“Please, Ann! And the radioactive dust, son?”

“An' if it was ra-di-o-ac-tive dust 'stead of atom bombs, my skin would come right off my body, an' my lungs would burn up inside me—please, poppa, I won't do it again!”

“And your eyes? What would happen to your eyes?”

A chubby brown fist dug into one of the eyes. “An' my eyes would fall out, an' my teeth would fall out, and I'd feel such terrible terrible pain—”

“All over and inside you. That's what would happen if you got to the cellar too late when the alarm went off, if you got locked out. At the end of three minutes, we pull the levers, and no matter who's outside—no matter who—all four corner doors swing shut and the cellar will be sealed. You understand that, Saul?”

The two Dawkins children were listening with white faces and dry lips. Their parents had brought them from the city and begged Elliot Plunkett, as he remembered old friends, to give their children the same protection as his. Well, they were getting it. This was the way to get it.

“Yes, I understand it, poppa. I won't ever do it again. Never again.”

“I hope you won't. Now start for the barn, Saul. Go ahead.” Plunkett slid his heavy leather belt from its loops.

“Elliot! Don't you think he understands the horrible thing? A beating won't make it any clearer.”

He paused behind the weeping boy trudging to the barn. “It won't make it any clearer, but it will teach him the lesson another way. All seven of us are going to be in that cellar three minutes after the alarm, if I have to wear this strap clear down to the buckle!”

When Plunkett later clumped into the kitchen with his heavy farm boots, he stopped and sighed.

Ann was feeding Dinah. With her eyes on the baby, she asked, “No supper for him, Elliot?”

“No supper.” He sighed again. “It does take it out of a man.”

“Especially you. Not many men would become a farmer at thirty-five. Not many men would sink every last penny into an underground fort and powerhouse, just for insurance. But you're right.”