He laughed shortly. "Oh-they come in and they buy. Not much to sell them now. But I'm not going on right up till the end, same with all the staff. We had a meeting yesterday, and then we told the management. After all, there's only about a fortnight left to go. They're closing down tonight."

Peter came back and handed his cheque to the salesman. "Okeydoke," the man said. "I don't know if they'll ever pay it in without a staff up in the office. Maybe I'd better give you a receipt in case they get on to your tail next year…" He scribbled a receipt and turned to another customer.

Mary shivered. "Peter, let's get out of this and go home. It's horrid here, and everything smells."

"Don't you want to stay up here for lunch?" He had thought she would enjoy the little outing.

She shook her head. "I'd rather go home now, and have lunch there."

They drove in silence out of the city and down to the bright little seaside town that was their home. Back in their apartment on the hill she regained a little of her poise; here were the familiar things she was accustomed to, the cleanness that was her pride, the carefully tended little garden, the clean wide view out over the bay. Here was security.

After lunch, smoking before they did the washing up, she said, "I don't think I want to go to Melbourne again, Peter."

He smiled. "Getting a bit piggy, isn't it?"

"It's horrible," she said vehemently. "Everything shut up, and dirty, and stinking. It's as if the end of the world had come already."

"It's pretty close, you know," he said.

She was silent for a moment. "I know; that's what you've been telling me all along." She raised her eyes to his. "How far off is it, Peter?"

"About a fortnight," he said. "It doesn't happen with a click, you know. People start getting ill, but not all on the same day, of course. Some people are more resistant than others."

"But everybody gets it, don't they?" she asked in a low tone. "I mean, in the end."

He nodded. "Everybody gets it, in the end."

"How much difference is there in people? I mean, when they get it?"

He shook his head. "I don't really know. I think everybody would have got it in three weeks."

"Three weeks from now, or three weeks after the first case?"

"Three weeks after the first case, I mean," he said. "But I don't really know." He paused. "It's possible to get it slightly and get over it," he said. "But then you get it again ten days or a fortnight later."

She said, "There's no guarantee, then, that you and I would get it at the same time? Or Jennifer? We might any of us get it, any time?"

He nodded. "That's the way it is. We've just got to take it as it comes. After all, it's what we've always had to face, only we've never faced it, because we're young. Jennifer might always have died first, of the three of us, or I might have died before you. There's nothing much that's new about it."

"I suppose not," she said. "I did hope it all might happen on one day."

He took her hand. "It may quite well do so," he said. "But-we'd be lucky." He kissed her. "Let's do the washing up." His eye fell on the lawn mower. "We can mow the lawn this afternoon."

"The grass is all wet," she said sadly. "It'll make it rusty."

"Then we'll dry it in front of the fire in the lounge," he promised her. "I won't let it get rusty."

Dwight Towers spent the week-end with the Davidsons at Harkaway, working from dawn till dusk each day on the construction of the fences. The hard physical work was a relief from all his tensions, but he found his host to be a worried man. Someone had told him about the resistance of the rabbit to radioactive infection. The rabbit did not worry him a great deal, for Harkaway had always been remarkably free from rabbits, but the relative immunity of the furred animals raised questions in regard to his beef cattle, and to these he had found no answer.

He unburdened himself one evening to the American. "I never thought of it," he said. "I mean, I assumed the Aberdeen Angus, they'd die at the same time as us. But now it looks as though they'll last a good while longer. How much longer they'll last-that I can't find out. Apparently there's been no research done on it. But as it is, of course, I'm feeding out both hay and silage, and up here we go on feeding out until the end of September in an average year-about half a bale of hay a beast each day. I find you have to do that if you're going to keep them prime. Well, I can't see how to do it if there's going to be no one here. It really is a problem."

"What would happen if you opened the hay barn to them, and let them take it as they want it?"

"I thought of that, but they'd never get the bales undone. If they did, they'd trample most of it underfoot and spoil it." He paused. "I've been puzzling to think out if there isn't some way we could do it with a time clock and an electric fence… But any way you look at it, it means putting out a month's supply of hay into the open paddock, in the rain. I don't know what to do…"

He got up. "Let me get you a whisky."

