Now it was a week after the earthquake--two weeks after the falling of the bombs, and the town went on living. But it was strange, very strange. Art Cordell voiced the general opinion when he said, "You know, we waited a long time for the thing to happen--we kind of visualized, maybe, how it'd be. But I didn't figure it'd be anything like this." "Maybe there isn't any war," Jim said. "Washington hasn't said so." "Censorship." "But isn't that carrying censorship a little too far? The people ought to be told whether or not they're at war." But the people didn't seem to care. A deadening lethargy had settled over them. A lethargy they felt and questioned in their own minds, but didn't talk about, much. Talking itself seemed to have become an effort. This continued weariness--this dragging of one foot after another--was evidently the result of radiation from the bombs. What other place could it come from? The radiation got blamed for just about everything untoward that happened. It caused Jenkin's apples to fall before they were half-ripe. Something about it bent the young wheat to the ground where it mildewed and rotted. Some even blamed the radiation for the premature birth of Jane Elman's baby, even though such things had happened before even gun powder was invented. But it certainly was a strange war. Nothing came over the radio at all. Nobody seemed to care, really. Probably because they were just plain too tired. Jim Peters dragged himself to and from work in sort of a daze. Myra got her housework done, but it was a greater effort every day. All she could think of was the times she could drop on the lounge for a rest. She didn't care much whether a war was going on or not. People had quit waiting for them to come down from the north. They knew that the places where the bombs had fallen were guarded like Fort Knox. Nobody got in or out. Jim remembered the flash, the color, the rumors, the excitement of World War Two. The grim resolution of the people to buckle down and win it. Depots jammed. Kids going off to join. But nobody went to join this war. That was funny. Somehow Jim hadn't thought of that before. None of the kids was being called up. Did they have enough men? Washington didn't say. Washington didn't say anything. And the people didn't seem to care. That was the strange thing, when you could get your tired mind to focus on it. The people didn't care. They were too busily occupied with the grim business of putting one foot in front of the other. Jim got home one evening to find Myra staring dully at a small handful of ground meat. "That's a pound," she said. Jim frowned. "What do you mean? That little bit?" Myra nodded. "I asked for a pound of hamburger and Art put that much on the scale. In fact not even that much. It said a pound. I saw it. But there was such a little bit that he felt guilty and put some more on." Jim turned away. "I'm not hungry anyhow," he said. * * * * *