The beefy one took a deep breath. "Okay, Lieutenant. But I'm going to drop a few words in the right place. I guess you know how the Commissioner feels about Crackpots."
"I don't give a damn. Come on, let's get out of here." The Lieutenant looked at Stan a moment. "You'd better move on, Doctor."
"Thanks," Stan said.
"At the next Snappy Service maybe you can phone. That's an hour's authorized stop for Specials. There's a Government Project in the hills nearby. You might be able to contact a Doctor there."
The sage spread out to a blur. Heat wavered up from the Freeway. In the rear-view mirror he saw Anna leaning back, her legs stretched out, her arms limp at her sides. She wasn't thinking about this with an historical perspective, that was the trouble. She had lost the saving sense of continuity with generations gone, which stretched like a lifeline across the frightening present.
Keep the perspective. Wait it out. That was the only way. This was an historical phase, part of a cycle. Stan couldn't blame any one. Anxiety, suspicion of intellectuals and men of science—as though they had been any more responsible really than any one else—suspicion and fear. There always had to be whipping boys. In one form or another, he knew, it had happened many times before. Another time of change and danger. There was a quicksand of fear under men's reasoning.
When things were better, they hadn't remained better. When they were bad, they couldn't stay bad. Wait it out. One thing he knew—neither he nor any other scientist could detach himself from life. The frightened policemen of the public conscience had made the mistake of thinking they could detach the scientist.
I'll not withdraw from it. All of it represents a necessary change. If not for the immediate better, then I'll be here for the immediate worst which will someday change into something better than ever.
But Anna's tired voice was whispering in his ear. "First of all, we're individuals, men, women. We've got to fight, fight back!"