Alas, Babylon

by Pat Frank

  They reached a curve of the river and Randy watched the captain's walk on his roof disappear behind the cypress and palms. It was fun, he thought, and it was quiet. In a sailboat a man could think. He thought about the fish, and what had happened to them, for his stomach was empty.

  Peyton Bragg was bored, disgusted, and angry. She had helped Ben Franklin plan the hunt. She had even walked to town with Ben and helped him locate the books in the library that told about armadillos. The ar­madillo, they had learned, was a nocturnal beast that curled up deep underground in daylight hours. In the night he burrowed like a mole just under the surface, locating and eating tender roots and tubers, in this case the Henrys' yams. The exciting thing they learned was that in his native Central America the armadillo was considered a delicacy. The armadillo was food.

  Then, when it came time for the hunt, Ben had re­fused to take her along. A girl couldn't stay out all night in the woods, Ben said. It was too dangerous for a girl; She would have presented her case to Randy for judgment, but Randy was gone with the Admiral, and her mother agreed with Ben.

  So Ben had gone off that, evening with Caleb and Graf. It was Ben's contention that Graf was the key to armadillo hunting, and so it had proved. In Germany the dachshund was originally bred as a badger hound, which meant that he could dig like mad and would fear­lessly and tenaciously pursue any animal underground.

  Ben had been armed with a machete and his .22 rifle, but it was Caleb's spear that had been the effective weapon against armadillos. They had gone to the yam patch in the moonlight. The whole patch was plowed with armadillo runs. Ben introduced Graf to an opening and Graf, sniffing and understanding at once, had wormed his way into the earth. Presently there came an awful snarling and growling from a corner of the patch. Locating the armadillo from Graf's sounds, Caleb prod­ded it with his spear, and the armadillo burst out. This eruption so surprised Ben that he shot it. The others, he decapitated with the machete.

  In the morning, five armadillos had been laid out in the Henrys' barn. Two-Tone and Preacher cleaned them, and Peyton had eaten armadillo for breakfast. She would have choked on it, except that it was tender and delicious and she was starving. Ben Franklin was credited with discovering a new source of food, and was a hero. Peyton was only a girl, fit for sewing, pot wash­ing, and making beds.

  Peyton threw herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She wanted to be noticed and praised. She wanted to be hero. She recently had been talking to Lib about psychology, a fascinating subject. She had even read one of Lib's books. "I'm rejected," she told herself aloud.

  If she wanted to be a hero the best way was to catch some fish. She set her mind to the problem, why won't the fish bite? She had heard the Admiral say that the best fisherman on the river was Preacher Henry and yet she knew that Randy hadn't talked to Preacher about the no-fish. If anybody could help, Preacher could. She got up, smoothed the bed, and sneaked down the back stairs. This was her day to sweep upstairs. She would finish when she got back.

  Peyton found Preacher in the cool of his front porch, rocking. Preacher was getting very old. He didn't do much of anything any more except rock. Preacher was the oldest person Peyton had ever seen. Now that he had grown a white beard, he looked like a dark prophet out of the Bible. Peyton said, "Preacher, can you tell me something?"

  Preacher was startled. He hadn't seen her slip up on him, and her voice had broken his dream. He started to rise and then sank back into the chair. "Sure, Peyton," he said. "What do you want to know?"

  "Why don't the fish bite?"

  Preacher chuckled. "They do bite. They bite when­ever they eat."

  "Come on, Preacher. Tell me how I can catch some fish."

  "To catch fish, you got to think like a fish. Can you think like a fish, little girl?"

  Peyton felt injured, being called a little girl, but she was a child of dignity, and it was with dignity that she answered. "No, I can't. But I know that you can. You must, because you're a great fisherman."

  Preacher nodded in agreement. "I was a great fisher­man. Now I feel too poorly to fish. Nobody thinks of me any more as a great fisherman. They only think of me as an old man of no use to anyone. You are the first one to ask, 'Why don't the fish bite?' So I'll tell you."

  Peyton waited.

  "If it was very hot, like now, the hottest I ever re­member, and you was a fish, what would you do?"

  "I don't know," Peyton said. "I know what I do. I take showers, three or four a day. Outside with nothing on."

