Let There Be Light
By Horace B. Fyfe
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of ScienceFiction November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The two men attacked the thick tree trunk with a weary savagery. In thebright sunlight, glistening spatters of sweat flew from them as the oldaxes bit alternately into the wood.
Blackie stood nearby, on the gravel shoulder of the highway, rubbing hisshort beard as he considered the depth of the white notch. Turning hisbroad, tanned face to glance along the patched and cracked concrete towhere squat Vito kept watch, he caught the latter's eye and beckoned.
"Okay, Sid—Mike. We'll take it a while."
The rhythm of the axe-strokes ceased. Red Mike swept the back of aforearm across the semi-shaven stubble that set him as something of adandy. Wordlessly, big Sid ambled up the road to replace Vito.
"Pretty soon, now," boasted Mike, eyeing the cut with satisfaction."Think it'll bring them?"
"Sure," replied Blackie, spitting on his hands and lifting one of theworn tools. "That's what they're for."
"Funny," mused Mike, "how some keep going an' others bust. These mustabeen workin' since I was a little kid—since before the last blitz."
"Aw, they don't hafta do much. 'Cept in winter when they come out toclear snow, all they do is put in a patch now an' then."
Mike stared moodily at the weathered surface of the highway and edgedback to avoid the reflected heat.
"It beats me how they know a spot has cracked."
"I guess there's machines to run the machines," sighed Blackie. "Idunno; I was too young. Okay, Vito?"
The relieving pair fell to. Mike stepped out of range of the flyingchips to sit at the edge of the soft grass which was attempting anotherinvasion of the gravel shoulder. Propelled by the strength of Vito'spowerful torso, a single chip spun through the air to his feet. Hepicked it up and held it to his nose. It had a good, clean smell.
When at length the tree crashed down across the road, Blackie led themto the ambush he had chosen that morning. It was fifty yards up the roadtoward the ruined city—off to the side where a clump of trees andbushes provided shade and concealment.
"Wish we brought something to eat," Vito said.
"Didn't know it would take so long to creep up on 'em this morning,"said Blackie. "The women'll have somethin' when we get back."
"They better," said Mike.
He measured a slender branch with his eye. After a moment, he pulled outa hunting knife, worn thin by years of sharpening, and cut off astraight section of the branch. He began whittling.
"You damn' fool!" Sid objected. "You want the busted spot on the tree toshow?"
"Aw, they ain't got the brains to notice."
"The hell they ain't! It stands out like one o' them old street signs.D'ya think they can tell, Blackie?"
"I dunno. Maybe." Blackie rose cautiously to peer over a bed ofblackberry bushes. "Guess I'll skin up a tree an' see if anything's insight."
He hitched up his pants, looking for an easy place to climb. His bluedenims had been stoutly made, but weakened by many rips and patches, andhe did not want to rip them on a snag. It was becoming difficult to findgood, unrotted clothing in the old ruins.
Choosing a branch slightly over his head, he sprang for it, pulled,kicked against