when at long long last the revolution had arrived! Well-maybe not quite THE REVOLUTION, in capitals, but certainly the chance to make a revolution work. There had never before been so many people so absolutely angry with the system, and striking back against it. He was stuck here, though, until the opportunity arose to slip through the cordon around the city and go underground. Because of the massive forces which had been poured into Denver to clear up after the Madness, this was almost certainly the most completely controlled city in the nation. What a place to be stranded! He distrusted Pete because he had been in the police, and he was even afraid of Jeannie because he'd confessed to her the killing of that state border guard. Hell, how could these two be so wilfully blind? They conceded that the Madness had been caused by poison gas, but because it was Train who had given chapter and verse about it, they were ready to argue that "it wasn't the government's fault!" They wanted the clock turned back to where it was before, they wanted the government to regain control even though it had lied to and cheated and even killed its people! If they were capable of that degree of stupidity and docility, they might all too easily sell him out… "You picked the right day to have it delivered, too," Jeannie was saying as she patted the cooker's shining side. "Mom got me a chicken. Don't hang around too long with your beer, will you? Dinner's only going to be a minute with this beauty." Carl curled his lip in disgust as he collected the beer cans and headed for the adjacent room in Pete's wake. Sitting down, he said, "Seen the sun lately, have you?"

THE SMOKE OF THAT GREAT BURNING
Opening the door to the visiting doctor, all set to apologize for the
flour on her hands-she had been baking-Mrs. Byrne sniffed. Smoke!
And if she could smell it with her heavy head cold, it must be a
tremendous fire!
"We ought to call the brigade!" she exclaimed. "Is it a hayrick?"
"The brigade would have a long way to go," the doctor told her
curtly. "It's from America. The wind's blowing that way."
NEXT YEAR
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread.
-Milton: "Lycidas"