“I sent her home an hour ago.” The siren rose and fell, rose and fell. Slowly.
On the radio the music stopped, and Jim Williams frowned. He did not know about Conelrad, the radio way of trying to baffle enemy bombers. But he turned dials and tuned in on the emergency wavelength:
“Repeat. This is a CONELRAD Radio Alert. Enemy bombers have attacked the United States. A condition of confidential alert has existed for some hours. This is not a practice. Not a drill. This is real. Enemy planes, possibly bearing atomic weapons, are said to be approaching Green Prairie and River City. Take cover immediately. Everybody. Take cover instantly!
Condition Red is in effect! Sirens are now blowing. Persons in cars draw to curb and wind up windows and get on the floor below the window glass. All persons near windows get below the level of the glass. Take refuge in cellars and basements, if possible. Instantly. Repeat—”
Jim switched off the radio. “Hey, Ruth,” he called, “you hear that?”
She came from the kitchen. “Yes, I did. I don’t believe it.”
“Neither do I,” Jim said. “Must be a walloping hoax.” He went to the window in contravention of the radioed orders. He looked out. “Some cars are stopping, though. Most aren’t. Maybe they haven’t got their radios on. Or radios in ’em at all.” He snickered. “Just like that Martian gag!”
Ruth’s hands were wet with dishwater. “What a day!” she said, “What a crazy day!”
Jim finished pouring the beer, and drank it rapidly. “All hell would have broken loose long since if there’d really been an attack, anywhere.”
“Not necessarily,” his wife argued. “They’re not supposed to give you that Condition Red warning unless planes are actually heading toward your town.”