“A side wall fell and killed Jerome, Henry.”
The sector chief sat a moment, drumming on his desk. “Look. See about this. There must be five… six gas stations above the lake on Windmere. Build your fires by using fences, porches, houses-if you need to. Take the manse apart. And pour on the gasoline. Siphon it down—garden hoses…!”
The minister’s voice was steady. “Will do, Henry.”
11
Kit looked back. You could see the light of the fire still but not the flame itself. He didn’t know where he was, just someplace well to the west. He didn’t know the make of the car he drove—
and recalled only dimly that he’d hit a fellow on the head to get it. He’d done that after seeing the wreck of Gordon Field and giving up the hope of flying. He was about at the end of his rope, he felt; bushed. When he hit a stretch where he couldn’t see a car ahead, or car lights in his rearview mirror, he watched along the side road and spotted a big, white farmhouse. He turned in the drive, switching his lights off. There were cattle in the barns, he could hear them. There were ducks in the trees, white ducks. And light leaked around the front window blinds, so someone was in the place. He knocked.
The door opened a couple of inches. “I need help,” Kit said. “Penicillin,” he added, eagerly.
A gruff, not inimical voice replied. “You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Come from the city?”