Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  With the weather improving and no great feats of seamanship called for, I took over. Bill and Bette went below to get into dry clothes, rest, clean up, and cook. Three hours later Bill relieved me for supper—stew. Bette was still eating, and seemed strained, on edge. I put it down to reaction. I returned to the deck for another couple of hours, then Bill took over at midnight. The wind was dropping steadily. I had no immediate worries. Bette was asleep on one settee. I flopped down on the other, and was asleep in seconds, happy.

  In no time at all Bill was shaking me. “Come on Mitch! Sun’s burning your eyes out!”

  This was a considerable exaggeration; it was a chill, grayish morning with ten-tenths cloud. I took over from Bill, red-eyed but cheerful. “You take her. I’ll fix breakfast.”

  Mayfly sailed easily under full canvas, bow dipping regularly, kissing the sea as if they were the best of friends.

  After a delicious breakfast, we started cleaning up the boat. Bette pronounced Karen fit to work, sitting down, so she was manhandled up on deck and left to steer. For two hours we worked at it, cleaning, scrubbing, airing, drying, and then Mayfly was her old self again.

  Bill got a chart out and got busy with a pair of dividers and a lot of guesswork. He concluded that we must at least be level with L.A. and a good hundred miles out to sea. He confessed he could be as wrong as hell, for we had only a rather shaky fix three days before to work from. We would come round to an east-south-east course, and hope for a fix at midday.

  We altered course, and got a new, rolling motion, with the swell on our beam. Bette prepared lunch, while Bill did his bucket-and-sponge act. Karen and I watched. Usually the spectacle drew some astringent crack from her, but this time she was silent; maybe the ankle was giving her hell. I helped Bette get the meal—mostly out of cans—on deck.

  Luckily we’d finished eating and had the dishes below when Karen spotted the destroyers. Otherwise it would have been murder in the cockpit as Bill flashed into action.

  They came from ahead, steering west on a diverging course. Bill immediately brought Mayfly round to a southerly heading, not with any hope of intercepting them, but knowing that the sharp alteration of course would not be missed. He gave me his largest ensign to run up, and rummaged some more in the flag locker and produced another flag.

  “What’s that, Bill?” I was glad Karen asked.

  “That?” He spoke absently, never taking his eyes off the leading warship. “Flag Lima. Means ‘I have something to communicate.’ ”

  “What do you want to tell them, Bill?” said Karen innocently.

  He took it very well. “Those lads know their position within a foot. They’ll give me a far better fix than I’ll ever get.”

  We came round onto a parallel course with the approaching destroyer, sliding up on our lee side to avoid taking our wind. The warship slowed down to our crawl, keeping some twenty yards off, rolling. We could hear the hum of fans, see the delicate details of the rotating radar aerials. Sailors leaned over the rail, staring. The inevitable cameras appeared.

  A loud hailer boomed. “Yes, Mayfly—can I help?”

  Karen was doing very well. “How do they know our name?”

  “Perhaps they read it on the stem,” said Bill, gently. He cupped his hands. “Can you give me my position, please?”

  “Wait, one!”

  We waited. The sailors didn’t mind. Bette and Karen were the best thing they’d seen that day, probably longer.

  “Mayfly! Your position is thirty-one forty-five north one hundred and twenty-one fifteen east! Do you want anything else?”

  Bill repeated the position, then added, “No, thank you. I am much obliged, sir!”

  “You’re welcome, sir!”

  We waved; the sailors waved enthusiastically back. We dipped our ensign. Not to be outdone, the warship dipped hers, waited till we were clear, then increased speed, and went after her consort. I watched, memories of the Tuscarora crowded in on me….

  Bill plotted the position, then called us all. “Well, I have to admit I have made a total balls of our dead reckoning! Not only are we south of Los Angeles, we’re a shade south of San Diego! We must have gone a lot further the night before last, and I’ve underestimated our drift and the current.”

  Remembering that night, with Bette calling the shots, I was not surprised, but I let that pass. “If you don’t mind, for sure Bette and I don’t!”

