No cars!
Mrs. Goudeket rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. She had tried two garages, and no cars for rent. Chief Brayer, they said. He had commandeered them, if you please, had them driven to a "motor pool." The couple of cars going through the streets that she had flagged down were "on missions." See Chief Brayer.
Well, she would see this new dictator, this Hitler of Hebertown. She reached the schoolhouse, and there, sure enough, was the motor pool in the teachers' parking lot across the street—a strange collection of vehicles ranging from a two-ton farm truck to somebody's little Rambler. There was a man with a clipboard at a table, on guard.
She sniffed and walked into the marble lobby of the school, which was crowded and noisy with the talk of fifty busy people. There were two uniformed men at card tables; one was in a fireman's queer, boxy uniform cap and the other must be this Brayer.
He was talking to a boy scout—at a time like this!—but she waited until he was finished. Then she burst out, "I've got to have a car. I'm Mrs. S. Goudeket of Goudeket's Green Acres. I've got to get back to my place. Now."
The mustached old man looked up. "Sorry, ma'am," he said. "We need all the cars for public service. Maybe later after some help comes in. Why don't you—"
"Did you hear who I am?" she yelled.
"I don't give a damn who you are," he yelled back, standing up. "The town is drowning. People are sick. People are looting and burning. We're trying to hold it together for a few hours until help comes. Don't come here grabbing for a car. Go and find something useful to do. They need help in the hospital, people to make beds and carry slops. You can do that, or if you don't want to do that you can at least get out of everybody's way!"
He sat down and turned to a man wearing a handkerchief around his arm and immediately was in thoughtful, intense conversation with him.
Mrs. Goudeket recoiled a step, then walked slowly from the lobby.