Finally Jim snapped the set off. "Censorship," he said. "Now we're going to see what it's really like."
In the morning they gathered again in groups—the villagers in this little community of five hundred, and discussed the shape of things to come, as they visualized them.
"It'll take a little time to get into action," old Sam Bennett said. "Even expecting it, and with how fast things move these days—it'll take time."
"If they invade us—come down from the north—you think the government will let us know they're coming?"
"You can't tell. Censorship is a funny thing. In the last war, we knew more about what was going on in Europe than the people that lived there."
At that moment, old Mrs. Kendal fainted dead away and had to be carried home. Three men carried her and Tom Edwards was one of them. "Kind of heavy, ain't she?" Tom said. "I never thought Mary weighed much more than a hundred."
That night the village shook. In his home, Jim staggered against the wall. Myra fell to the floor. There were two tremors—the second worse than the first. Then things steadied away, and he helped Myra to her feet.
"But there wasn't any noise," Myra whispered. The whisper was loud in the silence.
"That was an earthquake," Jim said. "Nothing to worry about. Might be one of the bomb's after effects."
The quake did no great damage in the village, but it possibly contributed to old Mrs. Kendal's death. She passed on an hour later. "Poor old lady," a neighbor told Myra. "She was plain weary. That was what she said just before she closed her eyes. 'Hazel' she said, 'I'm just plumb tuckered.'"