  “There’s one snag,” he observed thoughtfully. “The wind’s veering slightly. It’s going to be dead foul for Los Angeles. As the crow flies, there’s nothing in the distance from here to Los Angeles or San Diego, but beating to windward is going to double the distance traveled to Los Angeles.”

  “Okay, what’s so good about L.A.? Unless Karen—” I stopped abruptly. It was none of my business what she thought.

  She was, in fact, all for San Diego, probably feeling that it would be best to make a fresh start in a new city. Bette did not care much either way. None of us were eager to face the future.

  San Diego it was, then, and the meeting broke up rather silently. Bill and Karen turned in, Bette stretched out on the cabin top, and I got down to holding the new course and thinking along new lines.

  Maybe I needn’t go to Texas; maybe I could get a job with the Scripps Institute of Oceanology, and Bette could get down to doctoring there, close to her beloved ocean. I hadn’t thought of Scripps before, partly because the work was slightly away from mine, but chiefly because Suffren had talked of Texas. Of course, the news that my only real oceanological experience had been with Suffren’s ill-fated Institute could blast my chances, but it was worth a try.

  We sailed lazily on. There was still a swell from the north, but owing to the storm, it was no longer possible to say with any certainty what caused it. I liked to think it was the storm. The sun had put in a belated appearance, giving a rosy tinge to my daydreams. With SARAH and the tidal wave, San Francisco and the storm well behind us, I felt sure the worst for us, personally, was over. Nightmares there might be for others, not us….

  Chapter 15

  From the time we met the destroyers it was, literally, plain sailing. Late the next day we were secured alongside in San Diego, and if SARAH’s swell reached that far, all of eight hundred miles, it was not noticeable. We saw no signs of damage from the tidal wave.

  The second nice surprise was that, so far from the Army, police, or Customs breathing down our necks, Bill had to go find them. The Navy post was not interested, apart from the fact that it was a Limey yacht that had just pounded through a force-ten gale. The Customs, once they saw Mayfly was from San Francisco, waved him away.

  This news came as something of an anticlimax. This had been the crunch we had waited for, and none of us had given much thought to what happened then, except perhaps Bill. There was a finished painting he had to ship out to a client in L.A., and he had in mind seeing what might be going for him in San Diego. What his other plans were he did not even hint, but I was sure he had them. Equally, I was sure Karen had none, only problems.

  Strangely, Bette was the only one of us who appeared eager to break it up. Once Bill was back and she knew we weren’t wanted by the FBI or anyone else, she was keen to get on. We must get settled someplace right away; there must be a gala dinner to celebrate. I wondered what had gotten into her. I went ashore to make the arrangements. One hour, six phone calls, and fifteen bucks worth of taxi later, I was back on Mayfly. We weren’t going anywhere that night; San Diego was, as far as I could discover, filled to capacity.

  We had all done a good job, pushing SARAH to the backs of our minds; now it was well to the front again. The town was full of refugees and evacuees, and in my travels I’d heard some wild stories from reception clerks, cabbies, and others. Denver was the chief subject. It had been abandoned; it was under martial law; it had been burned to the ground. One drugstore cowboy assured me that the real story was that a nuclear bomber had crashed on the city.

  One thing all the stories
had in common: none of them made good hearing.

  I bought a couple of newspapers and they gave a totally different view. Some high altitude places, not named, in the Midwest had been “affected”; they had “suffered some dislocation of normal life.” Denver, I learned, had borne the brunt of the “dislocation,” but State and Federal authorities now had the situation “well under control.” The papers frightened me more than the tall stories. Someone had a real hard grip on the Fourth Estate, and that made American history.

  Not caring much for the strained atmosphere my news caused on Mayfly, I went ashore for another phone call. I knew a man slightly in the Scripps outfit; we’d met once at a geophysical conference. Suffren had introduced us, and we’d all lunched together. A pretty slim acquaintanceship, but worth a try. He might have some ideas, not only on the job prospects, but accommodation as well. I found his number, wished I could remember his first name, and called.

