Manhattan Transfer

by John E. Stith

  "I've also got people on their way up to generators that should be working, but they'll only run until reserve tanks of natural gas and oil are empty. Probably we should restrict the use of gasoline to emergency needs."

  Dorine nodded. "Good idea. Barnaby?"

  Barnaby nodded. "I'll get the word out."

  "What if that water they're giving us is drugged?" asked a woman next to Barnaby.

  Rudy answered. "Then there's nothing we can do about it. If we don't drink, we don't stay alive. The only significant amount of water we brought with us is in the Central Park reservoir, in the pipes, and in storage tanks in some of the higher buildings. But that and what's in City Tunnel Number One won't last long without recycling, besides which, water may well be leaking from several tunnels. I've got someone checking on the possibility of using local chemical labs to distill water, but I doubt we can find a quick way to keep up with the volume we need."

  "Anything else in your area?"

  "Steam we won't need, as long as the aliens are providing air at a reasonable temperature. Telephones will be up once we have emergency electricity. Sewage will be a problem pretty soon, but I'll see what we can do. Food's going to be the worst problem. And I can use almost all the help I can get."

  "Noted. What haven't we covered?"

  The room was silent for a moment, then the sandy–haired man sitting next to Rudy said, "Alien contact?"

  "We don't have an office for that," Dorine said lightly. "Don't you figure they'll contact us?"

  "Perhaps. But we can push the process along. That message on the 'roof'—we should be decoding it. And apparently there's not only one set of aliens."

  "Okay, you're in charge, Mr.—"

  "Matt Sheehan."

  Rudy spoke up. "He's on, ah, the same floor I'm on."

  "Just a minute," said the man from employment. "Who is this guy, and what are his qualifications?"

  Rudy said, "Well, for one thing, he's here." After a couple of chuckles faded away, he added, "Matt's an army colonel, one of the best organizers and best leaders I ever had the pleasure of serving under when I was still in the Army."

  Matt spoke up. "If anyone else wants the job, I certainly won't be offended. My feeling is that whatever experts we have in the city may know how to approach various aspects of the problem, but might be better utilized if they're free to do the actual work. What I can do is listen to expert advice, plan, and get resources available for whoever winds up on the team. I think I can do that well. And if at any time the mayor wants to put someone else into the job, that's fine with me. Would anyone else prefer to do the job?"

  Barnaby drummed his fingernails on the hard black walkie–talkie case. "There was a Colonel Sheehan or a Major Sheehan in the news a couple of years ago. Something in Paraguay. Alvoranza somebody led a successful coup against the new democratic government. An Army team went in and took him out. They moved in so fast Alvoranza didn't have time to blink. Are you that Sheehan?"

  Rudy opened his mouth before Matt did. "That was him. Order was restored in thirty–six hours. And the only casualties were a half–dozen of Alvoranza's thugs."

  Barnaby nodded as he filed away the information.

  Dorine let the silence last about five seconds before she said, "All right. What else hasn't been covered?"

  The seconds of silence were again broken by Colonel Sheehan. "Someone should coordinate an ambulance patrol around the shoreline, including everything underground, like subways and car and rail tunnels."

  Barnaby used his walkie–talkie briefly to pass on instructions. When he was done, he looked at Dorine and said, "I had people on the shore, but we hadn't started on the PATH tubes yet."

  Dorine nodded. Again a short silence was broken by Colonel Sheehan. "If a team worked on getting all the buses and cabs back to garages or stations, the streets might be passable for emergency vehicles."

  "Good." As Dorine scanned the group for someone in transportation, she found a face and saw an acknowledging nod.

  "Anything else, Colonel Sheehan?" Dorine smiled despite the tension.

  "While the police pass the word that people are trying to restore city operations, maybe they should be telling people to turn on their TVs and radios to some local station as soon as Rudy has a generator back on–line, in case we need to get information to as many people as possible, or ask for help from specialists."

  Barnaby said, "Makes sense," and he used his walkie–talkie again.

