Alas, Babylon Part 16

"Big Three!" Randy said. "Who's the Big Three?" "Sh-h!" said the Admiral. "Maybe we'll find out." The announcer continued: "China, where 'Save Asia First' sentiment is strong, urged that first priority for vaccine aerial shipments go to the Soviet Union's maritime provinces, where typhus is reported. India and j.a.pan felt that the smallpox epidemic on the West Coast of the United States, Canada, and in Mexico should receive equal priority. The universal shortage of aviation gasoline will make any quick aid difficult, however . . ."

The squeal insinuated itself into the voice and subdued it. Hazzard caressed the band-spreader. "The atmospherics have been crazy ever since The Day." Abruptly he asked Randy: "Do you believe it?"

"It's weird," Randy said. "Maybe it's a Soviet bloc propaganda station pretending to be South American, set up to confuse us and start rumors. I'll admit I'm confused. I thought the Chinese were in it, on the other side."

"The Chinese never liked Russia's preoccupation with the Med," Hazzard said. "Maybe they opted out, which would be smart of them. It could be simpler. If they didn't have nuclear capability we wouldn't bother hitting them on The Day, and without nuclear weapons they wouldn't dare stick their noses into a real war. If that was it, they were lucky."

"I noticed that station quoted Tokyo? How is it you didn't hear Tokyo?"

"I've never been able to pick up any Asiatic stations. I used to get Europe fine-London, Moscow, Bonn, Berne. Africa, too, especially the Voice of America transmitter in the Tangier. Not any more. Not since The Day."

The signal cleared. They heard: ". . . but as yet the Big Three have been unable to reopen communications with Dmitri Torgatz. According to Radio Tokyo, Torgatz headed the Soviet government while the Soviet Union's capital was in Ulan Bator in Outer Mongolia. The medium-wave station operation from Ulan Bator is no longer heard."

"That doesn't sound like Soviet propaganda to me," Randy said. "Who is Dmitri Torgatz?"

The Admiral glanced up at a shelf of reference works. He selected a slender book, Directory of Communist Leaders, found the name, and read: "Torgatz, Dmitri; born Leningrad 1903? Married, wife's name unlisted; children unlisted; Director Leningrad Agitprop 1946-49; Candidate member Presidium 1950-53; Director water works, Naryan Mar, Siberia, since fall of Malenkov."

"Looks like they had a shakeup," Randy said. "Looks like they had to reach way down and find a minor league bureaucrat." "Yes. It's surprising that Torgatz should be running Russia," the Admiral said, "until you consider that a female, last on the list of Cabinet members, is running the United States."

Randy could see that Lib wasn't listening. She was staring at the ta.s.sel of a sword resting on pegs behind his head, her lips parted, eyes unblinking. Her thoughts, he had discovered, frequently raced ahead of his or sped down dark and fascinating byways. When she concentrated thus she left the party. She murmured, "Smallpox."

Not understanding that Lib, mentally, was no longer in the room with them, Sam Hazzard inquired, "What about smallpox?"

"Oh!" Lib shook her head. "I think of smallpox as something out of the Middle Ages, like the Black Plague. It's true that every so often it cropped up, but we always slapped it down again. What happens now without vaccine? What about diphtheria and yellow fever? Will they start up again? Without penicillin and DDT, where are we? All good things came to us automatically. We were born with silver spoons in our mouths and electric dishwashers to keep them sanitary and clean. We relaxed, didn't we? What happened to us, Admiral?"

Sam Hazzard disconnected the radio's batteries and pulled his chair around to face them. "I've been trying to find the answer." He nodded at his typewriter and the books ma.s.sed on his desk. "I've been trying to put it down in black and white and pa.s.s it along. Up to now, no bottom. All I've found out was where I myself-and my fellow professionals-failed. I'll explain."

He opened a drawer and drew out a folder. "I called this 'A Footnote to History.' You see, I was in the Pentagon when we were having the big ha.s.sles on roles and missions and it occurred to me that I might be one of the few still alive who knew the inside of what went on and how the decisions were reached and I thought that future historians might be interested. So I set it all down factually. I set down all the arguments between the big carrier admirals and the atomic seaplane admirals and the ICBM generals and pentomic division generals and heavy bomber generals and manned missile generals. I told how we finally achieved what we thought was a balanced establishment.