  Preacher nodded. "The fish, he wants to stay cool too. He don't hang around the shore there-" his arm swept to indicate the river banks - "he goes out into the middle. The water close to the shore, it's hot. You put your hand in it, it feels like soup. But out in the middle of the river, way down deep, it's nice and cool. Down there the fish feels lively and hungry and he eats and when he eats he bites."

  "Bass?"

  "Yes. Big bass, 'way down deep."

  "How would I get them? Nobody's been able to net any bass bait - no shiners."

  "That's the trouble," Preacher said. "The little fish he gets hot too and so he's out there in the middle deep, being chased by the big fish like always."

  Peyton thought of something. "Would a bass bite a goldfish?"

  Preacher looked at her suspiciously. "He sure would! He'd take a goldfish in a second if one was offered! But it against the law to fish with goldfish. But if I did have goldfish, and if it weren't against the law, and if I did fish out in the deep channel, then I wouldn't use a bob­ber. I'd just put a little weight next my hook so that goldfish would sink right down where the big bass lie."

  Peyton said, "Thank you, Preacher," and skipped away, not wishing to incriminate him further, if it really was true that goldfish were illegal. She went home, found a bucket on the back porch, and then walked across River Road

  for a talk with Florence Wechek. She and Florence were good friends and often had long talks, but about simple subjects, such as mending.

  Florence wasn't home - she was probably in town helping Alice at the library but the goldfish were. She watched them swimming dreamily, ignoring her in their useless complacency. "In with you," she said, and dumped fish and water into the pail. She borrowed Ben Franklin's rod and reel and made for the dock. She was forbidden to go out in Randy's boat alone, but since she was already involved in one criminal act, she might as well risk another.

  At noon Randy had not returned and Elizabeth McGovern Bragg climbed to the captain's walk where she could be alone with her fears and anxiety. Her fa­ther and Dan Gunn had walked to town that morning. With some volunteers from Bragg's Troop, they had be­gun to clean up and repair the clinic. So there was no man in the house and she was afraid for her husband. He had told her there would be no danger but in this new life the dangers were deadly and unpredictable. She kept her face turned steadily to the east, where the Ad­miral's striped-awning sail should appear at the first bend of the Timucuan.

  She told herself that she was silly, that Randy and the others, if they found the place at all, might tarry there for hours. They would undoubtedly feast on crab, and she couldn't blame them. They might find it difficult to load the salt. Anything could delay them.

  From the grass behind the kitchen Helen called up, "Lib!"

  She leaned over the rail. "Yes?"

  "Is Peyton up there with you?"

  "No. I haven't seen her."

  "Is she out on the dock?"

  Lib looked out at the dock and saw that Randy's boat was missing. Before she told Helen this she scanned the river. It was nowhere in sight; Randy had sailed in the Admiral's cruiser, and the boat should be there.

  At five that evening the Fort Repose fleet sighted Randy's house. There was no doubt that it had been a triumphant voyage. The five boats were deep with salt, the thirteen men were filled with boiled crabs, lavishly seasoned, so they were all stronger and felt better, and in every boat there were buckets and washtubs filled with live crabs.

/>   The Admiral ran his boat alongside Randy's dock and turned into the wind. "You unload what salt you want here," Sam Hazzard said, "and that washtubful of crabs, and I'll sail back with the Henrys' share, and mine."

  Randy unloaded. He had expected that Lib would be down at the dock to greet him, or certainly watching from the captain's walk. Coming home with such rich cargo, he was chagrined. He lifted the washtub to the dock and then two fat sacks of salt. Fifty pounds, at least, he thought. It would last for months and when it was gone there was an unlimited supply waiting on the shores of Blue Crab Pool. He said, "So long, Sam. See you tonight."

  The Admiral pushed away from the dock and Randy picked up the washtub, deliberately spilled some of the water that had kept the crabs alive, and walked to the house.

  The kitchen was empty except for four very large black bass in the sink. He lifted the largest. An eleven-pounder, he judged. It was the biggest bass he had seen in a year. It was unbelievable.