  “Is this Doctor Williamson?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name’s Mitchell Grant. We met up at a conference in Sacramento a while back. My boss, Professor suffren—”

  “Sure, I remember, Doctor Grant! You want to talk with him?”

  “No,” I said, “we met through him.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he replied, amiably. “I just thought you wanted him. What can I do for you?”

  “Hold it!” I said. “You talk as if he was in the next room!”

  “Well, not exactly, but he’s around somewhere.”

  “But when I saw him last—oh, I don’t know, a week back—he was moving to Berkeley to join a special committee!” I leaned on “special.”

  “That is correct, but three days ago the committee was moved down here.” His tone was bland. “This was considered a better location.”

  If the news that Suffren was in town was a right to the jaw, this was the follow-up left to the solar plexus.

  I fumbled around. “Yes. Well—er, I guess that does alter cases somewhat—could I speak with him?”

  He tried, but Suffren was not around, though I could get him at nine the next morning, for sure. I was about to hang up when I remembered the other angle.

  “One thing, Doctor, I would appreciate your help with: I’m new in this city, and it seems like all the hotels are full —do you have any ideas where I might get accommodations?”

  It was his turn to be surprised. “Where are you staying now?”

  I explained.

  “I see.” Obviously a big light had been switched on for him. “Frankly, if I were you, I’d hang onto that yacht. The Navy’s putting up a tent camp to the south—”

  “A tent camp! Is it that bad?”

  “It is that bad,” he assured me gravely.

  Bill was all hospitality when I told him. Bette and I thanked him, although I detected a certain reluctance in her acceptance of his offer. He seemed genuinely glad to have us, and that was the main thing. He gave her a smile round his beaky nose. “Don’t worry, Bette—or you, Mitch —it’ll work out.”

  There was not more talk of a gala dinner. We ate on board, drank rather more than we should have, and turned in early. It was a very flat end to our voyage.

  After breakfast Bette and I set out on a more detailed reconnaissance. She would tackle the medical authorities about work and accommodation, I would do the same with Suffren.

  I got him at 9 A.M. precisely. For a guy sloppy in so many ways, he was a fantastic timekeeper. It was a repetition of our phone conversation of a week back. He hardly gave me time to speak, just told me to be in his office at eleven-thirty, and hung up. I filled in time trying a few more hotels, motels, and a new fact emerged: Federal and State agencies had done a lot of requisitioning; whole hotels were theirs. Discouraged, I rested my feet in a drugstore, drank coffee, and read a paper.

  As a small-time investor, I’ve always known that in business there is no sentiment, and while it can get wildly exaggerated, the stock market reports often show how knowledgeable people are voting with their money. This can give a lead to other aspects of life. I found the Wall Street report interesting, in a sinister sort of way. Oil and automobile stocks had taken a really big dive, closely followed by real estate corporations, and it didn’t look as if they had struck bottom yet. A market observer bleakly commented that this movement was due to the “uncertain situation.” On the other hand, some engineering stocks, particularly those with a big nuclear component, had risen strongly in marked contrast with the generally depressed state of the market. No explanation was offered for this situation. The dollar had been marked down, especially in forward dealings, and this was ascribed to our chronic balance-of-payments problem. Well, maybe. I left for my meeting in a very thoughtful state of mind.

  Suffren’s office was not much bigger than a telephone booth, but it was unmistakably his. Untidy, faintly blue with cigar smoke, and very uncomfortable. His galena paperweight was now on duty on a cheap wood trestle table.

  “Ah, Mitch.” He waved at me, not so much in welcome as to make sure I didn’t try to shake hands. “Sit down!”

  I didn’t bother, largely because there wasn’t a second chair.

  He looked very tired and if possible, even scruffier. “And what are you doing here?”

  I told him, adding my piece about a job and somewhere to live.

  He listened carefully, and when I had finished, he just stared at me through his thick glasses. Well used to this routine, I just stared back. His shirt told me he had had egg for breakfast. Fried egg.

