Steel by Richard Matheson Page A

hands.
    â€œAll right with me,” he said. “Whatever the majority decides.”
    â€œKid, let’s face it,” Bill said. “You’re the most important person we’ve got here. An electrician’s going to be a big man down there.”
    Fred smiled. “That’s okay,” he said. “Anything you decide.”
    â€œYou know,” Bill said. “I wonder what the hell we mailmen are going to do down there.”
    â€œAnd we bank tellers,” Les said.
    â€œOh, there’ll be money down there,” Bill said. “Where America goes, money goes. Now what about the car? We can only take one for six. Shall we take mine? It’s the biggest.”
    â€œWhy not ours? ” Grace said.
    â€œDoesn’t matter a damn to me,” Bill said. “We can’t take them down with us anyway.”
    Grace stared bitterly at the fire, her frail hands opening and closing in her lap.
    â€œOh, why don’t we stop the bomb! Why don’t we attack first? ”
    â€œWe can’t stop it now,” Les said.
    â€œI wonder if they have tunnels too,” said Mary.
    â€œSure,” Bill said. “They’re probably sitting in their houses right now just like us, drinking wine and wondering what’ll it be like to go underground.”
    â€œNot them ,” Grace said, bitterly. “What do they care?”
    Bill smiled dryly. “They care.”
    â€œThere doesn’t seem any point,” Ruth said.
    Then they all at in silence watching their last fire of a cool California evening. Ruth rested her head on Les’s shoulder as he slowly stroked her blonde hair. Bill and Mary caught each other’s eye and smiled a little. Fred sat and stared with gentle, melancholy eyes at the glowing logs while Grace opened up and closed her hands and looked very old.
    And, outside, the stars shone down for a million times the millionth year.
    *   *   *
    Ruth and Les were sitting on their living room floor listening to records when Bill sounded his horn. For a moment they looked at each other without a word, a little frightened, the sunlight filtering between the blinds and falling like golden ladders across their legs. What can I say?—he wondered suddenly—Are there any words in the world that can make this minute easier for her?
    Ruth moved against him quickly and they clung together as hard as they could. Outside the horn blew again.
    â€œWe’d better go,” Les said quietly.
    â€œAll right,” she said.
    They stood up and Les went to the front door.
    â€œWe’ll be right out!” he called.
    Ruth moved into the bedroom and got their coats and the two small suitcases they were allowed to take. All their furniture, their clothes, their books, their records—they had to be left behind.
    When she went back to the living room, Les was turning off the record player.
    â€œI wish we could take more books,” he said.
    â€œThey’ll have libraries, honey,” she said.
    â€œI know,” he said. “It just—isn’t the same.”
    He helped her on with her coat and she helped him on with his. The apartment was very quiet and warm.
    â€œIt’s so nice,” she said.
    He looked at her a moment as if in question, then, hurriedly, he picked up the suitcases and opened the door.
    â€œCome on, baby,” he said.
    At the door she turned and looked back. Abruptly she walked over to the record player and turned it on. She stood there emotionlessly until the music sounded, then she went back to the door and closed it firmly behind them.
    â€œWhy did you do that?” Les asked.
    She took his arm and they started down the path to the car.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, “maybe I just want to leave our home as if it were alive.”
    A soft breeze blew against them as they walked and, overhead, palm trees swayed their ponderous leaves.
    â€œIt’s a nice day,”