“Ten boxes, if they have them.”
Helen said, “I’ll try. Now, Randy, get some sleep.”
Back on the couch, he closed his eyes, thinking of guns, and hunting. In his father’s youth, this section of Florida had been a hunter’s paradise, with quail, dove, duck, and deer in plenty, and even black bear and a rare panther. Now the quail were scattered and often scarce. Three coveys roamed the grove, and the hammock behind the Henrys’ place. Randy had not shot quail for twelve years. When visitors noticed his gunrack and asked about quail shooting, he always laughed and said, “Those guns are to shoot people who try to shoot my quail.” The quail were more than pets. They were friends, and wonderful to watch, parading across lawn and road in the early morning.
Only the ducks were now truly plentiful in this area, and they were protected by Federal law. Once in a while he shot a rattlesnake in the grove, or a moccasin near the dock. And that was all he shot. Still, there were rabbits and squirrels, and so the .22 ammo might come in handy. A long time ago-he could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen-he remembered hunting deer with his father, and shooting his first deer with buckshot from the double-twenty. His first, and his last, for the deer had not died instantly, and had seemed small and piteous, twitching in the palmetto scrub, until his father had dispatched it with his pistol. He could still see it, and the round, bright red spots on the green fronds. He shivered, and he slept.
Randy awoke in darkness. Graf was barking, and he heard voices downstairs. He turned on a light. It was nine-thirty. He had slept almost four hours. He felt refreshed, and good for whatever might come through the night. He was putting on his shoes when the door opened and Helen came into his apartment, followed by Ben Franklin and Dan Gunn.
“I was just going to wake you up,” Helen said. “Dan is going in to look at Peyton.”
Dan’s eyes were hollowed, and his face carved with fissures of exhaustion. Randy said, “Have you eaten anything today, Dan>“
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Helen said, “You’ll eat, Doctor, right after you’ve seen Peyton. Do you want me to go in with you?”
“You and Randy can both come in with me. But don’t say anything. Let me do the talking.”
They went into the child’s room. Randy flicked on the overhead light. “Not that one,” Dan said. “I want a dim light at first.” He turned on a lamp on the dressing table.
Peyton’s hands crept out from under the sheet and touched the bandages over her eyes. “Hello,” she said, her voice small and frightened.
“Hello, dear,” Helen said. “Doctor Gunn is here to see you. You remember Doctor Gunn from last year, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Hello, Doctor.”
Dan said, “Peyton, I’m going to take the bandage off your eyes. Don’t be surprised if you don’t see anything. There isn’t much light in the room.”
Randy found he was holding his breath. Dan removed the bandage, saying, “Now, don’t rub your eyes.”
Peyton tried to open her eyes. She said, “They’re stuck. They feel all gooey.”
“Sure,” Dan said. He moistened cotton in a borax mixture and wiped Peyton’s eyes gently. “That better?”
Peyton blinked. “Hey, I can see! Well, sort of. Everything looks milky.” Helen moved and Peyton said, “Isn’t that you, Mother?”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Your face looks like a balloon but I could tell it was you.” Dan smiled at Randy and nodded. She was going to be all right.
He rummaged in his bag and brought out a small kit, a bottle, and applicator, a tube. He said, “Peyton, you can stop worrying now. You’re not going to be blind. In perhaps a week, you’ll be able to see fine. But until then you’ve got to rest your eyes and we’ve got to treat them. This is going to sting a little.”
He held her eyelids open and, his huge hands sure and gentle, applied drops, and an ointment. “Butyn sulphate,” he said. “This is really outside my line, but I remembered that butyn sulphate was what Air-Sea Rescue used for rescued fliers. After floating around in a raft for two or three days, the glare would blind them just as Peyton was blinded. It fixed them up, and it ought to fix her up.”
Dan turned to Helen. “Did you see how I did it?” “I was watching.”
“I’ll try to get out here at least once a day, but if I don’t make it, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
“I won’t have any trouble. Peyton’s quite brave.”
Peyton said, “Mommy, I’m not. I’m not brave at all. I’m scared all the time. Have you heard from Dad, yet? Do you think Dad’s all right?”
“I’m sure he’s all right, dear,” Helen said: “But we can’t expect to hear right away. All the phones are out, and I suppose the telegraph too.”
“I’m hungry, Mother.”
Helen said, “I’ll bring something right up.”
They turned off the light. Helen went downstairs. Dan Gunn came into Randy’s rooms. He took off his wrinkled jacket and dropped it on a chair and said, “Now I can use a drink.”
Randy mixed a double bourbon. Dan drank half of it in a gulp and said, surprised, “Aren’t you drinking, Randy?”
“No. Don’t feel like I want one.”
“That’s the first good news I’ve heard all day. I’ve already treated two fellows who’ve drunk themselves insensible since morning. You could’ve been the third.”
“Could I?”
“Well, not quite. You react to crisis in the right way. You remember what Toynbee says? His theory of challenge and response applies not only to nations, but to individuals. Some nations and some people melt in the heat of crisis and come apart like fat in the pan. Others meet the challenge and harden. I think you’re going to harden.”
“I’m really not a very hard guy,” Randy said, looking across the room at his guns and thinking, oddly, of the young buck he’d shot when a boy, and how he’d never been able to shoot a deer since that day. To change the subject he said, “You must’ve had a pretty harrowing day.”
Dan drank the second half of his bourbon and water. “I have had such a day as I didn’t think it was possible to have. Seven cardiacs are dead and a couple more will go before morning. Three miscarriages and one of the women died. I don’t know what killed her. I’d put down `fright’ on the death certificate if I had time to make out death certificates. Three suicides-one of them was Edgar Quisenberry.”
Randy said, “Edgar-why?”
Dan frowned. “Hard to say. He still had as much as anybody else, or more. He wasn’t organically ill. I’ll refer to Toynbee again. Inability to cope with a sudden change in the environment. He swam in a sea of money, and when money was transmuted back into paper he was left gasping and confused, and he died. You’ve read the history of the ‘twenty-nine crash, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Dozens of people killed themselves for the same reason. They created and lived in an environment of paper profits, and when paper returned to paper they had to kill themselves, not realizing that their environment was unnatural and artificial. But it wasn’t the adults that got me down, Randy, it was the babies. Give me another drink, a small one.”
Randy poured another.
“Eight babies today, three of them preemies. I’ve got the preemies in San Marco hospital. I don’t know whether they’ll make it or not. The hospital’s a mess. Cots end to end on every corridor. A good many of them are accident cases, a few gunshot wounds. And all this, mind you, with only three casualties caused directly by the war-three cases of radiation poisoning.”
“Radiation?” Randy said. “Around here?” Suddenly the word had a new and immediate connotation. It was now a sinister word of lingering death, like cancer.
“No. Refugees from Tallahassee. They drove through pretty heavy fallout, I guess. We estimate at the hospital that they received fifty to a hundred roentgens. Anyway, a pretty hefty dose, but not fatal.”
“Are we getting any radiation, do you think?”
Dan considered. “Some, undoubtedly. But I don’t think a dangerous dose. There isn’t a Geiger in town, but
