“Good exercise; that’s just what you need,” George said. “It’ll take some of that fat off you.”
Hank grunted, and the ice tinkled merrily as he tilted the shaker to pour out the drink.
George Bailey took his time drinking it and then strolled out into an April thundershower. He stood under the awning and watched for a taxi. An old man was standing there too.
“Some weather,” George said.
The old man grinned at him. “You noticed it, eh?”
“Huh? Noticed what?”
“Just watch a while, mister. Just watch a while.”
The old man moved on. No empty cab came by and George stood there quite a while before he got it. His jaw dropped a little and then he closed his mouth and went back into the tavern. He went into a phone booth and called Pete Mulvaney.
He got three wrong numbers before he got Pete. Pete’s voice said, “Yeah?”
“George Bailey, Pete. Listen, have you noticed the weather?”
“Damn right. No lightning, and there should be with a thunderstorm like this.”
“What’s it mean, Pete? The vaders?”
“Sure. And that’s just going to be the start if—” A crackling sound on the wire blurred his voice out.
“Hey, Pete, you still there?”
The sound of a violin. Pete Mulvaney didn’t play violin.
“Hey, Pete, what the hell—?”
Pete’s voice again. “Come on over, George. Phone won’t last long. Bring—” There was a buzzing noise and then a voice said,”—come to Carnegie Hall. The best tunes of all come—”
George slammed down the receiver.
He walked through the rain to Pete’s place. On the way he bought a bottle of Scotch. Pete had started to tell him to bring something and maybe that’s what he’d started to say.
It was.
They made a drink apiece and lifted them. The lights flickered briefly, went out, and then came on again but dimly.
“No lightning,” said George. “No lightning and pretty soon no lighting. They’re taking over the telephone. What do they do with the lightning?”
“Eat it, I guess. They must eat electricity.”
“No lightning,” said George. “Damn. I can get by without a telephone, and candles and oil lamps aren’t bad for lights—but I’m going to miss lightning. I like lightning. Damn.”
The lights went out completely.
Pete Mulvaney sipped his drink in the dark. He said, “Electric lights, refrigerators, electric toasters, vacuum cleaners—”
“Juke boxes,” George said. “Think of it, no more God damn juke boxes. No public address systems, no—hey, how about movies?”
“No movies, not even silent ones. You can’t work a projector with an oil lamp. But listen, George, no automobiles—no gasoline engine can work without electricity.”
“Why not, if you crank it by hand instead of using a starter?”
“The spark, George. What do you think makes the spark.”
“Right. No airplanes either, then. Or how about jet planes?”
“Well—I guess some types of jets could be rigged not to need electricity, but you couldn’t do much with them. Jet plane’s got more instruments than motor, and all those instruments are electrical. And you can’t fly or land a jet by the seat of your pants.”
“No radar. But what would we need it for? There won’t be any more wars, not for a long time.”
“A damned long time.”
George sat up straight suddenly. “Hey, Pete, what about atomic fission? Atomic energy? Will it still work?”
“I doubt it. Subatomic phenomena are basically electrical. Bet you a dime they eat loose neutrons too.” (He’d have won his bet; the government had not announced that an A-bomb tested that day in Nevada had fizzled like a wet firecracker and that atomic piles were ceasing to function.)
George shook his head slowly, in wonder. He said, “Streetcars and buses, ocean liners—Pete, this means we’re going back to the original source of horsepower. Horses. If you want to invest, buy horses. Particularly mares. A brood mare is going to be worth a thousand times her weight in platinum.”
“Right. But don’t forget steam. We’ll still have steam engines, stationary and locomotive.”
“Sure, that’s right. The iron horse again, for the long hauls. But Dobbin for the short ones. Can you ride, Pete?”
“Used to, but I think I’m getting too old. I’ll settle for a bicycle. Say, better buy a bike first thing tomorrow before the run on them starts. I know I’m going to.”
“Good tip. And I used to be a good bike rider. It’ll be swell with no autos around to louse you up. And say—”
“What?”
“I’m going to get a cornet too. Used to play one when I was a kid and I can pick it up again. And then maybe I’ll hole in somewhere and write that nov— Say, what about printing?”
“They printed books long before electricity, George. It’ll take a while to readjust the printing industry, but there’ll be books all right. Thank God for that.”
George Bailey grinned and got up. He walked over to the window and looked out into the night. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear.
A streetcar was stalled, without lights, in the middle of the block outside. An automobile stopped, then started more slowly, stopped again; its headlights were dimming rapidly.
George looked up at the sky and took a sip of his drink.
“No lightning,” he said sadly. “I’m going to miss the lightning.”
* * * *
The changeover went more smoothly than anyone would have thought possible.
The government, in emergency session, made the wise decision of creating one board with absolutely unlimited authority and under it only three subsidiary boards. The main board, called the Economic Readjustment Bureau, had only seven members and its job was to coordinate the efforts of the three subsidiary boards and to decide, quickly and without appeal, any jurisdictional disputes among them.
First of the three subsidiary boards was the Transportation Bureau. It immediately took over, temporarily, the railroads. It ordered Diesel engines run on sidings and left there, organized use of the steam locomotives and solved the problems of railroading sans telegraphy and electric signals. It dictated, then, what should be transported; food coming first, coal and fuel oil second, and essential manufactured articles in the order of their relative importance. Carload after carload of new radios, electric stoves, refrigerators and such useless articles were dumped unceremoniously alongside the tracks, to be salvaged for scrap metal later.
All horses were declared wards of the government, graded according to capabilities, and put to work or to stud. Draft horses were used for only the most essential kinds of hauling. The breeding program was given the fullest possible emphasis; the bureau estimated that the equine population would double in two years, quadruple in three, and that within six or seven years there would be a horse in every garage in the country.
Farmers, deprived temporarily of their horses, and with their tractors rusting in the fields, were instructed how to use cattle for plowing and other work about the farm, including light hauling.