Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  The sergeant eyed my civilian clothes with disfavor and said, wearily, “Yeah, shots. Plague, tetanus, typhoid, and all the rest. Shots.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I did once—”

  He pointed, already looking at the next man. “In there!” This room was much less crowded, and the general smell was overlaid by a strong odor of disinfectant. Most of my bunch were servicemen, and presumably they already had all the shots going.

  A navy medic looked up from a pile of paper. “Yes?”

  “You tell me.” I handed him a card or two. He sniffed, unimpressed. “Get your shirt off, trousers down.”

  “Now, look here,” I began, and got no further.

  “No. You look. Around here we have everything except plague.” He crossed his fingers. “You’re here to help, not to become another goddam casualty.” He nodded to a corpsman. “Go ahead. The works!”

  I got six shots, two in each arm and one in each buttock, and just to be on the safe side, I was re-vaccinated. My record/I.D. card got a few more notes and another rubber stamp.

  “Keep off liquor—just supposing you can find any—for the next twenty-four hours, and report to your nearest NRC medic in a week’s time for Part Two.”

  “There’s more?”

  The Navy man had noted my PhD and was disposed to be a little more friendly. “Yep. Two more sessions in fact, but that was the big one. Geologist, eh? Well, we’ve got plenty of rocks around here! Good luck.”

  I made it quickly back to the baggage dump to get my gear, and by the time I had dragged that to the transportation point my arms were getting sore to match my ass. I had also acquired the true serviceman’s total lack of curiosity about his immediate surroundings. Vaguely it registered in my numb mind that the long, twisted gray-and-red structure, a good three hundred yards from the waterfront, was in fact the crumpled and smashed hull of a destroyer. It meant nothing alongside my need for a drink and somewhere to lie down.

  Herded into a truck with thirty others, packed in, standing, I felt like death. We drove over surfaces which were like corrugated iron in parts, and ended up at a hall or chapel or maybe an armory. A harassed Army non-com assigned me a camp-bed with two suspiciously dark brown blankets and no pillow. Thankfully I dumped my gear. It was one hell of an apartment; two hundred beds crammed in, a bare eighteen inches apart, but the smell was a change: feet and sweat. I was directed to the “canteen” across the street, a one-time coffee and hamburger joint, its broken windows boarded up, and bearing the inevitable NRC sign.

  My ration card got me a plate of beans, a slice of bread, and a mug of weak coffee. I squeezed into a seat beside a young soldier, who, unlike most, was talkative. He had been in Chicago when the first whiff of the gas touched off the panic.

  “Jeeze, you never saw anything like it! Yeah, there’d been a lotta rumors, but I don’t take account of such matters. I’d gone to the top of the Prudential Building—that’s a real fine view from the observation gallery, six hundred feet up—boy! I sure had a view! It seemed kinda quiet up there, mebbe half a dozen people. Someone shouted and pointed—

  “Ever kicked an anthill? People streaming out into the street, li’l black dots, going every which way—and the cars! Lake Shore Drive takes a sharp bend by the Chicago River; brother, you never saw such a pile-up!” He eagerly chased the last beans around his plate. “Didn’t affect me; didn’t seem real, like watching a silent movie, or the TV with the sound bust. No sir, it just wasn’t for real!”

  I decided a major factor in his salvation was a total lack of imagination. I gathered he had just “stuck around until it got quiet.” He left and I finished my meal in gloomy silence. After that, my arms feeling the size of young tree-trunks and just about as heavy, I went back and flopped out.

  The general racket in the room woke me next morning. I felt terrible, and it was as well I had not undressed, for one arm was like a treetrunk.

  The wash-place was a hellhole with two filthy washbasins and no hot water, and only a token dribble of cold. The place stank, but here the lead smell was urine. The two toilets were practically beyond description, and the floor was awash—sodden toilet paper, cigarette packs, cigar and cigarette butts, plus a broken liquor bottle completed the picture. One look and I got out, preferring my own antisocial arrangements down a side alley. Washing could wait.

