Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank
“Why are you letting him have your shotgun?”
“Because if something comes around the Henrys’ yard I want him to hit it, not just pop away at it in the dark with a twenty-two. I’ve taught him how to handle the shotty. It’ll be loaded with number two buck. He’ll do all right.”
Ben came out on the porch carrying the gun. Lib said, “Am I invited?”
Randy said, “Certainly.” He turned to Bill McGovern. “If Dan shows up, give me three bells, will you?” Three strokes of the ship’s bell meant come home, but it was not an emergency signal. Five bells was the panic button. The bell could be heard for a mile along the shore and across water.
Pale yellow lamplight showed in the Henrys’ windows. Randy knocked and Missouri, looking almost svelte in a newly acquired waistline, opened the door. “Mister Randy. I guessed ‘twas you. I want to thank you for the honey. Tasted mighty good. Will you come in and have some tea?”
“Tea!” Randy saw a kettle steaming on a brick oven in the fireplace.
“We calls it tea. I grow mints under the house and dry ‘em until they powders. So we has mint tea.”
“We’ll skip it tonight, Mizzoo. I just came to put Ben Franklin on his stand. Caleb ready?”
Missouri’s son stepped out of the shadows, teeth and eyes gleaming. Incredibly, he carried a six-foot spear.
“Let me see that,” Randy said. He hefted it. It had been fashioned, he saw, from a broken garden edger, the blade ground to a narrow triangle. It was heavy, well balanced, and lethal.
“Uncle Malachai made it for me,” Caleb said proudly.
“It’s a wicked weapon, all right,” Randy said, and returned it to the boy.
Malachai, carrying a lantern, joined them. Malachai said, “I figured that if Ben Franklin missed with the shotgun Caleb best have it for close-in defense, if it’s truly a wolf, like Preacher says.”
Randy was certain that whatever had stolen the Henrys’ hens, and the pig, it wasn’t a wolf, but he wanted to impress Ben Franklin with the seriousness of his watch. “Probably not a wolf,” he said, “but it could be a cougar—a panther. My father used to hunt ‘em when he was young. Plenty of panther in Timucuan County until the first boom brought so many people down. Now there aren’t so many people, so there will be more panther.”
They walked toward Balaam’s tired barn. The mule snorted and rattled the boards in his stall. “It’s only me, Balaam,” Malachai said. “Balaam, quiet down!” Balaam quieted.
Randy pointed to the bench alongside the barn. “That’s your stand, Ben.” Bill McGovern had sat on the bench the previous night and seen nothing.
“Stand?” Ben Frankin said.
“That’s what you call it in a deer hunt. When I was your age my father used to take me hunting and put me on a stand. There are a couple of things I want you to remember, Ben. Everything depends on you—and you, Caleb—keeping absolutely still. Whatever it is out there, is better equipped than you are. It can see better and hear better and smell better. All you’ve got on it is brains. Your only chance of getting it is to hear it before it hears or sees you.” Randy looked at the sky. There were only stars. Later, there would be a quarter moon. “Chances are you’ll hear it before you see it. But if you talk, or make any sound, you’ll never see it at all because it’ll hear you first and leave. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said.
“You’ll get cramped and you’ll get tired. So when you sit on the stand you move around all you want at first and find out just how far you can move without making any noise. You got shells in the chambers?”
“Yes, sir, and four extra in my pocket.”
“You’ll only need what’s in the gun. If you don’t get him with two you’ll never get him at all. And Ben—”
“Yes sir.”
“Hold steady on it and don’t miss. We want to get rid of this thing or somebody will have to sit up all night every night.”
Ben said, “Randy, suppose it’s a man?”
This possibility had been restless in Randy’s mind from the first and he had not wanted to mention it but since it was mentioned he gave the unavoidable answer. “Whatever it is, Ben, shoot it. And Caleb, if he misses I depend on you to stick it.” He turned to Malachai. “Thanks for lighting us out. We’re going on to Admiral Hazzard’s house now. Good night, Malachai.”
“Good night,” Malachai said. “I sleep light, Mister Randy.”
Lib took his hand and they walked to the river bank and down the path that led toward the single square of light announcing that Sam Hazzard was in his den. Randy chuckled, thinking of Caleb’s spear.
“We have just witnessed an historic event,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“North American civilization’s return to the Neolithic Age.”
“I don’t think it’s funny,” Lib said. “I didn’t like the way you spoke to Ben Franklin. It was brutal.”
“In the Neolithic,” Randy said, “a boy either grows up fast or he doesn’t grow up at all.”
Sam Hazzard’s den was compact and crowded, like a shipmaster’s cabin stocked for a long and lonely voyage. It was filled with mementos of his service, ceremonial and Samurai swords, nautical instruments, charts, maps, books on shelves and stacked in corners, bound files of the Proceedings, The Foreign Affairs Quarterly, and the Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science.
The admiral’s L-shaped desk spread along two walls. One side was preempted by the professional-looking shortwave receiver and his radio log. The radio was turned on, but when Randy and Lib entered the room all they heard was a low hum.
Sam Hazzard was not as tall as Lib and his weathered skin was drawn tautly over fine bones. In slippers and dragon-blazoned shantung robe—his implacable gray eyes shadowed and softened by the indistinct lighting and horn-rimmed glasses, cottony hair like a halo—he appeared fragile; a deception.
