down blindly, their
glass eyes gouged out.
The sunken rectangular plaza, which once had served as a skating rink
in winter and a cafe garden in summer, was like a box of broken glass.
The great statue of Prometheus, standing watch over the sunken plaza,
tilted crazily. David caught a glimpse of the legend:
Prometheus, teacher in every art, brought the fire that has proved to
mortals a means to mighty ends.
David ran into the RCA Building, where the broadcasting studios were
located.
It was jammed with people milling around, herdlike, afraid to go
out, expecting another blow. They were white-faced, shouting, talking
hysterically. They had been lucky. They had been safe within the building,
and there was no apparent damage to the interior of the great corridor.
The babel rose and fell:
"Earthquake -- felt like an earthquake."
"Earthquake, hell! There's never been an earthquake in New York, not
even a tremor. There can't be. This town's built on solid rock!"
"It was the Reds! This is just the beginning!"
"Everybody said New York would get it first. Well, we have!"
"Must have been a bomb planted deep in the subway. Or maybe in the river."
"Tried to phone home. The phones are all dead."
"They may hit us again -- any minute now."
"God, what if this whole place is radioactive right now? Maybe it is.
Maybe we don't know it. If it is, we're done!"
"I could have got out. I could have got out a week ago. Bui like a damned
fool, I stayed."
"Charlie, we're done for. We're standing here and dying. It's the
radiation. It gets into the marrow of your bones, eats up the blood, gives
you tumors like cancer. God, we're standing here and taking it and dying!"
The place was alive with white helmeted military police trying to keep
the crowd in order.
David tried to get to the studio elevators. Only one was in operation,
and that was guarded by an MP. He flung David back.
"Better check with the sergeant at the information booth, buddy."
David told the sergeant that he was looking for a Carol Kenny, an actress
who, as far as he knew, had been broadcasting in some studio on the
upper floors.
The sergeant wasn't inclined to be of much help; he let David know that
he didn't have any time at the moment hunting up girl friends for a lot
of guys.
"Remember?" said the sergeant. "We just had a little trouble around here."
David suddenly recalled his priority. It had been countersigned
by General Hawthorne. He showed it to the sergeant, who immediately
became co-operative. He opened a tally book, ran a thick finger down
the last page.
"Carol Kenny. Yeah. She had a short rehearsal and then went out."
"She went out?"
"That's right. Just before this thing went off. With an announcer named
Ray Graves, it says here. Probably went out for cofiee or something.
They were due back for broadcast ten minutes ago, but I guess that's
out. They won't be broadcasting around here for a little while."
So Carol had gone out. Carol had gone out into the street. And that
deadly rain of glass . . .
David felt a little ill. He thought. Maybe nothing happened, maybe she
found shelter, maybe she's all right. Maybe . . .
He decided to wait.
An hour passed, and Carol did not show up.
He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. There was no way of finding
out what had happened to her, not the way things were now. And he had
to get back to Palomar. Something big was going on out there. The Old
Man was waiting for him.
He could only hope that Carol was all right, that she hadn't been caught
in the street, that she was alive.
David waited another fifteen minutes, then contacted the sergeant at the
information desk, told him that he had to get out to Idlewild Airport
and that it was an urgent matter of military
glass eyes gouged out.
The sunken rectangular plaza, which once had served as a skating rink
in winter and a cafe garden in summer, was like a box of broken glass.
The great statue of Prometheus, standing watch over the sunken plaza,
tilted crazily. David caught a glimpse of the legend:
Prometheus, teacher in every art, brought the fire that has proved to
mortals a means to mighty ends.
David ran into the RCA Building, where the broadcasting studios were
located.
It was jammed with people milling around, herdlike, afraid to go
out, expecting another blow. They were white-faced, shouting, talking
hysterically. They had been lucky. They had been safe within the building,
and there was no apparent damage to the interior of the great corridor.
The babel rose and fell:
"Earthquake -- felt like an earthquake."
"Earthquake, hell! There's never been an earthquake in New York, not
even a tremor. There can't be. This town's built on solid rock!"
"It was the Reds! This is just the beginning!"
"Everybody said New York would get it first. Well, we have!"
"Must have been a bomb planted deep in the subway. Or maybe in the river."
"Tried to phone home. The phones are all dead."
"They may hit us again -- any minute now."
"God, what if this whole place is radioactive right now? Maybe it is.
Maybe we don't know it. If it is, we're done!"
"I could have got out. I could have got out a week ago. Bui like a damned
fool, I stayed."
"Charlie, we're done for. We're standing here and dying. It's the
radiation. It gets into the marrow of your bones, eats up the blood, gives
you tumors like cancer. God, we're standing here and taking it and dying!"
The place was alive with white helmeted military police trying to keep
the crowd in order.
David tried to get to the studio elevators. Only one was in operation,
and that was guarded by an MP. He flung David back.
"Better check with the sergeant at the information booth, buddy."
David told the sergeant that he was looking for a Carol Kenny, an actress
who, as far as he knew, had been broadcasting in some studio on the
upper floors.
The sergeant wasn't inclined to be of much help; he let David know that
he didn't have any time at the moment hunting up girl friends for a lot
of guys.
"Remember?" said the sergeant. "We just had a little trouble around here."
David suddenly recalled his priority. It had been countersigned
by General Hawthorne. He showed it to the sergeant, who immediately
became co-operative. He opened a tally book, ran a thick finger down
the last page.
"Carol Kenny. Yeah. She had a short rehearsal and then went out."
"She went out?"
"That's right. Just before this thing went off. With an announcer named
Ray Graves, it says here. Probably went out for cofiee or something.
They were due back for broadcast ten minutes ago, but I guess that's
out. They won't be broadcasting around here for a little while."
So Carol had gone out. Carol had gone out into the street. And that
deadly rain of glass . . .
David felt a little ill. He thought. Maybe nothing happened, maybe she
found shelter, maybe she's all right. Maybe . . .
He decided to wait.
An hour passed, and Carol did not show up.
He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. There was no way of finding
out what had happened to her, not the way things were now. And he had
to get back to Palomar. Something big was going on out there. The Old
Man was waiting for him.
He could only hope that Carol was all right, that she hadn't been caught
in the street, that she was alive.
David waited another fifteen minutes, then contacted the sergeant at the
information desk, told him that he had to get out to Idlewild Airport
and that it was an urgent matter of military
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