  Breakfast was exactly the same as supper, but at least I did not meet up with my boneheaded pal of the night before. I lingered over the coffee, smoking, considering my next move. I still felt like hell, but I would have to be dying or dead to stay in that place for another night. It could only be a transit camp, and the sooner I transited the better.

  I checked the address I had been given: NRC Directorate of Scientific Workers. I found the place in an office block off Main, and walked up—no elevators working— four floors. A curling piece of paper, held insecurely by a thumbtack, urged me on: NRC—DSW.

  Reception was a young woman, shabbily dressed and with one arm in a sling. On her good arm was a brassard, a blue spread eagle surmounted by the letters NRC in black on a white ground. She looked up and gave me the first smile I had collected since my return to the US.

  Ten minutes later I was being interviewed by an old man who very quickly let me know he was a biochemist just in case I thought he had been clerking all his life. He thumbed unhappily though a tattered sheaf of typescript, and much to his surprise, came up with what he sought. I should walk up another two floors. Section III-c handled geologists. Doctor Williamson.

  That pleased me. My last contact with Suffren had been through a Williamson, and there couldn’t be two of them in San Diego, both geologists. I exchanged smiles with the girl in reception on my way out.

  It was my Doctor Williamson. He had a small room, a large desk, and an even larger map of California on the wall, decorated with colored pins and a thick wavering red chinagraph line. It gave the room a very military air.

  He was thinner than I remembered him. He frowned at my I.D. card, then looked at me, motioned me to a hard chair, and said cautiously, “We’ve met, but nowadays it’s hard to remember, and right now—”

  I reminded him.

  “Of course! Forgive me.” He reached over the desk to shake hands. “Sorry I can’t get up—my leg, you know.”

  I didn’t, and made some sympathetic noises. He pushed a pack of cigarettes my way, an act that was a lot more hospitable than I then appreciated.

  “Oh, it’d take too long to tell. I came off the road when I got a whiff of gas. Very lucky, only broke a leg. So that landed me here. The whole of DSW is staffed by crocks. How did you get here?”

  “That,” I spoke with some confidence, “is very probably an even longer story, which I will skip. I’m fresh in town from overseas, looking for useful work, and I wondered if Professor Suffren was around.”

  Doctor Williamson made a job of stubbing out his cigarette, and I knew before he spoke. “So you haven’t heard?”

  “No.” But I knew now. Williamson’s manner told me: Suffren was dead.

  “No—well, he was back up north when the ’quakes came. Would go. He had been largely instrumental in the issue of the seismic warning that saved thousands of lives. Others could, I suppose, have done as well, but the old pirate, being outside most organizations, could act a lot faster than most. By that time the whole damn seismic world was watching California, piezomagnetics, variations in the precession of the earth’s axis, cranks with bits of damp seaweed, the whole bunch and all the dope fed to Berkeley control, snowing them under with information. Suffren as a lone wolf was quicker to spot that defect too. He went his own way, ably backed by the boys in Menlo Park. He reckoned the moment had come, and while he passed the dope to the control, he also took off and bit the Governor’s ear personally. Control agreed with his view, but that was twenty-four hours later, by which time the evacuation was in full swing. Another twenty-four hours, and he was proved right.” Williamson shook his head. “Oh boy, was he proved r
ight! By that time, as I said, he had gone north. Said this was an ‘excellent opportunity to observe the mechanics of an earth movement of some magnitude at first hand.’ I’m sorry, Grant. He was a damnably difficult man to get along with, but a fine scientist of the old school.”

  “Yeah,” I said flatly. To me Suffren was a lot more than that. “Still, the old devil died with his boots on. I’m sure that must have pleased him.”

  Two geologists in a tatty office in a half-wrecked town paused, both well aware they talked of a man they could never hope to equal. To be a great scientist it is necessary to be deeply humble and goddam arrogant, to have a brain as orderly as an accountant’s and with the vision of a poet. Especially the vision. Suffren had it all, and more….

