eporting and Indians my love life is
beginning to wither on the vine. You should have married a squaw."

"Who says I didn't?" I gave her my best leer and reached out an
exploring hand. She blushed and backed away, laughing. "Nothing doing,
Sam Quinlan! You want me I'll be in bed."

"Hey-hey!"

She gave me a quick kiss, evaded my grasp and disappeared into the
bedroom. I finished lighting the cigarette, typed a few more lines.
But my working mood was gone, a casualty of a black lace nightgown.
Finally I got up from the desk and snapped on the radio and, while it
warmed up, strolled over to the living room window.

* * * * *

At this hour Washington was largely in bed. Away over to the east I
could see the dim glow of lights marking the Mall, with the Capitol
dome beyond that. Now that communism was dead, buried and unmourned in
Russia and her satellites, with peace and prosperity booming from Iowa
to Iran, even the President would be sleeping like a baby. Any day now
I would be down to covering PTA meetings for the _Herald-Telegram_.
That was okay with me; my big interest was "Saga of the Sioux"--the
third in the series of books I was writing on the history of the
American Indian.

An early autumn breeze crawled in at the open window and moved the
line of smoke from my cigarette. A quiet serene night, with the faint
smell of burned leaves in the air and the promise of a cool, sunny,
peaceful tomorrow. A lovely night, made far lovelier by the thought
of the beautiful blonde waiting for me in the next room. After twelve
years of marriage I still found her to be the most exciting and
rewarding woman I had ever known.

"... most of eastern Colorado," the radio said suddenly, "as well as
the western fringes of Nebraska and Kansas."

I turned the volume down. Weather report, probably, except that the
announcer was making it sound like a declaration of war or a "sincere"
commercial.

"We repeat," the voice continued, "since 8:10 this evening, Eastern
Standard Time, literally nothing has come out of that section of the
country. All communication has ceased, outbound trains and planes are
long overdue, highway traffic out of the area has stalled."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You coming to bed?"

"... tuned to this station for further bulletins con--"

I clicked the set off. "Could I have three minutes for a fast shower?"

"Umm ... I guess so."

"I," I told her, "am coming to bed."