Henry nodded. His eyes were empty. The room was listening to this private argument.
“Sure. Green Prairie people will die. One for ten, didn’t he say?”
McVeigh cut in. “That’s about the size of it. Much as our people can do here, they can do ten times as much where there isn’t any functioning group at all.”
“Okay,” Henry said. “We’ll get going. I’ll have about a hundred and fifty ready in an hour—for your first load.”
Henry stalked from the room. Behind him, he could hear other sector chiefs making offers. It didn’t hearten him. He felt no pride in having started the ball rolling. He’d never done a tougher thing in his life: he’d condemned some of the provident to save many of the improvident. He wasn’t even sure it was just.
“Mr. Conner!” someone called from across the club porch.
“Yeah?”
The man ran up. “Thought you ought to know. Your son Ted was running a walkie-talkie down the line. Got buried in a brick slide. They’re trying to dig him out now.” The man said that and ducked away through the dark. He picked up a rolled stretcher, slung it over his shoulder, trotted toward a waiting ambulance.
Henry took hold of a porch post. He felt Lacey’s hand on his arm.
“I know about where that crew was,” the police lieutenant said. “Let’s go!”