  “Yes,” said Wiliamson. He poked around his desk for a moment, then went on in a brighter voice. “So you’re NRC now! We can certainly use you.” He made a note on my I.D. card and added another stamp, then fished around in a drawer, finally coming up with an armband.

  “There you are—and make sure you wear it. You are now officially a NRCII—National Reconstruction Corps-man Class Two.”

  “We have classes?”

  “We have classes. One is for top executives, the big wheels. Grade Two is for professional men, group leaders, that sort. Three is for technicians, four for unskilled labor. Class is denoted by the color of the lettering on your armband. Red is top, yours is blue, class three is black, four is yellow. The real value of it is that it gets you in and out of the Limited Zones. See you don’t get it stolen.”

  “What’s a limited zone?”

  “You’ll find out,” he said ominously. “Without the armband and the ID card you stand a very healthy chance of being shot by the Army as a looter. You wouldn’t be the first. Theoretically, rank entitles you to better accommodation and more credits, but the only thing you’ll get for certain is a lot more work.”

  “What sort of work have you in mind for me?”

  “I’ll come to that. Let me finish the background picture. You get no pay, no one does. Instead you have the credit card, usable at NRC posts, and your ration card. Those two get you a share of whatever’s going. This is only a temporary measure; we hope to get back to money quite soon, but the way things are now, there’s no point. All transport, accommodation—everything, in fact—has been requisitioned by the State Government. You can’t buy anything, it’s all GI. There is a black market in cigarettes and liquor. Watch your step on the liquor, there’s some terrible faking going on. If a guy offers you a bottle of Scotch and is prepared to take dollar bills for it, don’t bother, it’s bound to be phoney bathtub hooch. The dollar’s devalued twice, and my guess is that when’ we get straightened out, all this green stuff will be exchanged for new dollars. I have heard an inspired guess at the rate: ten old for one new.” He grinned at me. “Nobody’s particularly worried about it. Money just now is an irrelevant memory. Now, your job.

  “First, California is different. We have lost a hell of a lot of people and land. The land is our concern. We have to advise the state authorities, tell them -which areas are, in our opinion, safe to reoccupy. We’re still getting minor tremors, movements in the two point five to two point nine range at the rate of three or four a day. Folks are understandably touchy about these. On the other hand, we just can’t keep the major part of the population cooped up like this. There’s ninety-five percent of the people in five percent of our state. We’re living on our fat, and there isn’t much of that. People have got to get out there and work, but the State Government does not want another disaster. They don’t expect miracles from us, just own damndest best.” He swung around in his chair, displaying a massive plaster cast. “Look at the map. All ground on the seaward side of that red line has gone, something like twelve thousand square miles of it, getting on for ten percent of the whole state, and some of the best ground, at that.”

  I didn’t know which horrified me more the map, or his cold, matter-of-fact recital of the situation. My reaction was evidently no novelty to him, for he smiled thinly and said:

  “Yes, I know, but either you adopt a businesslike approach to this situation or go mad! Forget the California you knew. That is strictly for the history books! We’re forced to build a new state from the ground up; all the old values have gone sideways. Life is very cheap; we’re fighting for survival, make no mistake about that! And don’t expect much help from the Federal Government; they’ve got their work cut out keeping vital materials moving, like oil and steel, and running the Armed Forces. They say our nuclear capability is unimpaired and is being maintained. Personally, I think the heat is off in that sphere—Europe has its own problems! But let’s get back to your job. We have two survey teams working; with your arrival we’ll form a third. Don’t get excited, it’ll only amount to a jeep and an assistant. Clear so far?”

  “I think so. Where do I go?”

  “Probably up the east side of New Bay—that’s the provisional name for this chunk of water. You can have all the geological maps you want, we’ve plenty; you’ll be mighty low on anything more sophisticated than a tape-measure, but we’ll give you what we can. I’ll arrange a flight in an observation plane to give you a general look at your area. Where are you staying?”

  “Right now in some sort of transit camp which I am very anxious to leave.” I showed him the address.

