Under the Dome

It wasn’t all, and Barbie guessed the widow Perkins knew it. He had listened carefully at the meeting, and although Rennie had taken pains to be at his most ingratiating and sweetly reasonable, Barbie had still been appalled. He thought that, beneath the goshes and gollies and doggone-its, the man was a raptor. He would exert control until it was wrested from him; he would take what he needed until he was stopped. That made him dangerous for everybody, not just for Dale Barbara.

“Mrs. Perkins—”

“Brenda, remember?”

“Brenda, right. Put it this way, Brenda: if the Dome stays in place, this town is going to need help from someone other than a used-car salesman with delusions of grandeur. I can’t help anybody if I’m in the calabozo.”

“What my husband believed is that Big Jim was helping himself.”

“How? To what? And how much?”

She said, “Let’s see what happens with the missile. If it doesn’t work, I’ll tell you everything. If it does, I’ll sit down with the County Attorney when the dust settles… and, in the words of Ricky Ricardo, James Rennie will have some ’splainin to do.”

“You’re not the only one waiting to see what happens with the missile. Tonight, butter wouldn’t melt in Rennie’s mouth. If the Cruise bounces off instead of punching through, I think we may see his other side.”

She snapped off the Penlite and looked up. “See the stars,” she said. “So bright. There’s the Dipper… Cassiopeia… the Great Bear. All just the same. I find that comforting. Do you?”

“Yes.”

They said nothing for a little while, only looked up at the glimmering sprawl of the Milky Way. “But they always make me feel very small and very… very brief.” She laughed, then said—rather timidly: “Would you mind if I took your arm, Barbie?”

“Not at all.”

She grasped his elbow. He put his hand over hers. Then he walked her home.

9

Big Jim adjourned the meeting at eleven twenty. Peter Randolph bade them all good night and left. He planned to start the evacuation on the west side of town at seven AM sharp, and hoped to have the entire area around Little Bitch Road clear by noon. Andrea followed, walking slowly, with her hands planted in the small of her back. It was a posture with which they had all become familiar.

Although his meeting with Lester Coggins was very much on his mind (and sleep; he wouldn’t mind getting a little damned sleep), Big Jim asked her if she could stay behind a moment or two.

She looked at him questioningly. Behind him, Andy Sanders was ostentatiously stacking files and putting them back in the gray steel cabinet.

“And close the door,” Big Jim said pleasantly.

Now looking worried, she did as he asked. Andy went on doing the end-of-meeting housework, but his shoulders were hunched, as if against a blow. Whatever it was Jim wanted to talk to her about, Andy knew already. And judging by his posture, it wasn’t good.

“What’s on your mind, Jim?” she asked.

“Nothing serious.” Which meant it was. “But it did seem to me, Andrea, that you were getting pretty chummy with that Barbara fellow before the meeting. With Brenda, too, for that matter.”

“Brenda? That’s just…” She started to say ridiculous, but that seemed a little strong. “Just silly. I’ve known Brenda for thirty yea—”

“And Mr. Barbara for three months. If, that is, eating a man’s waffles and bacon is a basis for knowing him.”

“I think he’s Colonel Barbara now.”

Big Jim smiled. “Hard to take that seriously when the closest thing he can get to a uniform is a pair of bluejeans and a tee-shirt.”

“You saw the President’s letter.”

“I saw something Julia Shumway could have composed on her own gosh-darn computer. Isn’t that right, Andy?”

“Right,” Andy said without turning around. He was still filing. And then refiling what he’d already filed, from the look of it.

“And suppose it was from the President?” Big Jim said. The smile she hated was spreading on his broad, jowly face. Andrea observed with some fascination that she could see stubble on those jowls, maybe for the first time, and she understood why Jim was always so careful to shave. The stubble gave him a sinister Nixonian look.

“Well…” Worry was now edging into fright. She wanted to tell Jim she’d only been being polite, but it had actually been a little more, and she guessed Jim had seen that. He saw a great deal. “Well, he is the Commander in Chief, you know.”

Big Jim made a pshaw gesture. “Do you know what a commander is, Andrea? I’ll tell you. Someone who merits loyalty and obedience because he can provide the resources to help those in need. It’s supposed to be a fair trade.”

“Yes!” she said eagerly. “Resources like that Cruiser missile thing!”

“And if it works, that’s all very fine.”

“How could it not? He said it might have a thousand-pound war-head!”

“Considering how little we know about the Dome, how can you or any of us be sure? How can we be sure it won’t blow the Dome up and leave nothing but a mile-deep crater where Chester’s Mill used to be?”