The picnic was spread waiting on the back lawn of the EGYPTIAN VIEW ARMS.
“Speech!” someone called.
“I don’t know how to begin,” Cardiff said.
“At the beginning!” There was a gentle laughter.
Cardiff took a deep breath and plunged in.
“As you may know, the State Department of Highways has been measuring string from Phoenix east and north and from Gallup north and west. The exact measurements of a new freeway will touch latitude 89 eighty miles west of longitude 40.”
Someone on the far side of the picnic let his sandwich fall and cried, “My God, that’s us!”
“No!” someone else cried, and a dozen others whispered, “No!”
“That’s not possible,” someone said.
“Anything,” said Cardiff, quietly, “in government, is possible.”
“They can’t do that,” one of the ladies cried.
“But they can. No freeway in any part of your state has ever been put on the ballot. The highway men, God listen to that, highway men, are their own conscience.”
“And you traveled here to warn us?” said Elias Culpepper.
Cardiff blushed. “No.”
“You were going to keep it secret!?”
“I wanted to see your town. I planned nothing. I assumed you all knew.”
“We know nothing,” said Elias Culpepper. “God almighty. You might as well say Vesuvius is threatening to erupt at our city limits!”
“I must admit,” said Cardiff, “that when I saw your faces, had breakfast, lunch, and dinner with you, I knew I couldn’t leave and not tell you.”
“Tell us again,” said Elias Culpepper.
Cardiff looked at Nef, who gave him the merest nod.
“The State Highway Commission …”
Lightning struck. Earthquakes shook. A comet hit the Earth. Cats leaped off roofs. Dogs bit their tails and died.
And the picnic ground, the sweet grass, was empty.
Sweet Jesus, thought Cardiff, have I done this?
“Fool, idiot, stupid dumb idiot fool,” he muttered.
He opened his eyes and saw Nef standing on a rise of green lawn calling over to him. “Come into the shade. You’ll die of sunstroke.”
And he went over into the shade.