By then the decline in Scranton’s health forced me to be with him constantly. Far from being an object of charity, Scranton was now my only source of income. Our needs for several days could be met by a single session with the American tourists. I did my best to care for Scranton, but during his final illness I was too immersed in that sense of an emptying world even to notice the young doctor whose alarmed presence filled the tiny room. By a last irony, towards the end even Scranton himself seemed barely visible to me. As he died I was reading the mucus-stained headlines on his pillow.
After Scranton’s death I remained in his room at the Luxor. Despite the fame he had once enjoyed, his burial at the Protestant cemetery was attended only by myself, but in a sense this was just, as he and I were the only real inhabitants of the city. Later I went through the few possessions in his suitcase, and found a faded pilot’s log-book. Its pages confirmed that Scranton had worked as a pilot for a crop-spraying company in Florida throughout the years of the Apollo programme.
Nonetheless, Scranton had travelled in space. He had known the loneliness of separation from all other human beings, he had gazed at the empty perspectives that I myself had seen. Curiously, the pages torn from the news magazines seemed more real than the pilot’s log-book. The photographs of Armstrong and his fellow astronauts were really of Scranton and myself as we walked together on the moon of this world.
I reflected on this as I sat at the small café in the side-street. As a gesture to Scranton’s memory, I had chosen his chair below the awning. I thought of the planetary landscapes that Scranton had taught me to see, those empty vistas devoid of human beings. Already I was aware of a previous career, which my wife and the pressures of everyday life had hidden from me. There were the years of training for a great voyage, and a coastline similar to that of Cape Kennedy receding below me . . .
My reverie was interrupted by a pair of American tourists. A middle-aged man and his daughter, who held the family camera to her chin, approached the table.
‘Excuse me,’ the man asked with an over-ready smile. ‘Are you the . . . the astronaut? We were told by the hotel that you might be here . . .’
I stared at them without rancour, treating them to a glimpse of those eyes that had seen the void. I, too, had walked on the moon.
‘Please sit down,’ I told them casually. ‘Yes, I am the astronaut.’
1985
THE SECRET HISTORY OF WORLD WAR 3
Now that World War 3 has safely ended, I feel free to comment on two remarkable aspects of the whole terrifying affair. The first is that this long-dreaded nuclear confrontation, which was widely expected to erase all life from our planet, in fact lasted barely four minutes. This will surprise many of those reading the present document, but World War 3 took place on 27 January 1995, between 6:47 and 6:51 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. The entire duration of hostilities, from President Reagan’s formal declaration of war, to the launch of five sea-based nuclear missiles (three American and two Russian), to the first peace-feelers and the armistice agreed by the President and Mr Gorbachev, lasted no more than 245 seconds. World War 3 was over almost before anyone realised that it had begun.
The other extraordinary feature of World War 3 is that I am virtually the only person to know that it ever occurred. It may seem strange that a suburban paediatrician living in Arlington, a few miles west of Washington DC, should alone be aware of this unique historical event. After all, the news of every downward step in the deepening political crisis, the ailing President’s declaration of war and the following nuclear exchange, was openly broadcast on nationwide television. World War 3 was not a secret, but people’s minds were addressed to more important matters. In their obsessive concern for the health of their political leadership, they were miraculously able to ignore a far greater threat to their own well-being.
Of course, strictly speaking, I was not the only person to have witnessed World War 3. A small number of senior military personnel in the Nato and Warsaw Pact high commands, as well as President Reagan, Mr Gorbachev and their aides, and the submarine officers who decrypted the nuclear launch codes and sent the missiles on their way (into unpopulated areas of Alaska and eastern Siberia), were well aware that war had been declared, and a ceasefire agreed four minutes later. But I have yet to meet a member of the ordinary public who has heard of World War 3. Whenever I refer to the war, people stare at me with incredulity. Several parents have withdrawn their children from the paediatric clinic, obviously concerned for my mental stability. Only yesterday one mother to whom I casually mentioned the war later telephoned my wife to express her anxieties. But Susan, like everyone else, has forgotten the war, even though I have played video-recordings to her of the ABC, NBC and CNN newscasts on 27 January which actually announce that World War 3 has begun.
