by D. F. Jones
“I was going to ask you to make me a hotel reservation.”
From three thousand miles away I got the authentic horse laugh. “I’d be glad to do that, but as of now you’d be lucky to get a park bench on the Common!”
“What’s going on. conventions?”
His answer was evasive, but got through to me. “You should know the answer better than I, Doctor. I’ll try. Call me at eleven EST tonight.”
I left the apartment and walked a short way downtown.
The air was heavy, humid, and I was sweating like overage gelignite before I’d gone two blocks. Not that it bothered me; I had other things on my mind.
For instance: why had the Bostonian, a geophysicist, not asked me a single question about SARAH? Why had he been so evasive? Above all, how come Bette should be so well informed about the accommodation situation in Boston, Massachusetts?
What really had me ignoring the humidity was the fact that I had some idea of the answer to the last question, and I didn’t care for it.
Because Bette might come in, I decided to eat in her apartment, and on the way back from my insurance office where I had been chasing the question of my lost car, I did the necessary shopping, buying for Karen as well. I like San Francisco, was proud of it as “my” city, but at this time it gave me the creeps. I spent most of the day in the apartment on the chance Bette might come in early. Evening came, and by that time I was glad to be taken away from my thoughts by the arrival of Karen. Reassured by my conduct the night before, she was not so jumpy, and took over in the kitchen, anxious to demonstrate her prowess when she had a real place to work. I decided not to wait for Bette, and we ate and very nicely too.
I learned that Bill was fairly happy; work had begun on Mayfly, and should be finished the next day.
I called Boston at eight o’clock, local time. Boston was, I was told, booked solid. Including the Common. I said I’d have to think about the job, and that was that.
I’d hardly time to digest this when Bette telephoned. Again her voice was strange, her manner terse. Without preamble, she wanted to know how I had made out with Boston. She was silent so long when I told her, I would have thought we had been disconnected had I not heard her breathing.
“Are you still there, darling?”
“Yes.”
There was no doubting the stress. “Is it bad with you?”
“Yes.” Another pause. “Be in sometime tomorrow. Don’t know when.”
“I’ll picket the helo pad.”
“No—airport. Don’t bother. No idea of time.”
That was another shock. “Airport, you mean International?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you, then?”
Her breathing was very clear. “Denver.”
“Denver, Colorado?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. Don’t meet me. Get packed. Meet in my apartment. ’Night.” Slowly I turned away from the phone. Realization flooded in, chilling. Denver! The mile-high city!
Chapter 11
If I had any designs on Karen, which I doubt, they would have collapsed in a tangled heap after that call. As soon as I could, I left; I wanted to be alone.
We are all very good at shutting our eyes to the march of unwelcome events; in the latter part of the twentieth century it is a very necessary defense mechanism. I had done it repeatedly over SARAH, reluctantly accepting each revelation, then digging in again. Now I had to think, not only of what was, but also of what must come.
When a level-headed girl like Bette holds up a dayglo-painted banner with one word on it, only a fool would ignore it. The word was OUT!
Back in my apartment I gave myself a long cold drink and switched on the TV. If things were that bad, something must have broken on the news front; Denver was twelve hundred miles from San Francisco! All channels were busy with the usual stuff, and that made me feel a little better.
If Denver was affected, then SARAH’s influence had spread a lot further, and south. I checked with a road map; Denver must be a good fifteen hundred miles from SARAH. Given that consideration, then the city would be particularly susceptible with its famous mile-high altitude, and if the situation was so bad that help had to be summoned from a disaster area, it must be really tough.
My mind flitted across to Boston. There could be only one explanation: it must be designated a reception area, and was either full or expected to get that way very soon. Thirty-four hundred miles from SARAH and at sea level, it was obvious.
The TV program ended with a blast of music or maybe gunfire; a bright-faced crumb inquired about the state of my bowels, assumed the worst, and disappeared in a shower of sparks, to reappear as if he was Paul Revere, clutching a bottle. My bowels were saved. Another shower of sparks, and he had gone. Nice, comforting normal inanity.
Strange how that commercial sticks in my memory, yet not so strange. I don’t recall seeing another.
Before I could switch off a very different face stared at me. “Now, as announced earlier, we bring you the Governor of the State of California!” There he was, a craggy-faced man with a set, grave expression.
“I am speaking to you tonight so that you may know what the situation is, and therefore be better placed to combat the many wild rumors which are current. As you know, last week our coast was hit by a tidal wave, causing much damage and some loss of life. As a result, and at my request, the President of the United States designated our coast from the north, down to and including the San Francisco metropolitan Bay area, a disaster area. The work of clearance and restoration is, I am glad to tell you, well in hand.” He stopped and sipped some water. “This wave was produced by a major submarine upheaval some three hundred miles off our coast. Unfortunately, the wave was not the only result.
“A pocket of gas, a very large pocket of harmless gas, was broken open by the movement. This gas, drifting with the wind, has mixed with our normal air, and by dilution, reduced the proportion of oxygen in it. Broadly speaking, this cloud of harmless gas is above two thousand feet, but it varies in density and height. In those few places where the gas is dense and at a lower level and encounters a high-level habitation, where the air is thinner in any case, the oxygen content may be reduced to a point that makes breathing less easy for those of us with chests and hearts not so good as they once were.” He smiled in a wintry fashion. It was well known that he had a weak heart.
