He glared at Groff without speaking for a moment. Then he leaned back and rubbed his eyes wearily. "A billion dollars," he said, and it was like a prayer.
The little ranch house had been perfectly untouched by the flood; it was well uphill on Sullivan Street. Representative Akslund worked comfortably through the day in the pine-paneled den. His work consisted mostly of conversation with Artie Chesbro while Sharon sat by and took notes by candlelight. Agreement was reached, a statement was signed, the old man yawned politely and shuffled off to the master bedroom. "You release this to the network," he said from the door. "The wire services can take it off the air. Good night."
And Sharon and Chesbro raced to the school.
"Damn it," said Chesbro peevishly. The mobile broadcasting truck was gone. They scurried around with flashlights; Sharon found a state trooper who thought he remembered seeing it heading down toward the roped-off area at the foot of River Street. The houses there were either down or abandoned, and the only permitted persons were national guardsmen, theoretically patrolling against looters.
"Hello," said Mickey Groff. Sharon Froman jumped and turned around.
She said, projecting throatily, "Mickey! Thank heaven. It's good to see you, Mickey. We were worried."
Artie Chesbro caught her eye and slid away. Sharon said gaily, "Hasn't this been a day? We haven't slept ten minutes altogether since we saw you last. Luckily I'm a writer." She lifted her briefcase with a smile.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"We writers have our little secrets," she said. She put her hand on his shoulder, strolling him away.