"When I finished I read it over and realized it was a farce." He tossed the ma.n.u.script on the desk as if he were discarding unwanted fourth cla.s.s mail.

"You see, I confused the tactical with the strategic. I think we all did. The truth is this. Once both sides had maximum capability in hydrogen weapons and efficient means of delivering them there was no sane alternative to peace.

"Every maxim of war was archaic. The rules of Clausewitz, Mahan, all of them were obsolete as the Code Duello. War was no longer an instrument of national polity, only an instrument for national suicide. War itself was obsolete. So my 'Footnote' deals with tactical palavers of no real importance. We might as well have been playing on the rug with lead soldiers."

The admiral rose and unkinked his back. "I think most of us sensed this truth, but we could not accept it. You see, no matter how well we understood the truth it was necessary that the Kremlin understand it too. It takes two to make a peace but only one to make a war. So all we could do, while vowing not to strike first, was line up our lead soldiers."

"That was all you could do?" Lib asked.

"All. The answer was not in the Pentagon, or even in the White House. I'm looking elsewhere. One place, here." He tapped Gibbon. "There are odd similarities between the end of the Pax Romana and the end of the Pax Americana which inherited Pax Britannica. For instance, the prices paid for high office. When it became common to spend a million dollars to elect senators from moderately populous states, I think that should have been a warning to us. For instance, free pap for the ma.s.ses. Bread and circuses. Roman spectacles and our spectaculars. Largesse from the conquering proconsuls and television giveaways from the successful lipstick king. To understand the present you must know the past, yet it is only part of the answer and I will never discover it all. I have not the years."

Randy saw that the Admiral was tired. "I guess we'd better get back," he said. "Thanks for an entertaining evening."

"Next time you come over," Hazzard said, "I want you to look at my invention."

"Are you inventing something too? Everybody's inventing something."

"Yes. It's called a sailboat. It is a means of propulsion that replaces the gasoline kicker. I sacrificed my flagpole and patio awning to make it. The cutting and sewing was done by Florence Wechek and Missouri and Hannah Henry. I can now recommend them as experienced sailmakers."

"Thanks, Sam." Randy grinned. "That's a wonderful invention and will become popular. I know I'm going to get one right away, and I will use your firm of sailmakers."

They walked to the path along the river bank. Swinging at its buoy Randy saw the Admiral's compact little cruiser with covered foredeck, useless kicker removed, a slender mast arcing its tip at a mult.i.tude of stars. There were many sailboats on Florida's lakes, but Randy had seen very few in the upper reaches of the St. Johns, or on the Timucuan.

"I love the Admiral," Lib said. "I worry about him. I wonder whether he gets enough to eat."

"The Henrys see that he eats. And Missouri keeps his place neat. The Henrys love him too."

"As long as we have men like that I can't believe we're so decadent. We won't go like Rome, will we?"

He didn't answer. He swung her around to face him and circled her waist with his hands. His fingers almost met, she was so slim. He said, "I love you. I worry about you. I wonder whether I tell you enough how I love you and want you and need you and how I am diminished and afraid when you are not with me and how I am multiplied when you are here."

His arms went around her and he felt her body arch to him, molding itself against him. "There never seems to be enough time," he said, "but tonight there is time. When we get home."

She said, "Yes, Randy." They walked on, his arm around her waist. "This is a bad time for love," she said. "Oh, I don't mean tonight is a bad time, I mean the times. When you love someone, that should be what you think of most, the first thing when you wake in the morning and the last thing before you sleep at night. Before The Day that's how I thought of you. Did you know that? First in the morning, last at night."

Randy knew, without her saying it, that it must be the same for her as it was for him. At day's end a man was exhausted physically, mentally, emotionally. Each sun heralded a new crisis and each night he bedded with old, relentless fears. He awoke thinking of food and fell onto his couch at night still hungry, his head whirling with problems unsolved and dangers unparried. The Germans, in their years of methodical madness, had discovered in their concentration camps that when a man's diet fell below fifteen hundred calories his desire and capacity for all emotions dwindled. Randy guessed that he managed to consume almost fifteen hundred calories each day in fish and fruit alone. His vigor was being expended in survival, he decided. That, and worry for the lives dependent upon him. Even now, he could not exclude worry for Dan Gunn from his mind.

