‘What do you care?’ asked Peter.

Ed stared at him. ‘I care because I have people of my own to think of, just the way you’re thinking about your mother. Now, have a drink, for Christ’s sake, and stop looking so damned depressed.’

They had been staying at South Burlington Farm since early Tuesday afternoon, and the tension between them hadn’t been improved by the rapidly-worsening famine bulletins on the television. There was sufficient canned and frozen food at the farm to keep them going for another week or two, if they were lucky, but after that they knew they were going to be out on their own. They had hoped to be able to stay for a month, but the President’s announcement on Wednesday evening had meant that over sixty per cent of their food had had to be thrown away. Ed had opened all the suspected cans and dug the food into the ground, in case they were tempted to open them later, when they were hungrier, and far less anxious about the risks of botulism.

On Tuesday morning, after capturing Shearson, they had stopped just outside of Fall River at a roadside diner, where Della had put in a call to the FBI office in Wichita. There had been no reply, she said; so she had tried calling Kansas City. The bureau chief there had told her not to risk bringing Senator Jones across country to Kansas City until the famine situation had ‘normalised itself. He had warned her not to try handing him over in Wichita, either since there had been fierce demonstrations and looting in the centre of town, and the Mayor had declared an area bounded by 13th Street to the north. Hillside Avenue to the east. Pawnee Avenue to the south, and the Highway 81 bypass to the west, totally under 24-hour curfew and a shoot-on-sight regulation for anyone found on the streets.

Ed had painstakingly bypassed Wichita by driving south on 77 to Winfield, and cutting across home to Kingman County through Wellington and Harper. Shearson had sat in the back, sweating and complaining; Karen had fallen asleep with her head against the Chevy wagon’s window. Peter Kaiser from time to time had said, ‘This is completely illegal, you know. We have the right of habeas corpus. Even derelicts have the right of habeas corpus.’

Della, still holding the pump-gun across her knees, had said, ‘I hope you’re not trying to tell me that you’re as good as derelicts. Even derelicts live their lives by some kind of a moral code.’

Shearson had grumbled, ‘Don’t women make you ill. A rotten woman is as bad for your stomach as a rotten steamer.’