Tropical Park today, Bald Eagle won the Coral Handicap by three lengths, paying eleven-sixty. Careless Lady was second and Rumpus third. Now, turning to news of Wall Street, stocks closed mixed, with missiles up and railroads off, in moderate trading. The Dow-Jones averages . . .”
Lib turned off Happy Hendrix. She said, “What’s it mean?” Randy shrugged. “That business in the Mediterranean? It’s happened before. I guess that’s one of the dangerous things about it. We get shockproof. We’ve been conditioned. Standing on the brink of war has become our normal posture.” He turned to Dan. “I think we should lay in some drugs-an emergency kit. How about prescribing for war, Doctor?”
Dan fumbled in his jacket pocket and brought out a pad. He moved slowly and seemed very tired. “I’ll give you both some,” he said, starting to write. “Stuff you can use yourselves without my help. And for your mother, Elizabeth, extra bottles of insulin. Also, I’ll order some oranise from a drug house in Orlando. Local pharmacy doesn’t carry it yet.”
“I thought you’d decided not to experiment with it on Mother?” Lib said.
“Insulin,” Dan said, continuing to write, “requires refrigeration.”
Dan dropped the prescriptions on the bar. “Good night,” he said. “I’m delivering a baby at the clinic at seven. Caesarian section. Life goes on. At least that’s what I’m going to believe until proved otherwise.” He rose and shambled out of the room.
Lib walked around the counter. “Hold me,” she said. Randy held her, crushed her, strangely without any passion except fear for her. Usually he had only to feel her body, or brush his lips across her hair and smell what she called “my courting perfume” to become aroused. Now his arms were completely encircling and completely protective. All he asked was that she live and he live and that things remain the same.
She kept rolling her smooth head against his throat. She was saying no to it. She was willing and praying the clock to stand still, as Randy was; but, as Mark had said, this was against nature.
She raised her head and gently pushed herself away and said, “Thanks, Randy. I get strength from you. Did you know that? Now tell me, what should I do?”
“You’d better drive back to your house and speak with your mother and father.”
“I don’t think they’ll believe it. They don’t pay much attention to the international situation and Mother doesn’t ever like to talk about anything unpleasant.”
“They probably won’t believe it. After all, they don’t know Mark. Put it up to your father, as a business proposition. Tell him it’s like taking out insurance. Anyway, be sure and get Dan’s prescriptions filled.”
“I’ll get the medicines tomorrow,” she said. “Food isn’t a problem. Our cupboard isn’t exactly bare. What are you going to do, Randy? Hadn’t you better get some rest if you have to be at the airport at three-thirty?”
“I’ll try.” He took her into his arms again and kissed her, this time not feeling protective at all, and she responded, her fears contained.
They left the house as the distended red run dropped into the river where it joined the wide St. Johns. She got into the car. He touched her lips again. “If you need me, call.”
“Don’t worry. I will. See you tomorrow, Randy.” “Yes, tomorrow.”
Now at this hour, when the cirrus clouds stretched like crimson ribbons high across the southwest sky, in such a hush that not even a playful eddy dared stir moss or palm fronds, the day died in calm and in beauty. This was Randy’s hour, this and dawn, time of stillness and of peace.
His eye was attracted by movement in a clump of Turk’s-cap across the road, and then again, he saw the damn bird. There could be little doubt of it. Even at this distance, without binoculars, he could distinguish the white-rimmed eyes. Moving very slowly and in silence, drifting from bush to bush, he crossed the lawn.
If he could cross the road and Florence Wechek’s front yard without frightening it, he might make a positive identification. Florence and Alice Cooksey watched him. Florence had been observing him from behind the bedroom blinds while he talked with the McGovern girl, and kissed her goodbye, a disgusting public exhibition. She had watched him stand in the doorway, hands on hips, alone and, for a long time, motionless. Then incredulously, she had seen him bend over and stealthily move toward her, and she had called Alice. “There he is!” she said triumphantly. “I told you so. Come and see for yourself. He’s a Peeping Tom, all right!”
Alice, peering through the louvers, said, “I think he’s stalking something.”
“Yes, me.”
They watched while he crossed the road, placing his feet carefully as a heron feeding on minnows in the shallows. “The sneak!” Florence said.