  There was a plate on the kitchen table heaped with roasted meat. It looked like lamb. He tasted it. It didn't taste like iamb. It didn't taste like anything he had ever tasted before, but it tasted wonderful. He thought of the crabs, and their value dwindled to hors d'ouevres.

  It was then he heard the first sobs, from upstairs, he thought, and then a different voice weeping hysterically somewhere else in the house. In fear, he ran through the dining room.

  Three women were in the living room. They were all crying, Lib silently, Florence and Helen loudly. Lib saw him and ran into his arms and wiped her tears on his shirt. "What's happened?" he demanded.

  "I thought you'd never come home," Lib said. "I was afraid and there's so much trouble."

  "What? Who's hurt?"

  "Nobody but Peyton. She's upstairs crying. Helen spanked her and sent her to bed."

  "Why?"

  "She went fishing."

  "Did Peyton catch those big bass?"

  "Yes."

  "And Helen spanked her for it?"

  "Not that. Helen spanked her because she took out your boat and drifted downstream. We didn't know what had happened to her until she rowed home an hour ago. She said she couldn't make it sail right."

  Randy looked at Helen. "And what's wrong' with you?"

  "I'm upset. Anybody'd be upset if they had to spank their child."

  Florence wailed and her head fell on her arms.

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "Somebody or something came in and ate her gold­fish."

  Florence raised her head. "I think it must have been Sir Percy. I'm sure of it. I did love that cat and now look how he behaves." She wept again.

  Randy said, "Isn't anybody going to ask me whether I got salt?"

  "Did you get salt?" Lib asked.

  "Yes. Fifty pounds of it. And if you women want it, you'll take the wheelbarrow down to the dock and lug it up.

  He went into the kitchen to clean the beautiful bass and put the crabs in the big pot. It was all ridiculous and stupid. The more he learned about women the more there was to learn except that he had learned this: they needed a man around.

  Then he found a tattered goldfish in the gullet of the eleven-pounder. He examined it carefully, smiled, and dropped it into the sink. He would not mention it. There was enough trouble and confusion among all these women already.

  So ended the hunger of August. In the fourth week the heat broke and the fish began to bite again.

  In September school began. It was impractical to re­open the Fort Repose schoolhouse - it was unheated and there was no water. Randy decided that the respon­sibility for teaching must rest temporarily with the par­ents. The regular teachers were scattered or gone and there was no way of paying them. The textbooks were still in the schoolhouse, for anyone who needed them.

  Judge Bragg's library became the schoolroom in the Bragg household, with Lib and Helen dividing the teaching. When Caleb Henry arrived to attend classes with Peyton and Ben Franklin, Randy was a little sur­prised. He saw that Peyton and Ben expected it, and then he recalled that in Omaha - and indeed in two thirds of America's cities - white and Negro children had sat side by side for many years without fuss or trou­ble.

  In October the new crop of early oranges began to ripen. The juice tasted tart and refreshing after months without it.

  In October, armadillos began to grow scarce in the Fort Repose area, but the Henrys' flock of chickens had increased and the sow again farrowed. Also, ducks ar­rived in enormous numbers from the North - more than Randy ever before had seen. Wild turkeys, which before The Day had been hunted almost to extermination in Timucuan County, suddenly were common. Randy fashioned himself a turkey call, and shot one or two ev­ery week. Quail roamed the groves, fields and yards in great coveys. He did not use his shells on such trifling game. But Two-Tone knew how to fashion snares, and taught the boys, so there was usually quail for breakfast along with eggs.

  One evening near the end of the month Dan Gunn returned from his clinic, smiling and whistling. "Randy," he said, "I have just delivered my first post-Day baby! A boy, about eight pounds, bright and healthy!"

  "So what's so wonderful about delivering a baby?" Randy said. "Was the mother under hypnosis?"

  "Yes. But that's not what was wonderful." Dan's smile disappeared. "You see, this was the first live baby, full term. I had two other pregnancies that ended prematurely. Nature's way of protecting the race, I think, although you can't reach any statistical conclu­sion on the basis of three pregnancies. Anyway, now we know that there's going to be a human race, don't we?"

  "I'd never really thought there might not be."

  "I had," Dan said quietly.