That I alone happened to learn of the war I put down to the curious character of the Reagan third term. It is no exaggeration to say that the United States, and much of the western world, had deeply missed this amiable old actor who retired to California in 1989 after the inauguration of his luckless successor. The multiplication of the world’s problems – the renewed energy crises, the second Iran/Iraq conflict, the destabilisation of the Soviet Union’s Asiatic republics, the unnerving alliance in the USA between Islam and militant feminism – all prompted an intense nostalgia for the Reagan years. There was an immense affectionate memory of his gaffes and little incompetencies, his fondness (shared by those who elected him) for watching TV in his pyjamas rather than attending to more important matters, his confusion of reality with the half-remembered movies of his youth.
Tourists congregated in their hundreds outside the gates of the Reagans’ retirement home in Bel Air, and occasionally the former President would totter out to pose on the porch. There, prompted by a still soignée Nancy, he would utter some amiable generality that brought tears to his listeners’ eyes, and lifted both their hearts and stock markets around the world. As his successor’s term in office drew to its unhappy close, the necessary constitutional amendment was swiftly passed through both Houses of Congress, with the express purpose of seeing that Reagan could enjoy his third term in the White House.
In January 1993 more than a million people turned out to cheer his inaugural drive through the streets of Washington, while the rest of the world watched on television. If the cathode eye could weep, it did so then.
Nonetheless, a few doubts remained, as the great political crises of the world stubbornly refused to be banished even by the aged President’s ingratiating grin. The Iran/Iraq war threatened to embroil Turkey and Afghanistan. In defiance of the Kremlin, the Asiatic republics of the USSR were forming armed militias. Yves Saint Laurent had designed the first chador for the power-dressing Islamicised feminists in the fashionable offices of Manhattan, London and Paris. Could even the Reagan presidency cope with a world so askew?
Along with my fellow-physicians who had watched the President on television, I seriously doubted it. At this time, in the summer of 1994, Ronald Reagan was a man of eighty-three, showing all the signs of advancing senility. Like many old men, he enjoyed a few minutes each day of modest lucidity, during which he might utter some gnomic remark, and then lapse into a glassy twilight. His eyes were now too blurred to read the teleprompter, but his White House staff took advantage of the hearing aid he had always worn to insert a small speaker, so that he was able to recite his speeches by repeating like a child whatever he heard in his earpiece. The pauses were edited out by the TV networks, but the hazards of remote control were revealed when the President, addressing the Catholic Mothers of America, startled the massed ranks of blue-rinsed ladies by suddenly repeating a studio engineer’s aside: ‘Shift your ass, I gotta take a leak.’
Watching this robotic figure with his eerie smiles and goofy grins, a few people began to ask if the President was brain-dead, or even alive at all. To reassure the nervous American public, unsettled by a falling stock market and by the news of armed insurrection in the Ukrai
ne, the White House physicians began to release a series of regular reports on the President’s health. A team of specialists at the Walter Reed Hospital assured the nation that he enjoyed the robust physique and mental alertness of a man fifteen years his junior. Precise details of Reagan’s blood pressure, his white and red cell counts, pulse and respiration were broadcast on TV and had an immediately calming effect. On the following day the world’s stock markets showed a memorable lift, interest rates fell and Mr Gorbachev was able to announce that the Ukrainian separatists had moderated their demands.
Taking advantage of the unsuspected political asset represented by the President’s bodily functions, the White House staff decided to issue their medical bulletins on a weekly basis. Not only did Wall Street respond positively, but opinion polls showed a strong recovery by the Republican Party as a whole. By the time of the mid-term Congressional elections, the medical reports were issued daily, and successful Republican candidates swept to control of both House and Senate thanks to an eve-of-poll bulletin on the regularity of the Presidential bowels.
