Морган Лливелин - Drop by Drop

“Now the barbarians are no longer at the gates, they’re sitting on top of the walls and giving the orders. And their roots—their wisdom, if you will—go back beyond the dawn of history. Let’s suppose their scientists—and don’t kid yourselves, they have some brilliant minds on their side—have discovered a selective ‘universal solvent’ that’s activated through solar power. It’s like being the only ones to have nuclear weapons. They can focus it on whatever they choose and hold the world to ransom if they want to.”

“That’s quite a hypothesis,” said Gerry, “but I’d have to see definitive proof. I don’t believe in anything that can’t be verified through the five senses.”

Gloria gave his arm a fond squeeze. “My husband is the original Doubting Thomas; that’s what makes him so good at his job.”

“Good at my former job, you mean. It ended with—” Gerry bit off the words. “I’m sorry, Nell, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “What happened at RobBenn affected the whole town. Don’t think you have to censor your words because I’m here.”

“You’re very brave.”

“No, I’m not, I’m realistic. Talking about it hurts less than not talking about it; sort of ‘the elephant in the room’ syndrome. If I try to pretend it never happened I think about it all the time. Does anyone else want some of this chocolate cake?” Nell interrupted herself brightly. “It’s delicious, but I don’t think I can eat the whole slice. Bill’s very generous with his portions, isn’t he?”

Undeterred, Jack returned to the principal topic. “Remember that the rise of ISIS in 2014 caused former enemies to join forces to combat the scourge. The geopolitical map of the world was redrawn. Traditional protocols and methods of warfare were thrown out the window. The Kremlin even opened a Department of New Threats, something like the Cyber Command George Bush authorized after 9/11. I’m reminded of H. G. Wells’s novel The War of the Worlds and the science fiction it inspired.”

Gerry said, “I stopped reading science fiction when I was twelve.”

“You’ve missed a lot, then. The best writers of speculative fiction have proved to be the prophets of a new age, miles ahead of hard science. They foresaw that mankind needed a common enemy in order to unite—and now we have one.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not convinced about the uniting part. We’re very much a tribal species.”

Which started a new debate.

Eventually the last cup of coffee was consumed and the four prepared to leave. “It’ll be getting dark soon,” said Gerry. “Do either of you need a ride home?”

“Thanks,” Nell replied, “but I’m living within walking distance now.”

“Come on, you shouldn’t pass up the chance of an inaugural ride.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, inaugural ride?”

“Something special’s waiting at the end of the lane. Come see for yourselves.”

“I think I just fell in love,” said Nell Bennett.

Standing patiently in the shadows were a pair of dapple gray horses, warmly attired in red woolen blankets. They were hitched to a carriage complete with a tarpaulin cover, side curtains and headlamps fitted with candles.

The nearest horse lowered its head and gravely accepted Nell’s gentle caress.

Gerry said proudly, “Allow me to introduce the River Valley Transportation Service, featuring the first two-horsepower bus in the state, powered by Jupiter and Juno. Shay Mulligan’s extended the stable behind his house to give them a home, and I’ve built a barn for the carriage.”

Nell’s eyes were sparkling. “They’re the most beautiful animals I’ve ever seen. Tell me about them, Gerry.”

“Well, they’re Quarter Horses, a mare and a gelding, and—”

“What’s the other three quarters?” Jack interrupted.

“Quarter Horse is the name of the breed. They were developed in the Old West for racing a quarter of a mile, but they can do almost anything and they have great dispositions.”

“Last year my husband didn’t know a martingale from a nightingale,” Gloria said. “Now he’s an expert on horses.”

“I’m not, but I’m learning more every day. A martingale is a piece of horse equipment; there’s an interesting piece of trivia for you. My wife didn’t know it either. Leaving RobBenn was the best thing that could have happened to me. I’ve gone into business with Shay Mulligan and it’s a whole new world, a hundred times better than being cooped up in a laboratory eight hours a day breathing fumes that would poison me in the long run. In the beginning I spent several weeks walking all over town, selecting the most likely routes, but now I ride in style.”

“What are you using for tires?”

“You would ask that, Jack. No tires; the wheels are iron and wood, same as they were before the discovery of rubber.” Gerry put a proprietary hand on a blanket-covered flank. “Old-fashioned, the entire rig. No steering wheel, no radio, no GPS. But it works, even on asphalt.”

“You don’t mind the smell of horse manure?”

“At least breathing it won’t harm my lungs,” said Gerry, “and my wife puts the manure on her roses. She says it’s the best fertilizer there is.”

“Is this horse-bus idea actually going to make money?”

“I sure hope so. We’re doing it by subscription. Frank Auerbach printed up advertising leaflets and I distributed them along the route, telling people they can buy a ten-ride or a thirty-ride ticket. The money’s coming in already. A lot of it’s in coins, but that’s okay, we’ll even take barter. Harriet Deane’s paying two dozen eggs for a ride into town tomorrow to buy chicken feed.”

Nell turned to Jack. “If you have money for the tickets I’d like to take my inaugural ride now.”

In the gathering twilight Sycamore River looked peaceful. Without their wallscreens some of the townspeople were going to bed earlier. Others stayed up reading. Or talking. Discovering the pleasure of after-dinner conversation.

The clip-clop of hoofbeats in the street brought curious faces to windows. Jack and Nell waved.

All of the children and most of the adults waved back.

Louise Mortenson ran out with a handful of carrots for the horses. When Gerry explained the bus service she went back into the house for money to buy tickets. “I like to do my grocery shopping on Thursdays,” she said. “Can I be a regular customer?”

Gloria fished a pencil and notebook out of her handbag and jotted down the information.

Meanwhile Gerry struck a match to light the headlamps. “Candles aren’t really necessary,” he told his passengers, “because horses can see in the dark better than we do. Gloria thinks they’re a nice touch, though.”

“So does Bill Burdick,” said Jack, “but I wouldn’t put much faith in those, if I were you. Commercial candles are made of paraffin and that’s a petroleum product, so sooner or later… fill in the blanks. Beeswax candles would be a better option if you can find them.”

“These are burning just fine.”

“Now they are; many things are still working ‘just fine.’ But more and more are giving out on us every day, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Beeswax candles, huh? Where would I get those?”

“I’ll look into it,” promised Jack Reece.

When the carriage halted in front of the apartment building he accompanied Nell up the stairs to her door.

“I enjoyed that a lot,” she said. “Would you…”

“Would I what?”

“Like to come in for a nightcap? Or is that too old-fashioned for words?”

“It’s been an old-fashioned evening, Nell, and there is nothing I would enjoy more, but I… well, some other time, okay?”