  In November a tall pine, split by lightning during the summer, dropped its brown needles and died and Randy and Bill felled it with a two-man saw and ax. It was arduous work and neither of them knew the tech­nique. It was at times like this that Randy missed and thought of Malachai. Nevertheless they got the job done and trimmed the thick branches. The wood was valu­able, for another winter was coming.

  Randy went to bed early that night, exhausted. He woke suddenly with a queer sound in his ears, like mu­sic, almost. He looked at his watch. It was a bit after midnight. Lib slept quietly beside him. He was fright­ened. He nudged her. She lifted her head and her eyes opened. "Sweetheart," he said, "do you hear anything?"

  "Go to sleep," she said, and her head fell back on the pillow. It bounced up again. "Yes," she said, "I do hear something. It sounds like music. Of course it can't be music but that's what it sounds like."

  "I'm relieved," Randy said. "I thought it was in my head." He listened intently. "I could swear that it sounds like 'In the Mood.' If I didn't know better I could swear it was that great Glenn Miller recording."

  She kicked him. "Get up! Get up!"

  He flung himself out of bed and opened the door to the upstairs living room, lit by a lamp on the bar, turned low. It was necessary to keep fire in the house for they no longer had matches, flints, or lighter fluid. Randy thought, it must be the transistor radio, started up again, but at the same time he knew this was impos­sible because he long ago had thrown away the dead batteries. Nevertheless he picked up the radio and lis­tened. It was silent yet the music persisted.

  "It's coming from the hall," Lib said.

  They opened the door into the hallway. The rhythm was louder but the hall was empty. Randy saw a crack of light under Peyton's door. "Peyton's room!" he said.

  He put his hand on the door handle but decided it would be gentlemanly to knock first. After all, Peyton was twelve now. He knocked.

  The music stopped abruptly. Peyton said, in a small, frightened voice, "Come in."

  Peyton's room was illuminated by a lamp Randy had never seen before. Peyton didn't have a lamp of her own. On Peyton's desk was an old-fashioned, hand­crank phonograph with flaring horn. Stacked beside it were albums of records.

  Randy said, softly, "Put it on again, Peyton."

  Peyton stopped plucking at th
e front of her pajamas, hand-me-downs from Ben Franklin, just as Ben's pajamas were hand-me-downs from Randy, so fast did chil­dren grow. She started the record, from the beginning. Hearing it, Randy realized how much he had missed music, how music seasoned his civilization. In the Henry hose Missouri often sang, but in the Bragg house hardly anyone could carry a tune, or even hum.

  Over the rhythm, Lib whispered, "Where did you get it, Peyton? Where did it come from?"

  "The attic. I went up the little ladder in the back hall. Mother will be furious. She told me never to go up there because the rungs were cracked and I might fall."

  "Your mother was up in the attic a few months ago. She didn't see anything."

  "I know. I was crawling around behind the big trunk and there was a door, a board door that looked like part of the wall. I opened it and there was another room, smaller."

  Randy said, "Why did you do it, Peyton?"

  "I don't know. I was lonely and there wasn't anything else to do and I'd never been up there. You know how it is. When you've never been some place, you want to go."

  Randy opened one of the albums. "Old seventy-eights," he said, his voice almost reverent. "Classic jazz. Listen to this. By Tommy Dorsey - 'Come Rain or Shine,' 'Stardust,' 'Chicago.' Carmen Cavallaro's 'Stormy Weather.' Also 'Body and Soul.' Artie Shaw's 'Back Bay Shuffle.' All the best by the best. I guess - I'm cer­tain this must have been Father's collection. I've never seen this machine before, but I remember the records."

  "In the Mood" ended. Randy said, "Turn it over, Peyton. No. Put on this one."

  "You're not angry, Randy?" Peyton said.

  "Angry! I should say not!"

  "I found some other stuff in there too."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, there's an old-time sewing machine - the kind you work with your feet. There are some big kerosene lamps, the kind that hang. This one on the desk I found up there, too. All I had when I went up was a little stub candle. Then there's an old pot-bellied stove and a lot of iron pipe. Oh and lots of other junk. I left it because I wanted to try the record player. The only other thing I brought down I brought for you and Dan, Randy. It's there on the bed."