The Aftermath

by Samuel C. Florman

  "So much for food," Alf Richards said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "What's next?"

  "Not so fast, please," Harish Kahar interjected. "In the absence of a free market, who will decide which crops are selected for cultivation? There are questions of nourishment and individual taste, perhaps even some religious considerations."

  "Please, Harish," Richards said, trying not to show his impatience. "If we try to micromanage every operation, we'll never get anything done. Let's leave that to the specialists, unless they have disputes that they can't settle among themselves. As for me, I'll be happy to eat whatever the hell pops out of the ground or the sea."

  Kahar did not look pleased, but he acquiesced. "All right then," he said. "The logical next topic is water."

  By all indications, there was throughout the Ulundi Circle an ample supply of good water—rivers, lakes, and subsurface aquifers, plus, so far, adequate rain. But distribution was something else again. Immediately after the Event, members of each community had no choice but to carry water from the nearest fresh source—lake or river or well—in primitive containers. For the ship's survivors, the dining-room workers had handled this chore with efficiency and dispatch. The next step in this process would be to repair such networks of reservoirs, aqueducts, and pipes as had existed, and to plan and build new ones. Irrigation for agriculture was also an important consideration.

  Along with the water supply, there came the question of sanitation. It would be some time before outhouses could be replaced with indoor plumbing; but for some impatient people, this was a priority of no small moment. In the interim, cleanliness and hygiene had to be monitored.

  So the Planning Subcommittee established a Water Department consisting of one hundred persons. This department was directed to begin with studies, surveys, inspections, and designs. Construction projects would be undertaken as they could be scheduled within an overall development plan.

  It had been a long day, and a lot had been accomplished. Alf Richards looked at his watch, and was about to suggest a break for dinner. But before he had a chance to do this, Millie Fox was on her feet and vigorously asking to be recognized.

  "I've heard a lot of sensible proposals," she said. "But we're forgetting one very important matter. For anything we do, from planting corn to digging a ditch, we're going to need tools. I know we'll get around to figuring out how to make these tools; but we can't wait for that. I suggest that we send out a band of, say, one hundred workers—I would call them 'the Scavengers'—to find such tools as have survived the inferno. These Scavengers should be instructed to bring back every useful implement that is not already in the hands of a hardworking farmer."

  In addition, Millie suggested, the Scavengers should be told to keep an eye out for any pieces of metal—say, steel beams in partly destroyed buildings—that might later be salvaged for recycling.

  "A very good point," Alf Richards said. "We can probably have blacksmiths at work within a few weeks; but they will need materials to work with. And even if we give high priority to mining and refining metals, such operations can't produce results overnight. So, scrap metal will have to be one of our first raw materials."

  Looking at his watch once more, Richards ignored a few hands raised asking for recognition and spoke out loudly.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Let's take a break for dinner and then reconvene. Our work has only begun—but it's a good beginning. I wish my board of directors had worked as smoothly as we have here today!"

  6

  After dinner, Alf Richards reassembled the subcommittee and called the meeting to order with renewed gusto. It was high time, he said, to talk about construction. Once food and water were secured, building had to be the priority of priorities for the survivor community. Good progress had already been made building beehive indlus and erecting the community pavilion. But now a master plan was needed, and an organization to put it into effect. This is where the old hardhat was in his glory. He had given the matter a lot of thought, and prepared some preliminary estimates of the size and types of work gangs that would be most effective. He proposed establishing a construction company called Shaka Enterprises in honor of the fabled Zulu warrior king. Considering the immediate tasks to be accomplished, and the resources available, he recommended that two thousand individuals be assigned to the enterprise. This body of workers would consist of skilled tradesmen, laborers, and supervising engineers, three quarters of whom would work on buildings; the other quarter on roads, pipelines, and other infrastructure. This was a large commitment out of the total non-agricultural workforce of seven thousand; but the need was great. The most urgent objective was to provide housing—shelter for everyone. Yet construction for industry was also important. After all, Alf reminded the group, the agreed ultimate aim was not just to survive in safety and comfort, but to move as rapidly as possible out of the Stone Age into an industrial society.

  They would need mills for grinding grain and sawing wood; furnaces for firing brick and other clay-based products, and for smelting metals; sheds for blacksmith forges and various workshops. Roads were also critical, since transport of materials would be vital to any recovery operations. The roadbeds, which had previously carried highways and railroads, had to be reshaped and maintained, first for horses and oxcarts, eventually for mechanical vehicles of a sort yet to be determined.

  The Planning Subcommittee approved Alf Richards's scheme, as he had assumed they would, and they also endorsed his choice for a top management team. One of his American associates was to be in charge of factory structures, furnaces, and dams for sawmills and gristmills; a Swiss highway engineer was given oversight of work on roads, bridges, and pipelines; and an experienced contractor from Johannesburg, who had been in Ulundi at the time of the Event, took charge of regular building construction—homes, schools, clinics, and the like.

  To provide direction for the constructors, the subcommittee created a professional design team of architects, civil engineers, and other specialists, assisted by surveyors and various helpers—one hundred individuals in all.