“I will not go into details; a doctor will do that soon. What I want to tell you is this: the cloud cannot last. Blown by the winds, it will move away and be dispersed and life will go back to normal, but for now you must accept the various measures I and my fellow governors of adjoining states may issue. Believe me, they are necessary for the good of us all. There is no cause for panic; do not listen to wild rumors, and have trust in your elected representatives.
“Stay tuned for medical advice for those with heart and lung conditions!”
I took a long gulp of my drink, thinking of the careful choice of words in that statement. The medical man was good value too. All concerned were urged to rest and check with their doctors. Those living above the two thousand foot line and who could go elsewhere, should do so. Those who had to stay should have an overnight bag ready. If the situation became locally dangerous, they would be evacuated.
Both statements were designed to reassure and maybe comfort. Perhaps they would, but not me. There were too many assumptions in the Governor’s speech that might not stand up to close scrutiny, and a lot was left out. While I knew too much, it was clear there was a lot I didn’t know. I decided to call Suffren in the morning. Meanwhile I got on with my packing and drinking, hoping to improve my chances of sleeping, for the day ahead could be tough and full of incident. Of course, it didn’t work.
I called Suffren early at his home and asked him if he had heard the Governor’s speech. He did not answer the question, but snarled that if I wanted to talk, I’d better “come over here” at once. Unlike some, he was a busy man….
He l
ived, for no reason that I could discover, in a battered clapboard house on the outskirts of San Bruno, a good ten miles away. I drove straight over, missing out on breakfast.
Suffren lived alone in this house, apart from a daily housekeeper who fought a vicious and interminable battle with him over practically everything. He greeted me, if you can call it that, in a mouse-gray dressing gown, crumpled pants, and peep-toe slippers.
“I rather thought I had not seen the last of you! Come in.” He led the way to the kitchen, slopping noisily. He removed a two-pound chunk of basalt from a chair and made me sit down. It was the first time I had been in his kitchen, and like any room he inhabited for more than a week, it was worth a look. A fine specimen of blue-gray galena held down a pile of bills and papers on the dresser. Lumps of gniess and schist did no good to the top of what had once been a highly polished radio; a badly folded geological map obscured half the table—one corner was anchored in the butter, another pinned by a fair sized piece of granite. And this was the kitchen. I wondered why the housekeeper even bothered. He poured me coffee, and opened a cookie jar which held real cookies—so easily it could have been a sand specimen. He sat down heavily. “Didn’t want to talk on the phone, SARAH is a delicate subject—security.”
“The Governor blew that last night.”
“You think so?” He sneered. “The chances are they haven’t even told him the full story. The situation is so chaotic, I doubt if any one person has a complete picture. What do you know?”
I told him about Bette in Denver and my talk with Boston.
“I know about Denver. Berkeley has established a national situation room, manned day and night, with the committee in permanent session. I’m moving over there today.” He peered around his kitchen with distaste, then suddenly focused on me. “And what do you want?”
“It shows that much?”
“Don’t be childish. You didn’t come over here for a polite chat.”
“No. Bette, whatever you may think, is a very practical woman and not easily stampeded. She wants to get the hell out of here.”
“I begin to think that woman may be of some use.” He nodded vigorously. “I told you to get out two days ago!”
“Sure you did, but I got the impression from her on the phone last night that she means now, right away!”
“If you had any feeling for the value of words, you would have appreciated that when I said ‘go now’ I meant ‘now’ and would have acted. Had you done so, you would be in Boston at this moment!” He poured some more filthy coffee, most of it in the cups, and snarled anew, “You talk too much and you’re a bad risk, but perhaps you have learned better recently, although I doubt it. What I am about to tell you is secret. Understand?”
I nodded.
“SARAH has not diminished, and shows no signs of doing so. Tracking the cloud is now the major commitment of the Air Force, in the air and on the ground. The Army’s role is civilian control. National Guard units throughout California and Oregon are mobilized already for disaster work. Sometime today NG units in Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana will be called out on the pretext that the coast states need support. In fact they are wanted to assist the Army in the organization and control of civilian evacuation from badly hit areas.”
“Hold it,” I said. “How’s the gas cloud doing?”
His voice sank. “Very roughly, all the western states, north of a line from here to Santa Fe, are covered.”
“Christ!” I spoke in awe. “That is a hell of a lot of ground. Your predication was right!”
“A fact that gives me no pleasure, I can assure you. Part of Canada’s affected as well—Calgary to Regina. Now, I predict again. If SARAH does not stop very soon, or at least recess to a marked degree, all the Midwest will be affected. Worse, I think we will find that the steady build-up will lower the altitude toleration level for cardiacs.”
“How far?”
“To use a very overworked phrase, who can say? It may come all the way down to sea level.” He grinned at me, but the grin was pure nerves. “Denver, with its altitude, is a special case. I believe that soon, very soon, the atmosphere there will be diluted to the equivalent of fifteen to eighteen thousand feet, possibly more.”
