With Friends Like These... Part 8

It was a blistering hot day, and there were many hot days in San Ouintin. But when all the others had left the church, even the widow Esteban, a small angel with hair and eyes of Indian obsidian was still 99.there, praying in front of the altar. And when Father Peralta looked in from his study that evening, she was still there.

Finally he walked over to her, made her straighten her dress, and sent her home before she would worry her parents. Yes, she had prayed well, and perhaps San Pedro would be kind.

But, he cautioned her, San Pedro was a very busy saint.

He returned to his study and pulled close to his desk, opening a thick book. He began to write.

"Again we can see that the primitive hieroglyphs of the aboriginal inhabitants of Baja California are in no way ... in no way-"

He stopped,. rolled the pen between his fingers and sat back in the stiff chair, thinking. The book that had already taken six months to acc.u.mulate lay in a pile of paper to one side-the ma.n.u.script that none but a few elderly professors and graduate students in far places would ever bother to read. Then he looked out the window, toward the serrated silhouette of the Sierra San Pedro Martir. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the virgin pile, considered briefly.

He began to write.

The crowd had grown smaller year after year. Now, barely a decade after fireworks and television crews had shed lights on the program's beginning, only a pair of minor functionaries from the mayoral offices in Seattle and Victoria, a few news photographers and the fisheries men were there to observe the ceremonial opening.

The chief engineer checked his watch against the wall chronometer and took a bite out of his sandwich.

"Okay, Milt... might as well open 'er up."

The fourth engineer nodded easily and threw the switch. A few flashguns conjured memories of Christmas. Milt obligingly reopened the switch and threw it again for the photographers' benefit.

Grumbling about the inclement weather and hoping 100.A Miracle of Small Fishes they could make it home before dark, the newsmen shuffled away. The representative functionaries exchanged signatures on the traditional scrolls and went their separate ways-one to his wife, the other to his mistress. The fourth engineer performed a routine check of dials and meters to ensure that the closing of the switch opened what the manuals claimed it would, and he went to try and rewire the lamp he had promised his spouse he would fix. Then the chief engineer returned to the gustatory pleasures of ham sandwich and pickle. All was quiet again.

Nor was there visible change offsh.o.r.e, either. No bubbling and heaving, no seething disturbance of the halcyon surface. But below ...

Instead of being recycled by the station's own cooling plant, the heated seawater of the Port Hardy Fusion Station was being returned directly to the ocean. Water that mollified terrible energies was forced out half a hundred nozzles in Davy Jones' locker. Disruption and a great upweiling commenced on the abyssal plain below. Water and nutrients rose as the sun set.

Bacteria and phytoplankton floated delirious in the sudden confluence of sunlight and nutritive material from the depths. Multiplication and growth took place exponentially, until the sea resembled a thick soup.

Sun retired and moon clocked in for a night's work. Up with the moon came the zooplankton: minute Crustacea, tiny crabs and shrimps with unp.r.o.nounceable names, miniature fish larvae-all intent on a morphean orgy of feeding.

And orgy it was, for tonight food abounded in unnatural concentration. Brilliantine specks of life shot hysterically through the murky waters, reproducing and growing with nonhuman desperation. A million billion translucent monsters swam, all wriggling antenna and claws and phosph.o.r.escent eyes.

To the north, a few quarter-meter-long shining fish impinged on this cauldron of infinitesimal life, darted into it, and gorged themselves. Others nearby noticed the change in feeding pattern, turned, and followed.

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Still others further north, leaders of schools small and great, came also.

A mountain of finned silver began to move south. The Charlotte Sound Plankton Pod was devoured quickly, but the engines of Cape Flattery Station promptly took over, catalyzing their own section of ocean. The station lit and warmed and fueled the cities of Olympia, Tacoma, Seattle, Bellingham, Ever-ett, and most of Washington State. Now it employed the sweat of its primary function to play G.o.d with small universes. Even this ma.s.s of life, too, was consumed.

But the hand of production was pa.s.sed on as each pod did its job, vanishing sequentially down uncountable hungry maws, moving the growing mountain south down the finest coast hi the world.

Astoria Station . . . School coming! Coos Bay . . . School coming! Crescent City and Ukiah, San Mateo and San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara.

El Pueblo de la Nuestra Sefiora de Los Angeles . . . School coming!

"Well, what does the system bring today, Mendez?"

Archbishop Estrada stared back out the window, felt the surge of loving and cursing and wheeling and dealing of millionaires and beggars that was the life of Mexico City. He took in a deep, heady draught of the still clear moutain air, not smog-choked yet, by G.o.d, that eddied down from the slopes of slumbering Popocatepetl.

Gustavo and the other stalwarts on the antipollution board deserved recognition. A commendation or something, yes. He turned from the window.

At two meters and a solid hundred kilos, the archbishop was a giant of a man. In his casual slacks and shirt he was an imposing executive. In his churchly robes of office, he seemed a biblical visitation.

"Mendez, make a note. A plaque should be prepared on which the church recognizes and applauds the contribution of the Air Pollution Board of Mexico 102.

, A Miracle of Sntatt Fishes City, making particular note of the activities of chairman Gustavo Marcos."

"Yes, sir. Your mail, sir."

"Thank you, Mendez."

The secretary put the stack of letters and brown manila envelopes on the archbishop's desk. Estrada glanced down at his watch. Plenty of time to bless the new elementary school and still make the meeting of the Urban Renewal Commission.

Most of the mail looked the usual. Requests for information, blessings, money, advice, praises for the active role the archbishop was playing in city affairs, d.a.m.nations for the active role the archbishop was playing in city affairs.

He went through them rapidly, occasionally putting one aside for more personal scrutiny. His secretary could handle most of these. An invitation from the Colombian amba.s.sador to a formal diplomatic dinner, a letter from a certain lady in Guadalajara ...

Then he came to the letter from San Quintin.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned! Oh, sorry, Mendez," he said hurriedly at the stunned look on the young man's face. "Don't take it seriously." He lowered his voice, muttered to himself in surprise.

"Madre de Dios, a letter from Father Peralta!"

He slit the unlucky envelope with sharp antic.i.p.ation. He'd known Father Peralta since they had played together on the university's champion soccer team. What a prof Peralta had a brain as fast as his feet. True, he, Estrada, had risen much farther and faster in the church hierarchy. Peralta had chosen to take over the tiny church in San Quintin and pursue his scholarly anthropology.

Ah, well. He read. There were the expected greetings and small talk, all the pleasure and entertainment inherent in a predictable letter. Then ...

"By the way, Luis, there's an old fisherman in the village who persists in going out with a rotting purse seiner every week, despite the fact that Fisheries Control has been harvesting nearly 300 kilometers north 103.

of here for years now. He's a .good fellow, but stubborn as a brick and too set in his ways to change.

"As you can imagine, his antics serve as a large source of humor for the rest of the village, most of it good-natured joshing. He's got a granddaughter though, the most exquisite little thing you ever saw, who absolutely dotes on him. I see no harm in the relationship, but the parents wish she wouldn't see so much of the old man, considering her impressionable age and his terminal illness.

"Love, however, doesn't subscribe to the rules of reason. I tried to explain to her, very simply, why her grandfather can't catch sardines anymore. All I did was get her to spend most of a h.e.l.lishly hot day on her knees hi the church, praying to San Pedro for one last catch for her grandfather. I told her it would take a miracle, not thinking she'd.take me at my word.

"Then our days at school came back to me. If I remember right, you and Martin Fowler himself were quite good friends. I didn't know the man-never even met him. Only read about him in the school paper. But it occurs to me that if anyone can do anything to fulfill even a little part of this child's dream, even if it's only dumping a few dozen sardines in her grandfather's fishing grounds by airdrop, it would be Fowler.

"Of course, I realize that I'm presuming on a friendship that may not even exist any longer. Indeed, one that may not have been that close at all. But it was the only thing I could think of. And if anyone ever deserved a miracle, even a small one, it is this Josefa Flores.

"Now, come out to San Quintin some time and get away from the noise of the city and the cardinal's griping. I'll show you the Painted Caves and some of the most beautiful, peaceful desert country you ever saw, you old reprobate.

"Sincerely, Francisco Peralta." The archbishop looked at the letter for a long time. Then he put it in the Answer pile. He picked up the 104.

A Miracle of Small Fishes next envelope and started to slit it open, but his eyes and mind were elsewhere. Back and forth, back and forth ran the opener along the top of the fresh envelope When Mendez's voice broke the silence, he did not look up.

"Sir, there's a man here from the Ministry of State to see you. Something about an official briefing for tonight's dinner."

Estrada continued to draw lazy abstracts with the opener on the back of the envelope, staring at a point within his desk. It was quite impossible, of course. Quite.

"Tell him," he told his secretary, "that I'll see him in an hour."

The mountain was in the Channel of Santa Barbara now, moving steadily south. The Point Vincente power plant initiated pumping, boosting the phytoplankton cycle twentyfold. In a little while the mountain would hit the major booster field off San Onofre. Then they would really begin to move.

Martin Fowler steadied himself, his eyes never moving from the target. He considered his position, then moved a step closer. Gripping the powerful club in both hands, he swung downward with all his strength.

"I think you've sliced into the rough again, Marty," said Wheeling noncommittally.

Fowler said a bad word, slung the club back in his bag. The two men took hold of their carts and started down the fairway. They could have ridden in comfort. But, as Wheeling said, walking was the only exercise to golf-might as well get remote-controlled clubs and play from bed as ride a cart. Other men followed.

After a while, Wheeling looked over at his younger friend, spoke comfortingly.

" 'Course, there's nothing unusual about me taking money from you, Marty-it's only natural that those 105.

of us with G.o.d-given talent should teach the amateurs. But you usually manage to argue the point. What's eating you-Petterson?"

"You have a devious and evil mind," countered the director of the North American Fisheries Control. "If that old crank and the cat-food freaks would just give me leave to open a partial gate-five minutes, that's all I want, just five lousy minutes! You should see the projected five-year figures. The second-year catch alone-"

"If any of the folks on the commission who lean to your way of thinking heard you refer to another United States senator, their peer, as 'that old crank,' they wouldn't give you a crack big enough to let a sick salmon through, let alone your precious gate." "I know, Dave. I won't tell if you won't. Oh, the senator's not a bad person, personally. But so d.a.m.ned obstinate!"

"Why, Marty! I would think you'd have worked in Washington long enough to know that senators are born obstinate. That's why they gravitate toward becoming senators. Too obstinate and stubborn and bull-headed to go into something sensible when they mature, like plumbing or home videonics."

"But, dammit, Dave, all the indications-everything the computers and the guys in the office have been able to put together-point to the Islas San Benitos as the perfect spot for establishing the first yellowtail fishery. All we have to do is attract a natural seed crop there hi the first place. You know we can't plant an ocean locale the way we do Lake Ontario or Ta-hoe. The tuna would never sp.a.w.n there, they'd just swim away. We've got to generate a major influx of food fish."

"And that's just your problem, Marty," agreed Wheeling, deciding on a seven-iron. "Senator Petterson has const.i.tuents who depend on those food fish. Existing yellowtail don't vote, let alone imaginary ones."

"But anyone who can just take the time to a.n.a.lyze 106.

A Miracle of Small Fishes our figures, Dave-" He stopped and watched with distaste as his companion's ball landed short, bounced over the shoulder and onto the green. They moved to search for his own ball.

"Well, you'd better think of something fast if you expect to get that gate this year," warned Wheeling. "Last I heard, the School was pa.s.sing L.A."

"Newport Beach," Fowler grumbled. "Look, you be there at the committee meeting tomorrow."

Wheeling eyed his friend with a compa.s.sion that reached beyond sympathy for his bad lie. "You never give up, do you, Marty? I'm telling you, you can bury Petterson under a ton of influence and favorable figures. But all the maybes and probablys and could-bes in the world won't convince a politician with hungry people to feed-"

"Ah, here it is," interrupted Fowler, parting the gra.s.s. He evaluated the situation, then chose an iron. Wheeling peered toward the distant green.

"You've got a shot at it, but it won't be easy. Take it from me. I've played this course."

"I know. Maybe I should give up trying logic and reason. Oh, you mean the pin. That too. Funny, it's the d.a.m.nedest thing, but I got a letter the other day from a chap I haven't seen in twenty-five years. Went to school with him. Full of the usual reminiscences, what's happened to mutual acquaintances, what hasn't happened to mutual acquaintances, how the world's changed and how it should have and how we had nothing to do with it in spite of all our dreams.

"You know, at one time my greatest ambition was to become a resort hotel magnate? Another Conrad Hilton? Until I got too interested in the land I was supposed to blister with high-rises and planted swimming pools.

"Well, there was this postscript-cute little story about some kid he didn't even know. Should have just smiled and forgotten it, but the darned thing kept me up half the night, sitting and thinking, till Majorie killed the light. Silly stuff, but-"

107.

He hefted the club, stepped up to the ball.

"If it's something you think can get you past Pet-terson, I'd like to hear it,"

Fowler paused, looked back over his shoulder. "See? No reason, no logic, and I finally got you interested. Come to the committee meeting tomorrow." He put his head down and took a vicious swipe at the ball.

"Okay, I'm hooked," confessed Wheeling, watching the white moon sail into the distance. "I shouldn't, but you got me fair and square." He looked back at his friend, eyed him evenly. "Looks like you're trapped."

The committee room was small and informal, with a stately atmosphere and sense of history hand-worn into the rich wood paneling. There was just enough room for the long committee table and the modest guest gallery under the high window.

A single old pane let hi sunlight and a respectable view of the mall. Wheeling quietly took a seat near the back of the gallery, on a bench that was made before the term "built-in obsolescence" was known. The gallery was practically deserted.

A small knot of youngsters sat at the far end and below him-early junior nigh or late elementary school by the looks of them, with their teacher. Though kids grew up so fast these days it was hard~to tell. Question them about their favorite water hole, and they were likely to give you a lecture on spatial physics or oceanography. A couple of tired, bored-looking reporters and a few tourists completed the audience. Wheeling smiled and nodded politely to the newspapermen, then looked up.

Fowler sat at the near end of the thick walnut table. He kept running a hand through what was left of his sandy brown hair while he conferred with a neatly dressed subordinate from his department.

The children quieted, and the committee filed in, took their seats at the end of the table opposite the 108.

A Miracle of Small Fishes director. Fowler turned, saw Wheeling, and grinned. Wheeling gave back the high sign and smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner.

Senator Vincente of Coahuila, Senator Kaiser of Oregon, Senator Brand of Maine, Senator Petterson of New Jersey, and Minister Stanislaus of Newfoundland, ^ Petterson opened the meeting in her usual no-nonsense, let's-get-on-with-it tones, "The Committee for Maritime Resources, Organic, is now in session. Let's get cracking, gentlemen."

To look at her you'd think Senator Diana Petterson was the favorite grandmother of some Midwest farming clan. And, indeed, she was. She also had a command of the English language that could bend nails, a relentless questing mind that had given more than one c.o.c.ky freshman senator the holly-gobbles on the floor of Congress, and devotion to the basic needs of human beings that was sufficiently uncompromising to have put her in the Senate for her fifth consecutive term.

The lawyer-type on Fowler's left stood, rustled a sheaf of forms and computer printouts. The paper sounded loud in the chamber. He cleared his throat and began dryly to recite facts and figures.

Production of pompano here, king crab fishery there, oyster take from Chesapeake off such and such percent, edible kelp harvest up so and so many tons ...

Wheeling found himself looking elsewhere. The schoolchildren sat politely, storing material for the homework certain to come. The two reporters had turned on their recorders and gone to sleep. He found himself becoming engrossed in the antics of a fat b.u.mblebee that had somehow .blundered into the building and was now popping against the windowpane, trying to regain the cleaner sunlight outside. How like some Congressmen, Wheeling reflected.

Half an hour later the reciter concluded his report. The reporters turned over their ca.s.settes, and the chil- 109.

J.

dren shifted in their seats. The fortunate bee had escaped.

"Mr. Fowler, if there is no other new business, this committee can proceed to the matter of this year's final appropriations, and we can wind up this meeting early,"

"Beg your pardon, Madam Senator, but there is the outstanding question of my forma! request for a temporary gate in the season's Pacific Coast sardine take.'* One of the other senators groaned. "Really, Mr. Fowler," admonished Petterson, "you've a.s.saulted us with this request at every meeting for over a year now!"

"I realize that,. Senator," agreed Fowler amiably. "Nonetheless, I wish to submit the proposal again. If you wish, I can quote the section of proceedings regulations which-"

"I am fully conversant with the rules of procedure for this committee, Mr. Director, as are my fellow senators. If you will persist in this inexplicable masochism, we are compelled by courtesy to indulge you. But permit me to say that I have no reason to believe your proposal will be met by any more receptive an audience this time than in the past. However, I suppose each administrator is ent.i.tled to one private aberration. Begin.

"But please have the grace to be as brief as possible. Most of us have important work to do." She did not have to stress the "us" to make her point.