“No, Minerva.” His tone was wary.
“That it’s Communist-inspired. All it does is frighten people.” She warmed to the idea.
“Terrorize them by making them react to weapons the Reds probably don’t even own.
Meanwhile they are completely diverted and weakened in their attempt to wipe out dangerous radicals at home. The last thing a sane government would do would he to get its citizens playing war games in the streets…!”
Coley said, “Hey! Wait up!” because he was extremely well acquainted with the old lady.
“Doesn’t it go the other way around? Doesn’t the failure of the American people to get ready for atomic warfare reflect lack of realism and guts? Isn’t Green Prairie rather exceptional—because it is sort of ready, after all these years? If you were the Soviets, wouldn’t you rather America neglected atomic defense and wasted its muscle chasing college professors and persecuting a few writers? You bet you would!”
There was quite a long pause. Minerva’s voice came again, as quiet but as taut as a muted fiddlestring. “Coley. Am I going to have to replace you?”
Sitting in his office, high above Green Prairie, sitting in the new Transcript Tower which he’d help build by building up the newspaper, Coley felt the familiar whip. “No,” he said. “No, Minerva.”
“All right, then! Stop arguing—and get to work on the kind of job you know how to do!”
She swept from the phone booth into the main dining mom of the Ritz-Hadley and ordered a meal of banquet proportions.