“Good God!” I cried. “No one can live at that altitude, never mind cardiacs!” Bette! How was she standing it?
“Exactly. Quito, capital of Ecuador, is some nine thousand feet up and is, I believe, the highest city in the world. Perhaps nine months is needed to acclimatize oneself fully to that. Imagine Denver at the equivalent of fifteen, sixteen thousand in a week!”
“It’s impossible!”
“Another overworked phrase lately.”
I could only stare at him. “That confirms my guess about Boston.”
“Not only Boston. Washington has set up a SARAH command post in those West Virginia caves. I don’t know much on that side, but I did hear they’re planning to move two million people.”
It was too vast, and I shifted from the national to the personal level. “From what you say, S.F. looks as good as most, earthquake risk or not. At least the gas is clearing us.”
“Yes, and no. That cloud could move down, and if it should, which I agree is not very likely, we would get a lethal concentration. Lethal in minutes, not hours.”
I thought back to the Tuscarora and our brush with SARAH, and tried to imagine that in San Francisco. There would be no way of escape, no sharp USCG captain…. People would gasp and struggle to no avail … autos, planes, trains, all out of control, causing crashes, fires … not that it would matter; in minutes it would all be over.
… My mouth was dry with that all too familiar fear.
… I reared away from the picture. Suffren was regarding me, his expression a compound of sympathy and anxiety.
“My advice, Mitch, is to head south. Los Angeles might be best—or get across to Texas. Never mind the academic side of our work for now. Get into the oil business for a while, until this blows over.” He cackled, a high-pitched, old man’s laugh.
I left him, dressing and packing for Berkeley. For all my selfish preoccupation, I was very sad. An old, brilliant, brave man, pottering among his specimens. My last sight of him was typical, standing on his unimpressive porch, wrapping a beautiful, smoky quartz twinned crystal in a shirt. I did not think we would meet again.
I drove back and adjusted my packing, discarding a good deal, including most of my specimens. A textbook or two on oil-bearing shales seemed more important.
I went back and loaded the jalopy with my revised gear. The rest would have to wait for later. Then I called Bette’s apartment; no answer, and a call to the hospital gave no satisfaction. I took a chance, drove over to Bette’s, left the car, and went downtown to my insurance office where I got even less satisfaction. The man I saw could split hairs finer than Stanford splits atoms. Did I have the wreck? My unprintable answer had no effect; undeterred, he asked for the estimated value of the wreck…. I controlled myself long enough to give my temporary address as Main Post Office, L.A., and left, boiling. We were doing our Nero act over five to six hundred bucks.
On the way back, I did some shopping for lunch and staggered into Bette’s, wringing wet and exhausted.
With a can of cold beer for comfort, I switched on the TV. A quick search got me a very old movie, a talk on the common housefly, a local government official talking interminably about local government, and a very ancient panel game. I shifted to radio; at least you couldn’t see anything.
Then Karen called to find if Bette was back. She was a lot brighter, and with a couple of miles of telephone wire separating us, risked being somewhat saucy. Her cheerful chat did me a lot of good, letting a little sunlight into the gloomy cavern of my mind. There was not much real news; Mayfly would be undocked next day, and she would call again later.
By two o’clock I’d given up the idea that Bette would be in for lunch, so I cooked my steak. It came as no surprise that just as I finished eating, Bette arrive
d.
One glance at her was enough to destroy Karen’s good work. Tense, anxious faces were a dime a dozen in San Francisco, but there was much more in Bette’s face. Drawn, thinner, she had the expression of one who had looked in at the gates of hell, the look to be seen in photos of soldiers fresh from combat. Her K.D. was crumpled and grubby, sweat-stained under the armpits, her hair nondescript, roughly tied back, lank and dull. She wore no makeup.
I took her suitcase as she moved wearily across and sank down on the sofa. Neither of us spoke. I poured her a drink, and she took it with the faintest of smiles, stretching out and splaying her legs like a man taking his ease. I heightened the illusion by unzipping and pulling off her boots.
“Would you like to eat or shower first?”
She stared blankly at me as if I had said it in fluent Russian. A muscle in her cheek twitched, and she rubbed it nervously with a grubby hand. Still kneeling, holding her dusty, scuffed boots, I repeated the question.
“A—a shower, I guess.” The words came painfully; she shook her head as if to rid herself of something. Again the faint smile trembled on her lips. “Sorry, Mitch. You’ve no idea….”
“Not yet, honey.” I stood up and lifted her to her feet. Close up, I could see the fine black dust on her skin. Briefly we looked searchingly at each other. It seemed as if she really saw me for the first time. I kissed her, but she was not with me; she might have been sleepwalking. Suddenly, it was vitally important that I should get across to her; I kissed her again. Slowly, she responded; once again I was dragging her, almost unwillingly, from some private nightmare. I kissed her softly, whispering her name, and at last she heard me, broke free from her trance-like state and returned my kisses with growing intensity. Now she was desperate to escape to me, and her reaction stepped up mine. Now … it had to be now … I too would escape.