The hodgepodge outlines of the Henry place loomed out of the darkness above them. They were within fifty yards of the barn and Ben Franklin was somewhere in that shadow, shotgun over his knees, enjoined to silence, alert to shoot anything that moved; and they were moving, silhouetted against the star-silvered river. He stopped and held Lib fast. "Ben!" he called. "Ben Franklin! Do not answer. Do not answer. This is Randy. We're on our way home."

They walked on.

"You know, you sounded just like that radio call on the Air Force frequency," Lib said.

"I did sound like that, didn't I?" He smiled in the darkness, snapped his fingers, and said, "I think I know now what was going on. It wasn't the way Sam thought. It was just the other way around. Big Rock was the plane, and Sky Queen the base. Big Rock had been somewhere and was coming home and was telling Sky Queen not to shoot, just like I told Ben Franklin."

"Perhaps you're right. Not that it matters to us. I've heard them up there on still nights, but they never come low enough to see. The Admiral hears them talk on the radio but they never have a word for us. Maybe they've forgotten us. Maybe they've forgotten all the contaminated zones. We're unclean. It makes me feel lonely and, well, unwanted. Isn't that silly? Does it make you feel like that?"

"They'll come back," he said. "They have to. We're still a part of the United States, aren't we?"

They came to the path that led though their grove from house to dock. "Let's go out on the dock," Lib said. "I like it out there. No sound, not even the crickets. Just the river whispering around the pilings."

"All right."

They turned left instead of right. As their feet touched the planking the ship's bell spoke. It clanged three times rapidly, then twice more. It kept on ringing. "Oh, d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l!" Randy grabbed her hand and they started the run for the house, an uphill quarter mile in sand and darkness. After a hundred yards she released his hand and fell behind.

By the time he reached the back steps Randy couldn't climb them. He was wobbling and his knees had jellied, but before The Day he could not have run the distance at all. He paused, sobbing, and waited for Lib. The Model-A wasn't in the driveway or the garage. He concluded that Dan hadn't returned and something frightful had happened to Helen, Peyton, or Bill McGovern.

He was wrong. It had happened to Dan. Dan was in the dining room, a ruined hulk of man overflowing the captain's chair, arms hanging loose, legs outstretched, shirt blood-soaked, beard blood-matted. Where his right eye should have been, bulged a blue-black lump large as half an apple. His nose was twisted and enlarged, his left eye only a slit in swollen, discolored flesh. He's wrecked the car, Randy thought. He went through the windshield and his face took along the steering wheel.

Helen laid a wet dish towel over Dan's eyes. Peyton, face white and pinched, stood behind her mother with another towel. It dripped. Except for Dan's choked breathing, the dripping was for a moment the only sound in the room.

Dan spoke. The words came out slowly and thickly, each an effort of will. "Was that you, Randy, who came in?"

"It's me, Dan. Don't try to talk yet." Shock, Randy thought, and probably concussion. He turned to Helen. "We should get him into bed. We have to get him upstairs."

"I don't know if he can make it," Helen said. "We could hardly get him this far." Helen's dress and Bill McGovern's arms were blood stained.

"Bill, with your help I can get him up all right."

So, with all his weight on their shoulders, they got Dan upstairs and stretched out on the sleigh bed. Bill said, "I'm going to be sick." He left them. Helen brought clean, wet towels. Dan's body shook and quivered. His skin grew clammy. He was having a chill. Randy lifted his thick wrist and after a time located the pulse. It was faint, uneven, and rapid. This was shock, all right, and dangerous. Randy said, "Whiskey!"

Helen said, "I'll handle this, Randy. No whiskey. Blankets." He respected Helen's judgment. In an emergency such as this, Helen functioned. This was what she was made for. He found extra blankets in the closet. She covered Dan and disappeared. She returned with a gla.s.s of fluid, held it to Dan's lips, and said, "Drink this. Drink all you can."

"What are you giving him?" Randy asked.

"Water with salt and soda. Much better than whiskey for shock."

Dan drank, gagged, and drank more. "Keep pouring this into him," Helen ordered. "I'm going to see what's in the medicine cabinet."

"Almost nothing," Randy said. "Where's his bag? Everything's in there."

