Perchance to dream.
The auditorium was crammed but extremely quiet when Stu convened the meeting the following night. Sitting behind him were Larry, Ralph, and Glen. Fran had tried to get up, but her back was still much too painful. Unmindful of the grisly irony, Ralph had patched her through to the meeting by walkie-talkie.
"There's a few things that need talking about," Stu said with quiet and studied understatement. His voice, although only slightly amplified, carried well in the silent hall. "I guess there's nobody here who doesn't know about the explosion that killed Nick and Sue and the others, and nobody who doesn't know that Mother Abagail has come back. We need to talk about those things, but we wanted you to have some good news first. Want you to listen to Brad Kitchner for that. Brad?"
Brad walked toward the podium, not nearly as nervous as he had been the night before last, and was greeted by listless applause. When he got there he turned to face them, gripped the lectern in both hands, and said simply: "We're going to switch on tomorrow."
This time the applause was much louder. Brad held up his hands, but the applause rode over him in a wave. It held for thirty seconds or more. Later Stu told Frannie that if it hadn't been for the events of the last two days, Brad probably would have been dragged down from the podium and carried around the auditorium on the shoulders of the crowd like a halfback who has scored the winning touchdown of the championship game in the last thirty seconds. It had gotten so close to the end of the summer that, in a way, that was just what he was.
But at last the applause subsided.
"We're going to switch on at noon, and I'd like to have every one of you at home and ready. Ready for what? Four things. Listen up now, this is important. First, turn off every light and electrical appliance in your own house that you're not using. Second, do the same for the unoccupied houses around yours. Third, if you smell gas, track down the smell and shut off whatever is on. Fourth, if you hear a fire siren, go to the source of the sound... but go safely and sanely. Let's not have any necks broken in motorcycle accidents. Now - are there any questions?"
There were several, all of them reconfirming Brad's original points. He answered each one patiently, the only sign of nervousness the way he bent his little black notebook ceaselessly back and forth in his hands.
When the questions had slowed to a trickle, Brad said: "I want to thank the folks who busted their humps getting us going again. And I want to remind the Power Committee that it isn't disbanded. There are going to be lines down, power outages, oil supplies to track down in Denver and haul up here. I hope you'll all stick with it. Mr. Glen Bateman says we may have ten thousand people here by the time the snow flies, and a lot more next spring. There's power stations in Longmont and Denver that are going to have to come on line before next year's done with - "
"Not if that hardcase gets his way!" someone shouted out hoarsely in the back of the hall.
There was a moment of dead silence. Brad stood with his hands clutching the lectern in a deathgrip, his face pasty white. He's not going to be able to finish, Stu thought, and then Brad did go on, his voice amazingly even:
"My business is power, whoever said that. But I think we'll be here long after that other guy's dead and gone. If I didn't think that, I'd be wrapping motors over on his side. Who gives a shit for him?"
Brad stepped away front the podium and someone else bellowed, "You're goddam right!"
This time the applause was heavy and hard, nearly savage, but there was a note to it Stu didn't like. He bad to pound with his gavel a long time to get the meeting back under control.
"The next thing on the agenda - "
"Fuck your agenda!" a young woman yelled stridently. "Let's talk about the dark man! Let's talk about Flagg! It's long overdue, I'd say!"
Roars of approval. Shouts of "out of order!" Disapproving babble at the young woman's choice of words. Rumble of side-chatter.
Stu whacked at the block on the podium so hard that the mallet-head flew off his gavel. "This is a meeting here!" he shouted. "You're going to get a chance to talk about whatever you want to talk about, but while I'm chairing this meeting, I want... to have... some ORDER!" He bellowed the last word so loudly that feedback cut through the auditorium like a boomerang, and they quieted at last.