  Dorine looked at Sheehan again. His dark eyes looked calm, in contrast to more than half of the people at the meeting. He saw her looking at him, and he said, "If there is a supply of cots available, maybe some could be placed in the main city government building lobbies so anyone who anticipates working out of the office for a while can get some occasional rest."

  Dorine nodded and scanned the group. A woman Dorine didn't recognize raised her hand and said, "I can arrange that."

  Dorine let the next silence last several seconds. "Okay, then. Let's get busy. And, Barnaby, can you get Colonel Sheehan a walkie–talkie?"

  Barnaby agreed. As people started to rise, a woman wearing a high–neck collar asked, "But what's happening to us? Don't you want to know?"

  Dorine said, "Of course we want to know. But we can't waste time right now speculating. Once we know the support systems are in place, we can devote more effort to the next steps."

  The woman was clearly unsatisfied by the answer, but she didn't press the issue.

  On the way out of the room, Dorine instinctively brushed her hand against the wall to turn off the light switch. She wondered briefly how many other habits she'd have to break.

  #

  Rudy Sanchez was waiting impatiently as the cherry–picker slowed to a stop and the driver stepped down from the cab. Rudy could have assigned this duty to someone else, but he had to be doing something, and he had always enjoyed hands–on work more than management.

  "Sorry it took me so long," the driver said. "The streets are a little crazy still."

  "I don't doubt it," Rudy said. "Okay, here's the deal. I want to get up close to that." He pointed at the bird–feeder embedded in the dome over the severed concrete of Pier 17, right in front of where the Pier 17 Pavilion had been left behind when Manhattan made its move. Pieces of wreckage from severed boats floated in isolated pockets of water caught near the bubble.

  While waiting for the truck, Rudy had suddenly thought about the people left on the pavilion. They would have been stranded on their own little rectangular island until help arrived. If their telephone lines hadn't gone through Manhattan, he could imagine the disbelief on the other end when someone called to explain that they needed a boat to pick them up because Manhattan had gone away.

  As soon as the driver had maneuvered the truck into position, Rudy grabbed the end of a large hose and tied it to the cherry–picker cage, then stepped into the cage and thumbed the controls. He glanced at the "sun," which had moved maybe thirty degrees to the right in the last two hours.

  As the cherry–picker cage started lifting him up toward the large interior cup that held what he was convinced was water, two more police cars arrived, escorting a truck with more piping and the large pumps he would need. People from his department, assisted by volunteers, started unloading the material.

  The cherry–picker cage moved to where Rudy wanted to be, and he stopped about fifteen meters over the ground. The cage bounced more slowly than normal as it came to rest. From his pocket he took a pair of vials, and carefully dipped each into the liquid. Moments later he was reasonably convinced he was dealing with normal water. He filled another set of vials to send out for chemical analysis. They wouldn't pump this into the city until the verification was complete, but Rudy's gut told him the water would pass all the lab tests, particularly when using it was the only choice.

  The bird–feeder tray was shaped a little like an oversized bathtub stuck on the inside of the dome, constantly filled by the hose coming from somewhere above
. Rudy couldn't see any mechanism that told a valve somewhere to pass more water or to shut off, but there had to be one.

  He touched the side of the tray. The material felt cool to the touch. He rapped his knuckles on it, and the sound it produced felt more like he had knocked on the side of a huge cube of material instead of on an extruded piece no thicker than his thumb. He got no sense of vibration at all; just a sensation like tapping on bedrock. He got out a sharp pocketknife and purely out of curiosity tried to cut a sliver of the material off the edge. He could as easily have scraped a sliver of glass off a crystal goblet by using a sharp piece of cardboard. Finally he remembered the people on the ground.

  He called to the volunteer near a portable generator connected to a self–priming pump, "Let her rip."