From then on the American public was treated to a continuous stream of information on the President’s health. Successive newscasts throughout the day would carry updates on the side-effects of a slight chill or the circulatory benefits of a dip in the White House pool. I well remember watching the news on Christmas Eve as my wife prepared our evening meal, and noticing that details of the President’s health occupied five of the six leading news items.
‘So his blood sugar is a little down,’ Susan remarked as she laid the festival table. ‘Good news for Quaker Oats and Pepsi.’
‘Really? Is there a connection, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Much more than you realise.’ She sat beside me on the sofa, pepper-mill in hand. ‘We’ll have to wait for his latest urinalysis. It could be crucial.’
‘Dear, what’s happening on the Pakistan border could be crucial. Gorbachev has threatened a pre-emptive strike against the rebel enclaves. The US has treaty obligations, theoretically a war could –’
‘Sh . . .’ Susan tapped my knee with the pepper-mill. ‘They’ve just run an Eysenck Personality Inventory – the old boy’s scored full marks on emotional resonance and ability to relate. Results corrected for age, whatever that means.’
‘It means he’s practically a basket case.’ I was about to change channels, hoping for some news of the world’s real troublespots, but a curious pattern had appeared along the bottom of the screen, some kind of Christmas decoration, I assumed, a line of stylised holly leaves. The rhythmic wave stabbed softly from left to right, accompanied by the soothing and nostalgic strains of ‘White Christmas’.
‘Good God . . .’ Susan whispered in awe. ‘It’s Ronnie’s pulse. Did you hear the announcer? “Transmitted live from the Heart of the Presidency”.’
This was only the beginning. During the next few weeks, thanks to the miracle of modern radio-telemetry, the nation’s TV screens became a scoreboard registering every detail of the President’s physical and mental functions. His brave, if tremulous, heartbeat drew its trace along the lower edge of the screen, while above it newscasters expanded on his daily physical routines, on the twenty-eight feet he had walked in the rose garden, the calorie count of his modest lunches, the results of his latest brain-scan, read-outs of his kidney, liver and lung function. In addition, there was a daunting sequence of personality and IQ tests, all designed to reassure the American public that the man at the helm of the free world was more than equal to the daunting tasks that faced him across the Oval Office desk.
For all practical purposes, as I tried to explain to Susan, the President was scarcely more than a corpse wired for sound. I and my colleagues at the paediatric clinic were well aware of the old man’s ordeal in submitting to this battery of tests. However, the White House staff knew that the American public was almost mesmerised by the spectacle of the President’s heartbeat. The trace now ran below all other programmes, accompanying sit-coms, basketball matches and old World War 2 movies. Uncannily, its quickening beat would sometimes match the audience’s own emotional responses, indicating that the President himself was watching the same war films, including those in which he had appeared.
To complete the identification of President and TV screen – a consummation of which his political advisers had dreamed for so long – the White House staff arranged for further layers of information to be transmitted. Soon a third of the nation’s TV screens was occupied by print-outs of heartbeat, blood pressure and EEG readings. Controversy briefly erupted when it became clear that delta waves predominated, confirming the long-held belief that the President was asleep for most of the day. However, the audiences were thrilled to know when Mr Reagan moved into REM sleep, the dream-time of the nation coinciding with that of its chief executive.
Untouched by this endless barrage of medical information, events in the real world continued down their perilous road. I bought every newspaper I could find, but their pages were dominated by graphic displays of the Reagan health bulletins and by expository articles outlining the significance of his liver enzyme functions and the slightest rise or fall in the concentration of the Presidential urine. Tucked away on the back pages I found a few brief references to civil war in the Asiatic republics of the Soviet Union, an attempted pro-Russian putsch in Pakistan, the Chinese invasion of Nepal, the mobilisation of Nato and Warsaw Pact reserves, the reinforcement of the US 5th and 7th Fleets.