  “I’ll bet! When we’re through here, you go back and wait there. I’ll get you out as soon as I can.” He made a note on his scratch pad. “Now, hints for new Californians! Don’t drink water unless you are certain it is okay—most supplies are still contaminated. Don’t go sightseeing, especially after dark; the Army is very swift on the draw! Finally, don’t go trampling on any plant life—even picking wildflowers is a serious offense, and can get you in a labor camp, fast. By all accounts they make your transit camp look like a Hilton!”

  “I’m no biologist, but isn’t this plant protection business a bit way-out?”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, surely a few plants, more or less—”

  He raised an arresting hand. “No! Plants are our only source of oxygen. Agreed, a patch Of backyard grass won’t do much, but a million patches may help, and it makes people feel something is being done. A tree in full leaf is the finest sight in the world, these days; if you’re human, you love plants!”

  “But isn’t it rather late, now that the cloud has gone?”

  “It may come back—well, some of it. It’s traveling around the globe! Latest report show Russia has bad trouble in their far east, Eastern Europe is chaotic—at least, we think it is, for the absence of news is a very bad sign.”

  “So you think it could come around again?”

  “It’s not what I think, it’s the official view—the secret official view, although most intelligent people have worked that one out for themselves. China is certainly hit, but naturally, news from there is even harder to come by, and I heard only yesterday that Nepal, up in the Himalayas, has been virtually wiped out.”

  It was typical of that time that neither of us spared a thought for Nepal, China, or anywhere else.

  “My God!” I exclaimed, thinking of the cloud. “We’d never stand that all over again! One point: the southern hemisphere doesn’t seem to be affected. Maybe Suffren was right.”

  “He thought that, did he? As far as we know, that does seem to be the situation.” He reverted to the cloud. “The latest thought on SARAH is that we may expect one or two bad concentrations when it gets back here, but it will be, generally, not nearly as bad.”

  “That’s not much comfort!”

  “It’s not a comforting world! Life is cheap, very cheap —and in many ways, a whole lot simpler.” He looked at men pensively. “I know it sounds strange, but in some ways I like it.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  He shook his head. “There’s a stack of problems that have gone for the duration, and I hope some of them don’t come back. Drug addiction has folded—no
drugs! The addicts are either cured the hard way, or they’re dead. Racial problems have lost their heat—the only criteria for judging a man is his use to the community. Of course, there’s the outlaw situation, but they are being steadily wiped out. Theft has disappeared from the crime book; now it’s called ‘looting,’ and there’s only one penalty for that!”

  Williamson’s views, and his casual way of putting them, shocked me, and it must have shown in my face.

  “Don’t take it too hard. You’ll get the idea in a few days!” He extended his hand. “Good luck, Doctor, see you soon— and remember, don’t pick the flowers!”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Williamson was as good as his word. Before nightfall I was shifted to a private house, now the center of California’s geological effort. The coffee was stronger, and I got a strip of bacon with my beans, and, best of all, there were only four of us in a room. I wallowed in this luxury all the next day, getting over my shots and studying the geological history of the area assigned to me and reading the first reports of the post-SARAH field teams.

  My roommates were friendly enough, but uncommunicative. All three were resting, and had in common a wary, alert look that was new to me. As a geologist I was of good standing, but in this tight community I was, as yet, a freshman, not initiated in the Limited Zones. It was too difficult to explain, and they were too tired to try. I would find out, soon enough. They lay around, smoked, spoke to each other in monosyllables; they never laughed, and seldom smiled. One had a bullet wound in his arm—and nightmares….

  For the present, the cold, factual reports were enough for me. Reading them, I even forgot Bette for a while.

  Roughly, all the land west of Highway 101 from Eureka, south to San Jose had vanished, slipped and tilted into the sea. In the mountaingap where San Francisco had stood there was now a broad strait, sixty miles wide, connecting the sea with the vast New Bay, which took in the drowned central valley. From northwest of Yuba City, New Bay stretched down to Fresno, one hundred and fifty miles long, fifty to sixty miles wide.