He was tough as an antique ivory figurine which has withstood the vicissitudes of centuries, and can accept more. He said, “A place for the lady to sit.” He sailed a plastic model of the carrier Wasp—the old Wasp cited by Churchill for stinging twice in the Mediterranean and then herself stung to death by torpedoes—to the far corner of the desk. “Up there,” he ordered Lib, “where you can be properly admired. And you, Randy, lift those books out of that chair. Gently, if you please. Welcome aboard to both of you.”
Randy said, “You haven’t seen Dan Gunn, have you ?”
“No. Not today. Why?”
“He hasn’t come home.”
“Missing, eh? That sounds ungood, Randy.”
“If he comes home while we’re out Helen or Bill will ring the bell. Can we hear it in here?”
“Yes indeed, so long as the window’s open. It always startles me.”
Randy saw that the Admiral had been working. The Admiral was writing something he called, without elaboration, “A Footnote to History.” A portable typewriter squatted in the center of a ring of books.
Research, Randy supposed. He recognized Durant’s Caesar and Christ, Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, and Vom Kriege by Clausewitz, indicating a footnote to ancient history. Randy said, “Any poop this evening?”
“I suppose you heard the Civil Defense broadcast.”
“I caught part of it. Then my batteries quietly expired.”
The Admiral gave his attention to the radio. He turned the knob changing frequencies. “I’ve been listening for a station in the thirty-one meter band. Claims to be in Peru. I heard it for the first time last night. It put out some pretty outlandish stuff. It doesn’t seem to be on yet, so we’ll try for it again later. I’ve just switched to, five point seven megacycles. That’s an Air Force frequency I can tap sometimes.
You’ve never heard it, Randy. Interesting, but cryptic.”
The speaker squealed and whined. “Somebody’s transmitter is open,” the Admiral interpreted.
“Something’s coming.”
A voice boome
“Sky Queen, Sky Queen. Do not answer. Do not answer. This is Big Rock. This is Big Rock. Applejack. Repeat, Applejack. Authentication X-Ray.”
Lib spoke, excitedly, “What is it? What does it mean?”
Hazzard smiled. “I don’t know. I’m not up on Air Force codes and jargon. I’ve heard that Sky Queen call two or three times in the past month. Sky Queen could be a bomber, or a patrol plane, or a whole wing or air division. Big Rock—whoever that is—could be telling Sky Queen—whatever she may be—any number of things. Proceed to target, orbit, continue patrol, come home all is forgiven. I can’t even make an informed guess. However, I do know this. That was a good American call and so we’re still in business.” The smile departed. “On the other hand, it indicates that the enemy is still in business too.”
“How do you figure?” Randy asked.
“That ‘Do not answer’ phrase. Why does Big Rock order Sky Queen to be silent? Because if Sky Queen acknowledges the call then somebody might be able to take a radio fix on her, estimate speed and course, and vector fighters—or launch ground-to-air rockets to shoot her down.”
Randy considered this. “Then Sky Queen is probably stooging around over enemy territory.”
“That’s good deduction but we can’t be certain. For all we know, Sky Queen may be hunting a sub off Daytona. It makes me wild, listening to the damn Air Force—you will please pardon me, Lib—but if the enemy is listening on this frequency it must make them wild too.”
Lib asked, “What did that ‘Authentication X-Ray’ stand for?”
“X-Ray is simply international code for the letter X. My guess is that before every mission they change the authentication letter so that the enemy can’t take over the frequency and give Sky Queen a false heading, or phony instructions.”
“You know, I enjoyed hearing that,” Lib said. “It gave me a nice feeling. Big Rock has a solid Midwest accent.”
Sam Hazzard moved a candle so that better light fell on his dials. “Big Rock won’t be back again tonight,” he said. “I’ve never heard him more than once a night. He makes his call and that’s it. I’ll try the thirty-one meter band again.”
In the candlelight Hazzard’s hands shone with the silky, translucent patina of age and yet they were remarkably deft. They discovered a fascinating squeal. His fingers worked the band-spreader delicately as a master cracksman violating a safe and he pressed his face forward as if he expected to hear tumblers click. Very gradually, a faint voice replaced the squeal. He turned up the power. They heard, in English with an indefinite accent:
“Continuing the news to North America—
“The representative of the Argentine has informed the South American Federation that two ships with wheat have sailed for Nice, in southern France, responding to radio appeals from that city. The appeals from Nice say that several hundred thousand refugees are camped in makeshift shelter on the Cote d’Azure. Many are starving. The casino at Monaco and the Prince’s palace have been converted into hospitals.
“In a Spanish-language broadcast heard here today, Radio Tokyo announced that the Big Three meeting in New Delhi has approved preliminary plans for flying desperately needed vaccines and antitoxins to uncontaminated cities in Europe, North America, and Australia.”
“Big Three!” Randy said. “Who’s the Big Three?”
“Shh!” 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 Japan 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 its 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 re-open 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 operating 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 waterworks, 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 tassel 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 massed on his desk. “I’ve been trying to put it down in black and white and pass 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 hassles 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 establishm
“When I finished I read it over and realized it was a farce.”
He tossed the manuscript on the desk as if he were discarding unwanted fourth class 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 policy, 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 masses. 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.”