  Suddenly he stood up and peered suspiciously at his watch. “I can give you ten minutes! Since you refuse to sit,” he went on waspishly, “we may as well talk outside in the fresh air!”

  We found some grass and fresh air, and after looking around in what he fondly imagined was a keen way, he spoke.

  “Taking last things first: a job. Frankly, I don’t know that I can really advise you. We—the Berkeley committee —are only guests here, but I would regard the possibilities as remote. Accommodation: I can only give my experience. We are in a requisitioned hotel, three in a room. Some of the junior staff have camp beds right here in the offices.” He gave the Scripps set-up a wistful glance. “And we’re regarded as important!”

  I nodded. “So Texas is still my best bet!”

  Again he did a three-sixty degree search, his voice dropped an octave, and he fiddled, very belatedly, with a shirt button. “Once more, I don’t know.” He was thinking hard. I watched his well-known gesture as he pushed his wispy hair back, and suddenly I felt very selfish. He was an old man, under great strain, and here I was—

  “Okay, Professor,” I said with sudden resolution. “I’ll stick to Texas. I shouldn’t have bothered you—”

  Instantly the picture of an old, broken man dissolved. The glasses flashed, and the snarl was working fine. “As always—you never know when to keep your mouth shut!”

  “I’ve been working on it, Professor,” I said apologetically.

  “I wonder!” He hesitated. “I really don’t know why I bother with you, except that you were, in your crude way, loyal, and a good worker.” His voice dropped still lower, he moved closer, staring hard at me, as if to add emphasis to his words, “My advice is to get out—get out of the country!”

  I felt that familiar cold, fearful sensation. Perhaps I turned pale, for he gave a twisted smile at my reaction.

  “Yes, Mitch, it is as bad as that, SARAH has cut back very slightly, but the output is still fantastic! It is my personal opinion that the whole of the West and Midwest will very shortly be untenable. Also, a major earth movement is quite inevitable.”

  “You think so?”

  “There are times when your mental processes are beyond my comprehension! A state of fantastic imbalance is building up! Must be, with this loss of pressure, it’s self-evident! The inevitable collapse may well trigger off other earth movements.” He looked grimly at me, and spoke slowly, to add weight to his words. “I do not rule out a moveme
nt of a magnitude in excess of nine!”

  I really gasped. “But there’s never been one in excess of eight point six!”

  He got some sadistic pleasure from my reaction. “True, very true, but remember we only have Richter scale records back to 1903—and what is that in geological time? The records show that there are, on average, two movements per annum in the seven point five to eight point six range, but it would be a very brave man who affirmed that greater movements could not occur!” He gestured impatiently. “This is pure speculation, but I do not rule out a disaster of unparalleled magnitude.”

  There was no answer to that. He went on, “As far as the present position is concerned, I do not know the full story. Security is incredibly severe, but there is no doubt that the gas situation in the higher areas of the West and Midwest is already most serious.”

  I told him some of Bette’s experiences in Denver.

  “Yes, that is not entirely new to me. Denver has now been evacuated, and it is not unique. You know the State authorities have set up here?”

  “Hence the requisitioning?”

  “Yes. The whole metropolitan Bay area is being cleared, and every other township or city to the north. Mostly the evacuation is headed this way.” He cackled nervously. “I gather the East wish they had not been so hospitable! Clear up to Maine, the nitrogen has been detected! Gasoline engines are banned in all urban concentrations as far east as Chicago—and that is only a beginning!”

  “But where will it all end?”

  “My boy, who knows?” replied Suffren wearily. “We keep saying it is impossible, that it must end…. Now the meteorological experts say this enormous mass of hot gas is playing havoc with weather locally; fog, sudden torrential rains, and that too, I understand, may get worse. About the only favorable item is that Dame Nature is coming slowly to the rescue. It seems that all oxygen is ti waste product of green plants. Too much oxygen inhibits the plants, acts as a sort of natural regulator, I suppose.”