"Thank you-a small one." The American reverted to the problem of the hay. "It certainly is difficult. You can't even write to the papers and find out what anybody else is doing."

He stayed with the Davidsons until the Tuesday morning, and then went back to Williamstown. At the dockyard his command was beginning to disintegrate, in spite of everything that the executive and the chief of the boat had been able to do. Two men had not returned from leave and one was reported to have been killed in a street brawl at Geelong, but there was no confirmation. There were eleven cases of men drunk on return from leave waiting for his jurisdiction and he found these very difficult to deal with. Restriction of leave when there was no work to do aboard and only about a fortnight left to go did not seem to be the answer. He left the culprits confined in the brig of the aircraft carrier while they sobered up and while he thought about it; then he had them lined up before him on the quarter deck.

"You men can't have it both ways," he told them. "We've none of us got long to go now, you or me. As of today, you're members of the ship's company of U.S.S. Scorpion, and that's the last ship of the U.S. Navy in commission. You can stay as part of the ship's company, or you can get a dishonorable discharge."

He paused. "Any man coming aboard drunk or late from leave, from this time on, will get discharged next day. And when I say discharged, I mean dishonorable discharge, and I mean it quick. I'll strip the uniform off you right there and then and put you outside the dockyard gates as a civilian in your shorts, and you can freeze and rot in Williamstown for all the U.S. Navy cares. Hear that, and think it over. Dismissed."

He got one case next day, and turned the man outside the dockyard gates in shirt and underpants to fend for himself. He had no more trouble of that sort.

He left the dockyard early on the Friday morning in the Chevrolet driven by his leading seaman, and went to the garage in the mews off Elizabeth Street in the city. He found John Osborne working on the Ferrari, as he had expected; the car stood roadworthy and gleaming, to all appearances ready to race there and then. Dwight said, "Say, I just called in as I was passing by to say I'm sorry that I won't be there to see you win tomorrow. I've got another date up in the mountains, going fishing."

The scientist nodded. "Moira told me. Catch a lot of fish. I don't think there'll be many people there this time except competitors and doctors."

"I'd have thought there would be, for the Grand Prix."

"It may be the last week-end in full health for a lot of people. They've got other things they want to do."

"Peter Holmes-he'll be there?"

John Osborne shook his head. "He's going to spend it gardening." He hesitated. "I oughtn't to be going really."

"You don't have a garden."

The scientist smiled wryly. "No, but I've got an old mother, and she's got a Pekinese. She's just woken up to the fact that little Ming's going to outlive her by several months, and now she's worried stiff what's going to happen to him…" He paused. "It's the hell of a time, this. I'll be glad when it's all over."

"End of the month, still?"

"Sooner than that for most of us." He said something in a low tone, and added, "Keep that under your hat. It's going to be tomorrow afternoon for me."

"I hope that's not true," said the American. "I kind of want to see you get that cup."

The scientist glanced lovingly at the car. "She's fast enough," he said. "She'd win it if she had a decent driver. But it's me that's the weak link."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed for you."

"Okay. Bring me back a fish."

The American left the mews and went back to his car, wondering if he would see the scientist again. He said to his leading seaman, "Now drive out to Mr. Davidson's farm at Harkaway, near Berwick. Where you've taken me once before."

He sat in the back seat of the car fingering the little rod as they drove out into the suburbs, looking at the streets and houses that they passed in the grey light of the winter day. Very soon, perhaps in a month's time, there would be no one here, no living creatures but the cats and dogs that had been granted a short reprieve. Soon they too would be gone; summers and winters would pass by and these houses and these streets would know them. Presently, as time passed, the radioactivity would pass also; with a cobalt half-life of about five years these streets and houses would be habitable again in twenty years at the latest, and probably sooner than that. The human race was to be wiped out and the world made clean again for wiser occupants without undue delay. Well, probably that made sense.

He got to Harkaway in the middle of the morning; the Ford was in the yard, the boot full of petrol cans. Moira was ready for him, a little suitcase stowed on the back seat with a good deal of fishing gear. "I thought we'd get away before lunch and have sandwiches on the road," she said. "The days are pretty short."