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ducked south of Bakersfield by the county road, reached the Route 99 superhighway just south of Greenfield. It was, as he had feared, already jammed with refugees; he was forced to go along with the flow for a couple of miles before he could cut west at Greenfield toward Taft. They stopped on the western outskirts of the town and ate at an all-night truckers' joint.
    They were about to climb back into the car when there was suddenly "sunrise" due south. The rosy light swelled almost instantaneously, filled the sky, and died; where it had been a red-and-purple pillar of cloud was mounting, mounting — spreading to a mushroom top.
    Breen stared at it, glanced at his watch, then said harshly, "Get in the car."
    "Potty — that was ... that was"
    "That was — that used to be — Los Angeles. Get in the car!"
    He simply drove for several minutes. Meade seemed to be in a state of shock, unable to speak. When the sound reached them he again glanced at his watch. "Six minutes and "nineteen seconds. That's about right."
    "Potty — we should have brought Mrs. Megeath ."
    "How was I to know?" he said angrily. "Anyhow, you can't transplant an old tree. If she got it, she never knew it."
    "Oh, I hope so!"
    "Forget it; straighten out and fly right. We're going to have all we can do to take care of ourselves. Take the flashlight and check the map. I want to turn north at Taft and over toward the coast."
    "Yes, Potiphar."
    "And try the radio."
    She quieted down and did as she was told. The radio gave nothing, not even the Riverside station; the whole broadcast range was covered by a curious static, like rain on a window. He slowed down as they approached Taft, let her spot the turn north onto the state road, and turned into it. Almost at once a figure jumped out into the road in front of them, waved his arms violently. Breen tromped on the brake.
    The man came up on the left side of the car, rapped on the window; Breen ran the glass down. Then he stared stupidly at the gun in the man's left hand. "Out of the car," the stranger said sharply. "I've got to have it." He reached inside with his right hand, groped for the door lever.
    Meade reached across Breen, stuck her little lady's gun in the man's face, pulled the trigger. Breen could feel the flash on his own face, never noticed the report. The man looked puzzled, with a neat, not-yet-bloody hole in his upper lip — then slowly sagged away from the car.
    "Drive on!" Meade said in a high voice.
    Breen caught his breath. "Good girl —"
    "Drive on! Get rolling! "
    They followed the state road through Los Padres National Forest, stopping once to fill the tank from their cans. They turned off onto a dirt road. Meade kept trying the radio, got San Francisco once but it was too jammed with static to read. Then she got Salt Lake City, faint but clear: "— since there are no reports of anything passing our radar screen the Kansas City bomb must be assumed to have been planted rather than delivered. This is a tentative theory but —" They passed into a deep cut and lost the rest.
    When the squawk box again came to life it was a new voice: "Conelrad," said a crisp voice, "coming to you over the combined networks. The rumor that Los Angeles has been hit by an atom bomb is totally unfounded. It is true that the western metropolis has suffered a severe earthquake shock but that is all. Government officials and the Red Cross are on the spot to care for the victims, but — and I repeat — there has been no atomic bombing . So relax and stay in your homes. Such wild rumors can damage the United States quite as much as enemy's bombs. Stay off the highways and listen for —" Breen snapped it off.
    "Somebody," he said bitterly, "has again decided that 'Mama knows best.' They won't tell us any bad news."
    "Potiphar," Meade said sharply, "that was an atom bomb ... wasn't it?"
    "It was. And now we don't know whether it was just Los Angeles — and Kansas City — or all the big cities in the country. All