He reached Florence’s lawn and for a moment hid behind a clump of boxwood. “He’s going around the side of the house,” Florence said. “I think we can watch better from the dining room.” She ran into the dining room, Alice following.
Bent almost double, he advanced from the boxwood toward the Turk’s-cap. Suddenly he straightened, threw an imaginary hat to the ground, and Florence heard him say distinctly, “Oh, God dam!” At the same time she heard Anthony shaking the cage on the back porch. Anthony had come home for the night. Then she heard Randy on the back porch. Anthony squawked. Randy swore, and shouted, “Hey, Florence!”
She opened the kitchen door and said, “Now look here, Randolph Bragg, I’m not having any more of your prowling around the house and staring at me while I’m dressing. You ought to be ashamed!”
Randy, mouth open, astonished, stared at the two birds, Anthony on the outside of the cage, Cleo fluttering within. He said, “Is that your bird?” He pointed at Anthony.
“Certainly it’s my bird.” “What kind of a bird is it?” “Why he’s an African lovebird, of course.”
Randy shook his head. “I’m a dope. I thought he was a Carolina parakeet. You know, the Carolina parakeet is, or was, our only native parrot. A specimen hasn’t been identified since 1925. They’re supposed to be extinct. If that isn’t one, I’m willing to admit they are.”
“Is that why you’ve been spying on me? I saw you at it this morning, with glasses.”
“I haven’t been spying on you, Florence. I’ve been spying on that fake Carolina parakeet.” He noticed Alice Cooksey standing behind Florence, smiling. Alice was one of his favorite people. He really ought to tell Alice about Mark, and what Mark predicted. Ought to tell Florence as well, but Florence still looked upset and angry. He said, “Now, Florence, cool off I’ve got something important to tell you.”
“Bird watcher!” Florence shrieked. She slammed the kitchen door in his face and fled into the house.
Randy put his hands in his pockets and strolled home. The world was real crazy. He’d talk to Florence and Alice in the morning, after Florence settled down.
In his kitchen, Randy made himself a cannibal sandwich. Lib considered his habit of eating raw ground round, smeared with horseradish and mustard and pressed between slices of rye bread, barbarous. He’d explained it was simply a bachelor’s meal, quick and lazy, and anyway he liked it.
He trotted downstairs and examined the purchases lined on shelves and stacked in closets. Some of it was pretty exotic stuff for an emergency. Perhaps he should make up a small kit of delicacies. If the worst happened, this would be their iron rations for a desperate time. If nothing happened, it would all keep. He selected a jar of English beef tea, a sealed package of bouillon cubes, a jar of Swiss chocolates and a sealed tin of hardcandies, a canned Italian cheese, and a few other small items. He placed them all in a small carton, wrapped the carton in foil, and took it up to the apartment. The teak chest in the office was a fine place to hide it and forget it. He rummaged through the chest, rearranging old legal documents, abstracts, bundles of letters, a packet of Confederate currency, peeling photograph albums. Lieutenant
Peyton’s log and a half-dozen baby books-all family memorabilia judged not valuable enough to warrant space in a safe deposit vault but too valuable to throw away-and made space for the iron rations at the bottom.
At seven o’clock he listened to the news. There was nothing startling. He flopped down on a studio couch, picked up a magazine, and started to read an article captioned, “Next Stop-Mars.” Presently the words danced in front of his eyes, and he slept.
When it was seven Friday evening in Fort Repose, it was two o’clock Saturday morning in the Eastern Mediterranean, where Task Group 6.7 turned toward the north and headed for the narrow seas between Cyprus and Syria. The shape of the task group was a giant oval, its periphery marked by the wakes of destroyers and guided-missile frigates and cruisers. The center of Task Group 6.7, and the reason for its existence, was the U.S.S. Saratoga, a mobile nuclear striking base. In Saratoga’s Combat Information Center two officers watched a bright blip on the big radar repeater. It winked on and off, like a tiny green eye opening and closing. Interrogated by a “friend or foe” radar impulse, it had not replied. It was hostile. For thirty-six hours, ever since passing Malta, Saratoga had been shadowed. This blip was the latest shadower:
