The Wanderer

“Your emperor ought to have got on the ball in time to stop the earthquakes,” Mrs. Hixon called tartly. Mr. Hixon laid his hand on her arm and whispered to her. She flirted her shoulders, but made no more cracks.

Rama Joan opened her eyes. “How are your speculations going now, Rudolf?” she challenged Doc. “Angels? Or devils?”

He replied: “I’ll wait until one flies in close enough for me to see whether his wings are feathery or leathery.” Then, realizing that he’d not necessarily made a joke, he looked quickly toward the Wanderer with a sardonic shudder. Then he stood up and stretched himself and surveyed the platform.

“Ha, I see you loaded the truck while I snoozed,” he commented blandly. “That was considerate. Didn’t even forget the water jugs — I suppose I have you to thank for that, Doddsy.” Then, softly, to Hunter: “How’s Ray Hanks?”

“Hardly woke up when we moved the cot into the truck and guyed it to the sides. Put a blanket around him.”

There was a droning in the sky. Everyone held very still. Several looked apprehensively toward the Wanderer, as if they thought something might be coming from there. Then Harry McHeath called excitedly: “It’s a ’copter from Vandenberg — I think…”

But it looked like a regulation enough little dragonfly of an observation ’copter as it slanted down toward the sea, then swung around and came along the beach, traveling at not much more than fifty feet. Suddenly it swerved toward them and hovered overhead. The drone became a roar. The down-blast from the vanes scattered the pile of unused programs in a white flutter.

“Is the damn fool trying to land on us?” Doc demanded, crouching and squinting upward like all the others.

A great voice came down through the drone. “Get out! Get out of here!”

“Why, the bastards!” Doc roared, so that what the voice said next was lost. “They’re not satisfied with slamming the door in our faces. Now they order us out of the neighborhood!” Beside him the little Man lifted and fiercely shook his fist.

“Get off the beach!” the great voice finished as the ’copter tilted over and continued in its course down the coast.

“Hey, Doc!” Wojtowicz yelled, grabbing the bigger man’s shoulder. “Maybe they’re trying to warn us about the tides!”

“But that won’t be for at least six hours—”

Doc broke off, as it became apparent that the roar wasn’t leaving with the ’copter, and as water spurted upward in a dozen places through the cracks between the floorboards.

All around the platform was a pale welter of foam. The wave had come in while all their eyes were on the ’copter and its roar had masked that of the wave.

“But—” Doc demanded, rather like King Canute himself.

“Not tides, but tsunami!” Hunter yelled at him. “Earthquake waves!”

Doc smote his own forehead.

With a hissing of sand and a hollow clanking of gravel the water receded, leaving behind a ghostly patchwork of spume.

“There’s another coming!” Paul cried out, watching a distant pale wall with horror. “Start the truck!”

The Hixons were already piling into the front seat The motor coughed and died. The starter whined by itself. Hunter, Doddsy, Doc, and Harry McHeath jumped down and prepared to heave at the truck’s sides. Rama Joan half-carried Ann across the platform, pushed her into the truck, and slapped her across the face when she tried to come back. “Stay there and hold on,” she snarled. Wanda tried to follow Ann, but Wojtowicz grabbed her in a bear-hug, telling her: “Not this time, Fatty!” Paul lifted and tried to secure the truck’s tailgate.

The motor caught. Wojtowicz swung Wanda behind him, and he and Paul pushed at the tailgate, sprawling on the boards when the truck lurched forward a foot or so. Its rear tires squealed as they spun in the wet sand. A heave from the men below, another forward lurch, a hesitation, another running heave, and suddenly the truck was going away fast, its tailgate swinging, its tail lights shining on the foam-frosted water nipping at its heels.

The second wave was high enough to overrun a corner of the platform and rock it a little, the cracks spouting like a sprinkler system. As it receded, Paul hustled Margo across the slippery boards. She was clutching Miaow. He paused on the back edge of the platform and looked around at the others and at the men struggling to their feet below in the shallow water.

“Come on! Quick, before the third one hits!” he yelled and plunged off with Margo, leading the rush after the truck.

Arab and Pepe and High expected blue floods of police to pour down after them into the Lenox and 125th Street subway station. So they hid in the can, Arab ready to shred their remaining reefers into the toilet and High set to flush it, while Pepe listened at the door. It wasn’t very smart but it was done almost instinctively.

But nobody else tried to come in; they didn’t hear police tramping and shouting around, in fact they didn’t hear anything. Presently they came out.