  The man yanked the cord, and the noisy generator sprang to life, the large stand vibrating on the pavement. Rudy swung the end of the hose over the lip of the bird–feeder, and it started to make noisy snorkling sounds as water displaced the air in the hose. The surface of the water in the bird feeder grew turbulent, and Rudy pushed the hose deeper. Water started spewing out the hose on the other side of the pump. Rudy let it run for several seconds, and the water level in the bird–feeder didn't diminish.

  "Okay," he yelled, "now push that red lever toward the white mark."

  The man did so, and the roar from the pump increased in pitch and volume. The pump vibrated so strongly that it started creeping along the pavement and had to be restrained. The surface of the water in the bird–feeder grew more and more choppy, but the water level stayed where it was. Water shot out the pump hose into an arc that spanned fifty feet. Rudy was about to make an educated guess about the velocity that implied before he remembered that the reduced gravity spoiled his rules of thumb. Still, his gut told him that with enough pumps and hoses leading from the bird–feeders down to nearby fire hydrants, water was not going to be a problem.

  About the same time he reached that conclusion, another set of tubes started coming down from the "sky" outside the dome.

  #

  Matt Sheehan walked north on First Avenue, past the Bellevue Medical Center, its white glazed brick reflecting the artificial sunlight. He had thought about getting a ride, but the low gravity made walking a fairly efficient way to get around. His knees twinged a bit due to the lunar–walk motion, but otherwise his body felt fine. From his belt hung a small walkie–talkie.

  He had come north through Chinatown. At Chatham square the statue of Confucius had been surrounded by people who apparently felt that would be as good as anyplace to find answers to the obvious questions. No one had been using the pagoda–shaped phone booths, but the exotic–vegetable vendors had been swamped as they tried to pack up their products.

  Matt suddenly checked his watch to make sure it really was still morning, assuming "morning" meant anything anymore. The "sun's" position made it feel like afternoon, but it wasn't.

  He had passed Bellevue Hospital minutes earlier. The frequency of passing ambulances wailing like huge mechanical babies made it obvious they were busily dealing with people who'd been on the perimeter when the city was cut loose. What wouldn't be as audible was the process of dealing with all the people who must be suffering psychological problems that would be just as damaging, if not as immediately life threatening.

  All along his walk, he had seen glimpses of crowds to the east, pressed against the base of the dome, peering out at the other domed cities. From a distance the throngs looked like spectators merely curious about a construction project. He'd be willing to bet that almost every one of them would pay a year's salary to be able to get a glimpse of the dirty East River. Once in a while someone in the back ranks would jump straight up. Matt wasn't sure whether the jumping was to get a better view or simple experimentation.

  A couple of kids rode their bicycles past Matt very carefully. The low gravity reduced the tire friction enough that turning and stopping looked difficult, and the kids seemed nervous. Perhaps they just didn't want to leave their bikes wherever they had been. Walking seemed a much better way of getting around now.

  Once Matt adjusted to the new walking motion, he began to function almost on automatic, wondering what the hell had happened and why. But despite trying to concentrate on what should have been by far the biggest issue, his thoughts keep going back to Nadine.

  Matt should have worried more, he supposed, when she hadn't objected to being transferred to Cairo, when the assignment to Argentina would have left open the possibility that they could get together if there was a break in the war. At the time, he'd just assumed she was as fed up as he was with the no–win drug wars that few people here seemed to appreciate.

  He'd felt numb since that call a few days ago. Today, he felt a stronger sense of purpose than he had in quite a while, but even that wasn't enough to keep his mind totally occupied. He continued north, passing more war–zone streets of stalled traffic and confused pedestrians. Sirens near the entrance to the Queen–Midtown Tunnel brought his thoughts back to the city.

  At the intersection of First Avenue and 40th Street, a red Terra sports car almost ran him down as it careened up First, zig–zagged around stopped buses and trucks, and swung onto 40th, its tires skittering across the pavement, rather than screeching. The car almost flipped over in the lighter gravity. The driver gave Matt a rude gesture as though Matt should have known the car was coming and should, therefore, have waited inside.

