Artie waved the come-on to Sharon in the car on the shoulder. She reached into the back of the car for her manuscript briefcase and gaily ran for the limousine. She didn't even bother to lock up the car, which Artie had rented with a solemn promise that he'd return it to the garage in exactly two hours. It would get back to the man somehow, she thought contentedly. Big things were happening now; no time for trivia. * * * * * The AP man leaned forward and asked: "C-H-E-S-B-R-O?" "Right. Arthur Chesbro, of Summit. I own a piece of the Hebertown newspaper, I have some real estate, I'm interested in broadcasting. Thirty-nine years old." "Veteran?" "Ah, I was a consultant to the War Manpower Commission; I wasn't actually in the service." "Who's the man who died?" "Sam Zehedi, Z-E-H-E-D-I, I think it goes. A grocer, about thirty. We were holed up in a filling station on State Highway 7, just two carloads of people who couldn't get through the flood. The sick man is, I'm sorry to say, my very dear friend Henry Starkman, the Burgess of Hebertown. In the morning when we realized he had pneumonia we carried him about twelve miles into town. He's in that improvised hospital they have there. When I saw him last his condition was poor. He is about sixty-five. He was in my car when we got stopped; we were looking at conditions and making plans. On a small scale, what Mr. Akslund is here for." Cue to Sharon! Sharon said to the congressman, "The networks are probably trying to get mobile broadcasting units in right now. They should be set up and sending by midnight. By morning they'll have all they need to lead the disaster strong in the breakfast newscasts." It was a reminder that they had better get down to brass tacks on a concrete proposal for relief and reconstruction. Dramatically issued from the site of the flood, it would be unbeatable. They were rolling slowly into Hebertown proper. Artie said to the driver, "Drive around for a while." "Yes," said Akslund. "Show me everything." Sharon added: "Drop me off at the school. I'll get the police chief to find a room for us somehow. We'll have work to do." "Lots of it," Akslund said thoughtfully, looking through the window at the wreckage. * * * * * No cars! Mrs. Goudeket rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. She had tried two garages, and no cars for rent. Chief Brayer, they said. He had _commandeered_ them, if you please, had them driven to a "motor pool." The couple of cars going through the streets that she had flagged down were "on missions." See Chief Brayer. Well, she would see this new dictator, this Hitler of Hebertown. She reached the schoolhouse, and there, sure enough, was the motor pool in the teachers' parking lot across the street--a strange collection of vehicles ranging from a two-ton farm truck to somebody's little Rambler. There was a man with a clipboard at a table, on guard.