  This prompted Stephen Healey to ask a question: "If we put all these architects and engineers to work, where are they going to get the paper, pens, and pencils they'll need?"

  "A good question," Richards replied. "And we've looked into that. I can report that the ship's purser has saved a goodly supply of these materials. They will be allotted according to real and demonstrated need under my direct supervision."

  The Ulundi Indaba had also commandeered such writing implements and paper as had escaped fire and flood in several office buildings. With rationing and conservation, there would be enough to fill the needs of the professionals for a year or more. In the meantime, Richards went on to explain, ten or so artisans would be designated to experiment with making pencils out of wood and graphite, and pens from quills, fine-haired brushes, and when available, thin metal plate. As for the ballpoint pen, that most ubiquitous implement of the immediate past, when the current supply ran out, that would be it—at least for a number of years. Not every item could be ranked high on the subcommittee's list of priorities.

  "We can think about making paper," Richards said, "as soon as wood pulp becomes available." Gordon Chan suggested that the tannery workers might try their hand at making parchment. This idea was greeted with considerable skepticism. The scheme would depend on obtaining the skins of young sheep and goats—washed, stretched, scraped thin, whitened with chalk, and smoothed with pumice—bringing the survivors "up to the Middle Ages at last," one wag commented. The process was eventually tried, and it yielded some wonderful material, although never in significant quantities.

  So, the construction enterprise was established; but still Alf Richards was not content.

  "Plans are wonderful," he grumbled impatiently, "but if we're going to start building, what we really need is lots of wood and lots of nails. These beehive huts have come in handy, and I know that up in the hills, folks have been fixing up their h
ouses using stone along with blocks made from dried mud. I'm sure we'll get around to making bricks and cement, too. But we can't mark time waiting for that day. Where is the wood?"

  "Fortunately," said Peter Mavimbela, "there are several forested areas up in the hills that have been spared by the flames. And we have forestry experts who can tell us how this resource should be harvested, replanted, and nurtured. But right now, just like the farmers, we're hampered by lack of tools—beginning with axes, saws, ropes, and animal-drawn sleds. Further, although lumber can be roughly shaped with axes and hand saws, we really ought to get some sawmills in operation as soon as possible."

  "It's that damned chicken and the egg," Alf said. "We need tools and sawmills to get building materials, and we need building materials to construct shops and mills. Well, we'll just have to do everything at once—start with our bare hands and such tools as we can find. Then make new tools as fast as we can, and get those mills built and in operation. At least we have good running water as a source of power. Some day we'll operate our mills with steam engines, internal combustion engines, or electric motors. For starters, waterwheels will have to do. But my question still is: how in the hell are we going to make waterwheels without nails?"

  "I know carpenters who can do a lot with pegs and doweling," Peter said.

  "Oh Christ!" Alf Richards was shouting with frustration now. "That's for people with time on their hands. Find me some nails, for God's sake. For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost!" he cried, mangling quotes from both Shakespeare and Ben Franklin.

  He was somewhat mollified when the group agreed to add nails to the list of items to be sought by the Scavengers, and to make nails a priority when the first blacksmith forges were put into operation. In the meantime, calming down, he told Peter Mavimbela that he would welcome those carpenters who knew how to work with pegs and dowels.

  Whatever the initial difficulties might be, the use of wood was crucial to any development plan, and the subcommittee decided to found an embryonic lumber industry with a workforce of three hundred. The first objective of this company would be, by hook or by crook, to provide structural materials for the builders. At the same time, using branches and brush not suitable for building, they were to start making charcoal for blacksmith forges, and to gather fuel for various other purposes. As a third mission, they would produce such derivatives of wood as turpentine, potash, and tannin for tanning leather. In their second year, the lumber experts would be expected to provide pulp for the manufacture of paper, as well as raw material for plastics and other chemicals.

  This seemed to conclude the discussion of wood and its byproducts; and the hour having grown late, several subcommittee members stood up and stretched, anticipating adjournment. However, Gordon Chan urged the group to wait just a few more minutes in order to consider a matter that seemed to be on nobody's agenda, but that was related to timber resource: the topic of bamboo. For this purpose he introduced Tran Hung Tho, an eminent Vietnamese agricultural engineer, who had been recommended to Wilson Hardy by a number of Asian academics.

  "Colleagues," began Dr. Tho, somewhat stiff and reserved, "the tropical climate along the coast in this part of Africa appears to be most promising for the cultivation of the tall, treelike tropical grass that we know as bamboo. Indeed, several varieties of the plant are local here and appear to have survived the tsunami. I have also brought with me seeds and seedlings, which I had planned to leave with African specialists for experimental work.

  "Bamboo can be propagated by dividing root clumps or by planting certain segments of the shoots, as well as by sowing seeds and planting seedlings. So there are excellent prospects for an early and abundant supply of this versatile and serviceable material."

  Alf Richards's eyes grew wide as he listened with fascination to the statistics.