But these ominous events, and the threat of a Third World War, had the ill luck to coincide with a slight down-turn in the President’s health. First reported on 20 January, this trivial cold caught by Reagan from a visiting grandchild drove all other news from the television screens. An army of reporters and film crews camped outside the White House, while a task force of specialists from the greatest research institutions in the land appeared in relays on every channel, interpreting the stream of medical data.
Like a hundred million Americans, Susan spent the next week sitting by the TV set, eyes following the print-out of the Reagan heartbeat.
‘It’s still only a cold,’ I reassured her when I returned from the clinic on 27 January. ‘What’s the latest from Pakistan? There’s a rumour that the Soviets have dropped paratroops into Karachi. The Delta force is moving from Subik Bay . . .’
‘Not now!’ She waved me aside, turning up the volume as an anchorman began yet another bulletin.
‘. . . here’s an update on our report of two minutes ago. Good news on the President’s CAT scan. There are no abnormal variations in the size or shape of the President’s ventricles. Light rain is forecast for the DC area tonight, and the 8th Air Cavalry have exchanged fire with Soviet border patrols north of Kabul. We’ll be back after the break with a report on the significance of that left temporal lobe spike . . .’
‘For God’s sake, there’s no significance.’ I took the remote control unit from Susan’s clenched hand and began to hunt the channels. ‘What about the Russian Baltic Fleet? The Kremlin is putting counter-pressure on Nato’s northern flank. The US has to respond . . .’
By luck, I caught a leading network newscaster concluding a bulletin. He beamed confidently at the audience, his glamorous copresenter smiling in anticipation.
‘. . . as of 5:05 Eastern Standard Time we can report that Mr Reagan’s inter-cranial pressure is satisfactory. All motor and cognitive functions are normal for a man of the President’s age. Repeat, motor and cognitive functions are normal. Now, here’s a newsflash that’s just reached us. At
2:35 local time President Reagan completed a satisfactory bowel motion.’ The newscaster turned to his copresenter. ‘Barbara, I believe you have similar good news on Nancy?’
‘Thank you, Dan,’ she cut in smoothly. ‘Yes, just one hour later, at
3:35 local time, Nancy completed her very own bowel motion, her second for the day, so it’s all happening in the First Family.’ She glanced at a slip of paper pushed across her desk. ‘The traffic in P
ennsylvania Avenue is seizing up again, while F-16s of the 6th Fleet have shot down seven MiG 29s over the Bering Strait. The President’s blood pressure is 100 over 60. The ECG records a slight left-hand tremor . . .’
‘A tremor of the left hand . . .’ Susan repeated, clenching her fists. ‘Surely that’s serious?’
I tapped the channel changer. ‘It could be. Perhaps he’s thinking about having to press the nuclear button. Or else –’
An even more frightening possibility had occurred to me. I plunged through the medley of competing news bulletins, hoping to distract Susan as I glanced at the evening sky over Washington. The Soviet deep-water fleet patrolled 400 miles from the eastern coast of the United States. Soon mushroom clouds could be rising above the Pentagon.
‘. . . mild pituitary dysfunction is reported, and the President’s physicians have expressed a modest level of concern. Repeat, a modest level of concern. The President convened the National Security Council some thirty minutes ago. SAC headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska, report all B-52 attack squadrons airborne. Now, I’ve just been handed a late bulletin from the White House Oncology Unit. A benign skin tumour was biopsied at
4:15 Washington time . . .’
‘. . . the President’s physicians have again expressed their concern over Mr Reagan’s calcified arteries and hardened cardiac valves. Hurricane Clara is now expected to bypass Puerto Rico, and the President has invoked the Emergency War Powers Act. After the break we’ll have more expert analysis of Mr Reagan’s retrograde amnesia. Remember, this condition can point to suspected Korsakoff syndrome . . .’
‘. . . psychomotor seizures, a distorted sense of time, colour changes and dizziness. Mr Reagan also reports an increased awareness of noxious odours. Other late news – blizzards cover the mid-west, and a state of war now exists between the United States and the Soviet Union. Stay tuned to this channel for a complete update on the President’s brain metabolism . . .’
The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard Page 163
