On the phone, Henry Conner said sharply to the Presbyterian minister, “Well, if it’s starting to freeze people on the north side of the Lake, move them where they get some warmth!”
“There’s no more space on the banks, Henry.”
“Great God! Beg your pardon. You mean…?”
“I mean, Henry, we’ve got the church full and Jenkins Memorial and every house that’s safety-inspected and all the terraces around Crystal Lake—you can’t walk fast without stepping on a hand! And the thermometer’s down to thirty now, and we’ve run out of blankets!”
“Build fires. Bonfires.”
“Where? With what?”
“Good God—beg your pardon—that’s Jerome’s lookout. Where is he?”
“A side wall fell and killed Jerome, Henry.”
The sector chief sat a moment, drumming on his desk. “Look. See about this. There must be five… six gas stations above the lake on Windmere. Build your fires by using fences, porches, houses-if you need to. Take the manse apart. And pour on the gasoline. Siphon it down—garden hoses…!”
The minister’s voice was steady. “Will do, Henry.”