The whole air around Green Prairie and Hiver City was on fire with communication, all right. Somebody at headquarters—Al Tully, it turned out—soon was saying, “Station W Double Zero CDJ. Come in, Ted Conner. Over.”
Ted’s hands moved swiftly. His voice said in a businesslike way, “Conner, here. W Double Zero TKC. Come in, please.”
“Where the hell you been?”
“On the way. Driving myself—alone—in Dad’s car!”
That any person should still be able to get a thrill from so minor a matter seemed to stun Albert Tully. “Nothing from your district at all. Why?” he asked.
“Dunno.” At that moment, at Ted’s side, an illegal phone, which he had installed himself and plugged in as he sat down, began to ring. “Here it is! Stand by….”
He grabbed the instrument, thanking his stars he’d violated the law, for otherwise he would probably make about a thousand trips up—and downstairs in the hours ahead. To his surprise, he heard his father’s voice. “That you, son?”
“Yes, Dad. Say! Dallas was hit! Frisco and LA don’t answer.”
“Good God!” Henry Conner was shocked to brief silence. His son, listening in on a ham radio set, knew. All Henry knew, in the principal’s office in South High, was what came from State CD. Not much, nothing as appalling as the information Ted had tersely stated. “Mother home yet?” he finally asked, and Ted heard him swallow, it was so loud.
“Nope. Not yet. Nobody here.” Henry’s voice was tighter, more brusque. “Okay. It’s just as we figured. Phone lines swamped downtown. Can’t raise H.Q. We ought to have paid for a direct line, like I said, and the phone company’s supposed to put us through. Try and do it. The whole thing’s a mess.”