"They took it; and the car." "Who took it?"

'The highwaymen."

He should have guessed that it hadn't been an accident. Dan was a careful driver and rarely were two cars on the same road. Traffic was no longer a problem. In his concern for Dan, he did not immediately think of what this loss meant to all of them.

Helen found peroxide and bandages. This, with aspirin, was almost all that remained of their reserve medical supply. She worked on Dan's face swiftly and efficiently as a professional nurse.

Randy felt nauseated, not at the sight of Dan's injuries-he had seen worse-but in disgust at the beasts who in callous cruelty had dragged down and maimed and destroyed the human dignity of this selfless man. Yet it was nothing new. It had been like this at some point in every civilization and on every continent. There were human jackals for every human disaster. He flexed his fingers, wanting a throat in them. He walked into the other room.

Lib's head lay across her arms on the bar. She was crying. When she raised her face it was oddly twisted as when a child's face loses form in panic or unexpected pain. She said, "What are you going to do about it, Randy?"

His rage was a hard cold ball in his stomach now. When he spoke it was in a monotone, the voice of someone else. "I'm going to execute them."

"Let's get with it."

"Yes. As soon as I find out who."

At eleven Dan Gunn came out of shock, relaxed and then slept for a few minutes. He awoke announcing he was hungry. He looked no better, he was in pain, but obviously he was out of danger.

Randy was dismayed at the thought of Dan, in his condition, loading his stomach with cold bream and catfish, orange juice, and remnants of salad. What he needed, coming out of shock, was hot, nourishing bouillon or broth. On occasion, when Malachai or Caleb discovered a gopher hole and Hannah Henry converted its inhabitant to soup, or when Ben Franklin successfully stalked squirrel or rabbit, such food was available; but not on this night.

The thought of broth triggered his memory. He shouted, "The iron rations!" and ran into his office. He threw open the teak sea chest and began digging.

Lib and Helen stood behind him and watched, perplexed. Helen said, "What's wrong with you now, Randy?"

"Don't give him any food until you see what I've got!" He was sure he had tucked the foil-covered carton in the corner closest to the desk. It wasn't there. He wondered whether it was something he had dreamed, but when he concentrated it seemed very real. It had been on the day before The Day, after his talk with Malachai. In the kitchen he had collected a few nourishing odds and ends, tinned or sealed, and dubbed them iron rations, for a desperate time. Now that the time was desperate, he couldn't find them.

He found the carton in the fourth corner he probed. He lifted it out, tore at the foil, and exposed it for them to see. "I put it away for an emergency. I'd forgotten it."

Lib whispered, "It's beautiful." She examined and fondled the jars and cans.

"There's beef broth in here-lots of other stuff" He gave up the carton. "Give him everything he wants."

Dan drank the broth and chewed hard candies. Randy wanted to question him but Helen stopped it. "Tomorrow," she said, "when he's stronger." Helen and Lib were still in the bed room when Randy stretched out on the living-room couch. Graf jumped up and nuzzled himself a bed under Randy's arm, and they slept.

Randy awoke with a gunshot echoing in his ears and Graf, whining, struggling to be free of his arm. He heard a second shot. It was from the double twenty, he was sure, and it came from the direction of the Henrys' house. He slipped on his shoes and raced down the stairs, Graf following him. He grabbed the .45 from the hall table and went through the front door. Now was the time he wished he had live flashlight batteries.

The moon was up now so it wasn't too difficult, running Helen found peroxide and bandages. This, with aspirin, was almost all that remained of their reserve medical supply. She worked on Dan's face swiftly and efficiently as a professional nurse.

Randy felt nauseated, not at the sight of Dan's injuries-he had seen worse-but in disgust at the beasts who in callous cruelty had dragged down and maimed and destroyed the human dignity of this selfless man. Yet it was nothing new. It had been like this at some point in every civilization and on every continent. There were human jackals for every human disaster. He flexed his fingers, wanting a throat in them. He walked into the other room.

Lib's head lay across her arms on the bar. She was crying. When she raised her face it was oddly twisted as when a child's face loses form in panic or unexpected pain. She said, "What are you going to do about it, Randy?"

His rage was a hard cold ball in his stomach now. When he spoke it was in a monotone, the voice of someone else. "I'm going to execute them."

