"Now tell me what's really inside," he asked. "An atom bomb, or somebody's favorite spaniel?"
Still chuckling, the major took out a silver hip flask, plucked a paper cup from the water dispenser in the corner and passed them across the table to Lanyon.
"No, it's Van Damm all right. It may seem a hell of a time to take him home, but he's booked into Arlington Cemetery and if be doesn't go now there's a good chance he never will. There just won't be room."
Lanyon helped himself to a shot of whiskey. "So he _was_ dead after the crash?"
"He was dead _before_ the crash. Van Damm was killed two weeks ago in a car smash in Spain. He was on some private visit to Franco, which they had hushed up for political reasons, in case it hurt his campaign. His body was being shipped home on the plane. Nobody survived the crack-up at Orly. The Connie went straight into the deck on her back before she made 300 feet. Flipped right over like a paper dart. They fished out Van Damm's bits and pieces and decided to mail 'em collect to Nice." He replaced the flask, then went over to the coffin and patted it gently. "Well, have a quiet trip back to the States, General. You're the only one who will."
Lanyon spent the night at the Hotel Europe, a big three-story pile about five blocks back from the beach. The high clustering buildings in the hotel district made the streets just negotiable. Most of the hoteliers, with the aid of local shopkeepers, had built narrow roofed corridors of sandbags against the walls of the streets, and a maze of these dingy tunnels crisscrossed the city. A good number of bars and bistros were still open, and at the Hotel Europe 40 or 50 people sat up most of the night in the bar, listening to the news reports and speculating about possible escape routes.
Lanyon gathered that the wind showed no signs yet of abating; its rate of increase was still a steady five mph a day, by the latest estimates 117. After the initial period of inaction at last some organized attempt to preserve order was being made. Governments Were requisitioning coal mines and deep shelters, stockpiling food and medical supplies. News reports were conflicting, but apparently most of Europe and America were still little more than inconvenienced, while South America, Africa and the East had suffered complete dislocation, and the first signs of famine and epidemic were revealing themselves.
They set off back for Genoa at seven the next morning, the teak coffin, sealed into a canvas shroud, stowed in the cabin under the mattress. Goldman had mouthed some bitter cynicism and he obviously regarded Lanyon as the representative of the worst perfidies of the officer caste. Lanyon himself felt mildly disgusted with Hamilton for wasting the _Terrapin's_ potential, but the admiral might himself have been ignorant of Van Damm's death.
Five miles from Monte Carlo they passed through a small village, nestling below a cliff topped by big white hotels. The road narrowed, high walls on either side, and suddenly Goldman swore and braked the carrier. Lanyon peered into the periscope and saw two windswept figures in oilskins standing in the center of the roadway, waving their arms in wide circles. When they neared the people Lanyon noticed a stack of pastel suitcases on the pavement, the gaudy airline stickers clearly visible.
"Hold it," Lanyon snapped at Goldman. "They're Americans. Must have been stranded here."
They stopped the carrier and the orderlies unbolted the rear doors. Leaning out, Lanyon waved the two figures over, caught a glimpse of faces at the window of a house behind them.
One of the men climbed up onto the tail board and sat panting in long painful gasps.
"Thanks a million for stopping," he said, touching Lanyon's shoulder gratefully. "We'd just about given up." He was about forty-five, a slimly-built man with graying hair and small neat features.
"How many of you are there?" Lanyon asked, pulling the door shut to shield them from the savage gusts that drove into the carrier and swept out every vestige of warmth.
"Just four. My name's Charlesby, U.S. consul at Menton. There's Wilson, my deputy, his wife, and a girl from NBC. We were supposed to be covering the evacuation of American nationals to Paris, but everything's gone to hell. Our car cracked up, and we've been stuck here for a couple of days."
The other man in oilskins ran across the road to the carrier, shielding a red-haired woman in white raincoat and plastic bootees. They pulled her up into the carrier, helped her back onto the mattress. Lanyon and the orderly jumped down into the road and ran over to the suitcases, just as the other woman, wearing a tightlybelted blue coat, her blonde hair swirling around her head, ran out of the house and stepped nimbly across the pavement in long strides to the carrier. She tried to pick up one of the suitcases, but Lanyon pulled it from her hands, put his arm around her shoulders and steered her over to the open doors.
As the carrier got under way again Lanyon climbed forward and squatted down behind his seat. The two women were sitting back on the mattress, while Charlesby and Wilson crouched among the suitcases.
"We're making for Genoa," Lanyon told Charlesby. "Where are you people supposed to be heading for?"
Charlesby unbuttoned his oilskin.
" Paris, theoretically, or in an emergency the air force base near Toulon. I take it this rates as an emergency, but how that gets us to Toulon I haven't worked out yet."
"I'd take you back to the hospital at Nice," Lanyon said, "but we can't spare the time. I'm afraid you'll have to ride back to Genoa with us and then see if you can pick up something going the other way." He watched Wilson, a young man of about twenty-five, warming the chapped hands of his wife, a pale tired-looking girl who looked a few years younger. "O.K., there?" Lanyon asked. When Wilson nodded, he turned to the girl in the blue coat sitting on the mattress beside him.
"What about you? Genoa suit you?"
"Uh-huh. Thanks a lot, Commander." She pinned back her hair, looking Lanyon up and down. Her face was strong and full-lipped, with wide intelligent eyes that examined the commander with frank interest.
"Charlesby said you were with NBC. News reporter?"
She nodded, took a cigarette from the pack Lanyon offered her. As the carrier swung around a corner she rolled slightly against him, and Lanyon felt warm strong shoulders through her tightlyfitting coat.
She steadied herself with one hand on his arm, blew out a long straight stream of blue smoke.
"Patricia Olsen," she introduced herself. "On the Paris bureau. Came down here last week to get some shots for the folks back home of Monte Carlo being flattened." She tapped the tape recorder next to her with one finger. "All I've managed to get on this thing is the sound of my own screaming."
Lanyon laughed and climbed into his seat. The carrier slowed down to a crawl and Goldman stabbed a finger at the periscope. They were moving straight into the wind, up a long narrow slope. Twenty yards ahead of them, caught by its bumpers between the walls of two houses, was a long black Buick, swung up onto one side by the force of the wind. Slowly it worked itself free, then rolled onto its back and slithered down the street toward them. Goldman accelerated sharply, and the Buick locked for a moment against the heavy nose armor, then lifted sharply into the air and careened over the sandbagged hood with a tremendous clatter, rolling off the roof of the carrier. For a moment the periscope was darkened. Then it cleared and they all turned to watch through the rear-door grilles as the Buick, its body holed and dented, slithered down the street, demolishing a iow wall, from which clouds of dust took off in the air like supercharged steam.