  When Matt reached the enormous lobby of the U.N. General Assembly Building, it was nearly empty. A baffled–looking guard watched warily as Matt approached. Matt was still surprised to see so many people functioning on automatic. Apparently New York had less than its share of people who folded up completely under emergencies.

  "Yeah?" said the guard.

  "I've just come up from the mayor's office. I need to locate several translators."

  "Yeah?" said the guard. A couple of his shirt buttons looked close to popping. The man's eyes looked glazed.

  Matt decided maybe this guy wasn't functioning quite as well as he had thought at first. "Yeah. Can you tell me where I'd be likely to find them."

  "Kinda slow day here."

  "Yeah." Matt hesitated. He was convinced now that the man was shell–shocked. The man's eyes were virtually motionless except for an occasional blink, and his features were fixed in a permanent state of confusion. He was reacting to stimuli, but taking no action on his own.

  Matt said, "Okay, I'm going to look around, see if I can find some translators. This is official city business. You got a problem—" Matt caught himself and quickly rephrased the question. "Ah, that should be okay, don't you think?"

  The guard said, "Yeah."

  #

  Matt was about to give up when a blonde woman in a windbreaker and carrying a collapsible umbrella pushed open a door to Hammarskjold Library.

  "Are you perhaps a translator?" he asked.

  The woman glanced up toward the dome. "Well, yes. But I don't have any experience in translating for aliens."

  "Well, then, I'm afraid you won't do us any good. We need people with at least five years' experience."

  The woman was silent for a moment. "You don't know me well enough to tease me." Her voice held a hint of British English.

  Matt blinked, then smiled. "You're perfectly right. I have no idea why I did that."

  The woman smiled back, revealing even white teeth. Her gray eyes gave her expression a questioning look containing more ease than anyone Matt had seen that day. She hesitated, then said, "I might be able to help."

  "You really are a translator, then?"

  "Is twelve languages enough? I'm really only qualified in five of them, but I can at least read the others."

  "You're teasing me now."

  "No, I am not."

  Matt smiled. "My name is Matt Sheehan."

  "Mine is Abby Tersa. And I don't think you actually want translators if you want to talk to the aliens. You want linguists or cultural anthropolo
gists. Translators just use what they've been taught. You want someone who can figure out a new language, I assume."

  "Oh. But you—"

  "You're in luck. I love the nature of languages, and my primary background is cultural anthropology. I had to take a fair number of linguistic courses on the way. Actually, I was just doing a little moonlighting as a translator."

  "Well, good. You're hired." He paused. "I don't mean to be rude, but we need as many people as possible."

  "No offense taken. I can put up a notice in the translators' conference room where people are more likely to see it when they calm down."

  "Terrific."

  Abby disappeared inside and was back in a couple of minutes. "What now?"

  "I'm on foot. Can you handle the walk to the Municipal Building."

  With a smile Abby said, "I think so."

  #

  Matt and Abby had almost reached Houston Street going south when someone threw a large empty packing box into their path.

  The slow–motion, long–stride gait they had assumed gave Matt time to see what was coming, but no way to react. His feet hit the box, which promptly spun underfoot, and he went down, skidding in the low gravity. From a recessed doorway emerged four grubby young men in their late teens or early twenties. Two of the four had knives in their hands.

  Matt tumbled slowly, his inertia complicating recovery. It took him less than a second to realize that any money in his wallet was virtually worthless. These guys must have a different target: Abby. They'd try to put him out of commission, then move in on her.

  "Keep running!" he yelled to Abby. He tucked his body as he approached the sidewalk and rolled on one shoulder, then his back. He came to a kneeling position a moment later, by which time the men were moving toward him as fast as they could in the underwater mode forced by the low gravity. Matt stood up, and just as quickly sat down again. All four men were moving quickly enough and awkwardly enough that they windmilled right by him. Matt managed to hit one man's calf as he sped past, and the man went into a slow spin that made him hit the sidewalk face first.