“Man—I left ’em! Didn’t say a word. Condition Yellow means we gotta streak. But not a general alert. Right?”
“Yeah. You fix up the store cellar, the way we recommended?”
Luke hated to have his driving interfered with by talk. And it was difficult driving: Willowgrove seemed to be filled, suddenly, with people who were trying to lose their lives—people going too fast, in both directions.
They made it safely, somewhat to Hank’s surprise, to his sector H.Q. Cars were assembling there, too, and people, moving quickly, were streaming into the building like ants, taking the places they had learned to take through the years.
Hank went to the principal’s office, shucked off his coat as he began giving orders, skimmed his hat at the rack and sat down. He rang a special number and reported himself at his post, his checkers at work, his people arriving in good numbers.
At the Walnut Street house, Ted drew up, his heart hammering and his ears crimson from the cold. It had been some drive, the way everyone was traveling. Looked as if quite a few were already making for the country. So it was evident that “security” about Condition Yellow was being partly violated.
He parked the car face out, in the drive, as it should be in a time of emergency. He was panting a little as he bounded up the porch steps: he’d never driven a car that far before, or anywhere near that fast—sixty, on one stretch.
Then he remembered that nobody had thought to give him a key. He couldn’t get in without breaking something.
He chose a front window because it was handiest. The glass shattered; he reached in… the lock turned.
He ran up both Bights of stairs, threw himself into the broken swivel chair at his work table, clapped phones on his head and started to pull switches, turn dials.