‘That first night, there was a run on the town’s movie houses. Drug–store fizzed up two hundred vanilla, three hundred chocolate sodas that first night of the Calamity. But you can’t buy movies and sodas every night. What then? Phone your in–laws for canasta or parchesi?’

‘Might as well,’ observed Willy, ‘blow your brains out.’

‘Sure, but people had to get out of their haunted houses.

Walking through their parlours was like whistling past a graveyard. All that silence —

‘Willy sat up a little. ‘Speaking of silence —'

'On the third night,’ said Antonelli, quickly, ‘we were all still in shock. We were saved from outright lunacy by one woman. Somewhere in this town this woman strolled out of the house, and came back a minute later. In one hand she held a paintbrush. And in the other…’

‘A bucket of paint,’ said Willy.

Everyone smiled, seeing how well he understood.

‘If those psychologists ever strike off 10 gold medals, they should pin one on that woman and every woman like her in every little town who saved our world from coming to an end. Those women who instinctively wandered in at twilight, and brought us the miracle cure…'

Willy imagined it. There were the glaring fathers and the scowling sons slumped by their dead TV sets waiting for the damn things to shout Ball One, or Strike Two! And then they looked up from their wake and there in the twilight saw the fair women of great purpose and dignity standing and waiting with brushes and paint. And a glorious light kindled their cheeks and eyes…’

‘Lord, it spread like wildfire!’ said Antonelli. ‘House to house, city to city.