  "Some species grow quickly, as much as one foot per day, and achieve heights of up to forty meters—that is, one hundred and thirty feet. The stems, lashed together with grasses—grasses, not nails—provide a good building material. This can be especially useful for Engineering Village, far removed as it is from the forested hills. The largest stems can be cut into planks for buildings and rafts, or used to make buckets and pipes, furniture, fishing poles, and much more. Additionally, the seeds of some varieties are eaten as grain and the cooked young shoots eaten as vegetables. The raw leaves are a useful fodder for livestock. The pulped fibers of several species are used to make fine-quality paper."

  After hardly any further discussion, the subcommittee authorized a workforce of fifty to assist Tran Hung Tho in his plan to grow and harvest this amazing material.

  Finally, fatigued by the long day and evening sessions, but cheered by the prospect of developing a supply of bamboo—which Alf Richards labeled "our unanticipated resource"—the Joint Planning Subcommittee brought its first meeting to an end.

  —————

  Just a week earlier, across the Mozambique Channel, two hundred fifty miles from the survivors of Ulundi and Engineering Village, on the shore of Madagascar, another meeting was held. Presiding was a youngish woman who spoke the Malagasy and French languages with a distinctly American accent. She removed a colorful bandanna from her head and shook her reddish-brown locks free. The all-male gathering awaited her words attentively.

  She stood before them—her "government council," a score of fierce-looking men of mixed race, not a single smile on any one of the hard, dark faces that were illuminated by smoky torchlight— and spoke with the authority of a born leader. She was their captain not by formal election, but by a unanimous, unspoken agreement. Her position was like that of an ancient Roman emperor, the imperator, or commander in chief, who held power by virtue of his dominant personality and ability to reward the armies.

  "My men, my people," she began in a low tone, "as your queen I am not afraid to lead you into danger, into the unknown sea of this dark new world. We do not know who or what is out there; but we are not afraid of them. We will make them afraid of us!"

  The men grunted approvingly, some applauded. "Fear is our most powerful weapon, and we must move with stealth and swiftness!"

  Her unkempt hair seemed afire in the flickering orange light; and she spoke just loudly enough, not shouting, to give her voice resonance and authority. "You, my friends, have only one thing in the world to fear—me. For I promise you with every fiber of my being that he who crosses me or disobeys a single command, however small it may seem, will pay with his life."

  No one moved or spoke. All eyes remained fixed on the woman, whose dark eyes glowed like coals. They had no doubt that she would carry through with her threat and that every man would support her in any such action. They noted, too, the automatic pistol, fully loaded, that rested snugly in her belt, which she tapped occasionally while she spoke as if to remind herself—and her audience—of its existence.

  Where had she come from? Somewhere in the United States, they assumed. When had she come to Madagascar? No one among her "pirate" crew knew for certain; most of them did not know her given name and few thought to ask. It was clear to those who spent any time thinking about it that she was educated and of superior intelligence. She spoke well, using unusual words that they sometimes did not understand; but her strategical plans seemed to make good sense. And she gave little evidence that she cared one whit what these rough men—or anyone else—thought of her. More important than where she came from, to these hungry-eyed buccaneers, was where she was going to take them.

  "We don't know if anyone else has lived through this catastrophe," she said. "But if people on this island have survived, it is very likely that others have too. We don't know if they are organized or armed, strong or weak. All we do know is that we are stronger and we are destined to create a new kingdom of Madagascar and Southern Africa. The holocaust came to us from the sky, destroying the world that was, eliminating those who held power, and inviting us to take our rightful place at the head of the table. It is our time to rule!"

 
The memories of fire and flood were raw in her mind. After all, it had only been three weeks since the disaster that had wiped out the Malagasy world, that world to which she had escaped from her all-American youth in southern New Jersey. If the destruction was global—as she suspected, having heard that a comet had been on its way toward the earth—then that civilization, too, the mighty United States, no longer existed, except in those memories of times, good and bad, that filled her dreams. Of course, she had different dreams now—of conquests and of building a new world as conceived in her fantasies.

  Anne Marie Appleton grew up in Cherry Hill, a South Jersey town that looked to Philadelphia for economic sustenance and to the equidistant shore towns for recreation. It was a large brood: seven kids, including Anne Marie, who was the second youngest. Dad worked in a local insurance agency; Mom was a registered nurse. They were a solidly middle-class family, and lived in a four-bedroom Victorian-style home. The children all went to Catholic schools, followed by attendance at a local community college. When her turn came, Anne Marie, who had been a straight A student and star athlete in swimming and soccer, won scholarships and loans that made it possible for her to go to Cornell.

  As she looked out at the hard faces of the men who would follow her into battle if necessary, she almost laughed aloud at the contrast between the would-be adult Anne Marie of ten years ago and the woman of today. It seemed unreal to her, this journey through time and experience that had taken her halfway across the globe.

  In college, Anne Marie read history voraciously and began to experiment with radical politics and mind-altering substances. Left-wing, right-wing, uppers, downers, hallucinogens, plain old alcohol, all came into play. She dated men from alternative worlds that she had never even imagined as a parochial school girl in suburban Cherry Hill. Who knew that the universe was infinitely expandable and that academic courses and boyfriends were infinitely expendable? They had never taught her that at home, where the issues were black and white, us and them, American and foreign, right and wrong.