, in view of the distance. Certainly there was nothing to be seen to the south.
    Meade came out of the cabin. “Potty!”
    “Up here.”
    She joined him, took his hand