"Let's get with it."

"Yes. As soon as I find out who."

At eleven Dan Gunn came out of shock, relaxed and then slept for a few minutes. He awoke announcing he was hungry. He looked no better, he was in pain, but obviously he was out of danger.

Randy was dismayed at the thought of Dan, in his condition, loading his stomach with cold bream and catfish, orange juice, and remnants of salad. What he needed, coming out of shock, was hot, nourishing bouillon or broth. On occasion, when Malachai or Caleb discovered a gopher hole and Hannah Henry converted its inhabitant to soup, or when Ben Franklin successfully stalked squirrel or rabbit, such food was available; but not on this night.

The thought of broth triggered his memory. He shouted, "The iron rations!" and ran into his office. He threw open the teak sea chest and began digging.

Lib and Helen stood behind him and watched, perplexed. Helen said, "What's wrong with you now, Randy?"

"Don't give him any food until you see what I've got!" He was sure he had tucked the foil-covered carton in the corner closest to the desk. It wasn't there. He wondered whether it was something he had dreamed, but when he concentrated it seemed very real. It had been on the day before The Day, after his talk with Malachai. In the kitchen he had collected a few nourishing odds and ends, tinned or sealed, and dubbed them iron rations, for a desperate time. Now that the time was desperate, he couldn't find them.

He found the carton in the fourth corner he probed. He lifted it out, tore at the foil, and exposed it for them to see. "I put it away for an emergency. I'd forgotten it."

Lib whispered, "It's beautiful." She examined and fondled the jars and cans.

"There's beef broth in here-lots of other stuff" He gave up the carton. "Give him everything he wants."

Dan drank the broth and chewed hard candies. Randy wanted to question him but Helen stopped it. "Tomorrow," she said, "when he's stronger." Helen and Lib were still in the bed room when Randy stretched out on the living-room couch. Graf jumped up and nuzzled himself a bed under Randy's arm, and they slept.

Randy awoke with a gunshot echoing in his ears and Graf, whining, struggling to be free of his arm. He heard a second shot. It was from the double twenty, he was sure, and it came from the direction of the Henrys' house. He slipped on his shoes and raced down the stairs, Graf following him. He grabbed the .45 from the hall table and went through the front door. Now was the time he wished he had live flashlight batteries.

The moon was up now so it wasn't too difficult, running down the path. From the moon's height he guessed it was three or four o'clock. Through the trees he saw a lantern blinking. He hoped Ben Franklin hadn't shot the shadows.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw at the Henrys' barn. He saw them standing there, in a ring: Malachai with a lantern in one hand and in the other the ancient single-barreled shotgun that would sometimes shoot; Ben with his gun broken, extracting the empty sh.e.l.ls, the Admiral in pajamas, Preacher in a nightshirt, Caleb, his eyes white-rimmed, tentatively poking with his spear at a dark form on the ground.

Randy joined the circle and put his hand on Ben Franklin's shoulder. At first he thought it was a wolf. Then he knew it was the biggest German shepherd he had ever seen, its tremendous jaws open in a white snarl of death. It wore a collar. Graf, tail whipping, sniffed the dead dog, whined, and retreated.

Randy leaned over and examined the bra.s.s plate on the collar. Malachai held the lantern closer. "'Lindy,' " Randy read aloud. " 'Mrs. H. G. Cogswell, Rochester, New York. Hillside five one-three-seven-nine.' "

"That dog come an awful long way from home," Preacher said.

"Probably his owners were visiting down here, or on vacation," Randy guessed.

"Well," Malachai said, "I can see why we've been losin' hens and how he could take off that pig. He was a mighty big dog, mighty big! I'll get rid of him in the day, Mister Randy."

Walking home, Ben Franklin said nothing. Suddenly he stopped, handed Randy the shotgun, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. Randy squeezed his shoulder, "Take it easy, Ben." Randy thought it was reaction after strain, excitement, and perhaps terror.

"I did exactly what you told me," the boy said. "I heard him coming. I didn't hardly breathe. I didn't pull until I knew I couldn't miss. When he kicked and I thought he was getting up I let him have the choke barrel. I wouldn't have done it if I'd known he was a dog. Randy, I thought it was a wolf!"