Greener Than You Think

Greener Than You Think Page 4

by Ward Moore

  FOUR

  _Man Triumphant ... II_

  _36._ Everything I had visualized in the broker's office turned out toopessimistically accurate. Consolidated Pemmican and Allied Concentrateswas nothing but a mailing address in one of the most forlorn ofManhattan buildings, long before jettisoned by the tide of commerce. Thefactory, no bigger than a very small house, was a brokenwindowed affairwhose solid brick construction alone saved it from total demolition atthe playful hands of the local children. The roof had long since fallenin and symbolical grass and weeds had pushed their way through cracks inthe floor to flourish in a sickly and surreptitious way.

  The whole concern, until my stock purchase, had been the chattel andcreature of one Button Gwynnet Fles. In appearance he was such a genuineYankee, lean and sharp, with a slight stoop and prying eyes, that onequite expected a straw to protrude from between his thin lips or havehim draw from his pocket a wooden nutmeg and offer it for sale. Aftergetting to know him I learned this apparent shrewdness was a puredefense mechanism, that he was really an artless and ingenuous soul whohad been taught by other hands the swindle he practiced for many yearsand had merely continued it because he knew no way of making an honestliving. He was, like myself, unattached, and disarmed whatever lingeringsuspicions of him I might have by offering to share his quarters with meuntil I should have found suitable accommodations.

  The poor fellow was completely at my mercy and I not only forbore,generously, to press my advantage, but made him vicepresident of thenewly reorganized concern, permitting him to buy back a portion of thestock he had sold. The boom in the market having sent our shares up toan abnormal 1/2, we flooded our brokers with selling offers, at the sametime spreading rumors--by no means exaggerated--of the firm'sinstability, buying back control when Consolidated Pemmican reached itsnorm of 1/16. We made no fortunes on this transaction, but I was enabledto look ahead to a year on a more comfortable economic level than everbefore.

  But it was by no means in my plans merely to continue to milk thecorporation. I am, I hope, not without vision, and I saw ConsolidatedPemmican under my direction turned into an active and flourishingindustry. Its very decrepitude, I reasoned, was my opportunity; startingfrom scratch and working with nothing, I would build a substantialstructure.

  One of the new businesses which had sprung up was that of personallyconducted tours of the grass. After the experience of Gootes and myself,parachute landings had been ruled out as too hazardous, but someonehappily thought of the use of snowshoes and it was on these clumsy meansthat tourists, at a high cost and at less than snail's pace, trampedwonderingly over the tamed menace.

  My thought then, as I explained to Fles, was to reactivate the factoryand sell my product to the sightseers. Food, high in calories and smallin bulk, was a necessity on their excursions and nourishing pemmicanhigh in protein quickly replaced the cloying and messy candybar. We madeno profit, but we suffered no loss and the factory was in actualoperation so that no snoopers could ever accuse us of selling stock inan enterprise with a purely imaginary existence.

  I liked New York; it accorded well with my temperament and I wonderedhow I had ever endured those weary years far from the center of thecountry's financial life, its theaters and its great human drama. Giveme the old Times Square and the East Fifties any day and you can keepDeath Valley and functional architecture. I was at home at last and Iforesaw a future of slow but sure progress toward a position ofeminence and respectability. The undignified days of Miss Francis and Leffacase faded from my mind and I was aware of the grass only as a causefor selling our excellent pemmican.

  I won't say I didnt read the occasional accounts of the weed appearingin _Time_ or the newspapers, or watch films of it in the movies withmore than common interest, but it was no longer an engrossing factor inmy life. I was now taken up with larger concerns, working furiously toexpand my success and for a year after leaving the _Intelligencer_ Idoubt if I gave it more than a minute's thought a day.

  _37._ The band of salt remained an impregnable bulwark. Where the winterrains leached it, new tons of the mineral replaced those washed away.Constant observation showed no advance; if anything the edge of thegrass impinging directly on the salt was sullenly retreating. Thecentral bulk remained, a vast, obstinate mass, but most people thoughtit would somehow end by consuming itself, if indeed this doom were notanticipated by fresh scatterings of salt striking at its vitals as soonas the rains ceased.

  No more than any other reader, then, was I disquieted by the followingsmall item in my morning paper:

  FREAK WEED STIRS SPECULATION

  San Diego, Mar 7. (AP) An unusual patch of Bermuda grass discovered growing in one of the city parks' flower beds here today caused an excited flurry among observers. Reaching to a height of nearly four feet and defying all efforts of the park gardeners to uproot it, the vivid green interloper reminded fearful spectators of the plague which over ran Los Angeles two years ago. Scientists were reassuring, however, as they pointed out that the giantism of the Los Angeles devil grass was not transmissible by seed and that no stolons or rhizomes of the abnormal plant had any means of traveling to San Diego, protected as it is by the band of salt confining the Los Angeles growth.

  I was even more confident, for I had seen with my own eyes the shootsgrown by Miss Francis from seeds of the inoculated plant. A genuinefreak, this time, I thought, and promptly forgot the item.

  Would have forgotten it, I should say, had I not an hour later receiveda telegram, RETURN INSTANTLY CAN USE YOUR IMPRESSIONS OF NEW GRASSLEFFACASE. I knew from the fact he had only used nine of the ten wordspaid for he considered the situation serious.

  The answer prompted by impulse would, I knew, not be transmitted by thetelegraph company and on second thought I saw no reason why I should nottake advantage of the editor's need. Business was slack and I wasoverworked; a succession of petty annoyances had driven me almost to anervous breakdown and a vacation at the expense of the New Los Angeles_Daily Intelligencer_ sounded pleasantly restful after the serious workof grappling with industrial affairs. Of course I did not need theirpaltry few dollars, but at the moment some of my assets were frozen anda weekly paycheck would be temporarily convenient, saving me the botherof liquidating a portion of my smaller investments.

  Besides, if, as was barely possible, this new growth was in someunbelievable way an extension of the old, it would of course ruin oursales of pemmican to the tourists and it behooved me to be on the spot.I therefore answered: CONSIDER DOUBLE FORMER SALARY WIRE TRANSPORTATION.Next day the great transcontinental plane pouterpigeoned along therunway of the magnificent New Los Angeles airport.

  I was in no great hurry to see the editor, but took a taxi instead tothe headquarters of the American Alpinists Incorporated where there wasfrank worry over the news and acknowledgment that no furtherconsignments of pemmican would be accepted until the situation becamemore settled. I left their offices in a thoughtful mood. Pausing only towire Fles to unload as much stock as he could--for even if this wereonly a temporary scare it would undoubtedly affect the market--I finallydrove to the _Intelligencer_.

  Knowing Le ffacase I hardly expected to be received with eithercordiality or politeness, but I was not quite prepared for the actualsalute. A replica of his original office had been devised, even to theshabby letters on the door, and he was seated in his chair beneath thegallery of cartoons. He began calmly enough when I entered, speaking ina low, almost gentle tone, helping himself to snuff between sentences,but gradually working up into a quite artistic crescendo.

  "Ah, Weener, as you yourself would undoubtedly put it in your inimitableway, a bad penny always turns up. I could not say _canis revertit suamvomitem_, for it would invert a relationship--the puke has returned tothe dog.

  "It is a sad thought that the listless exercise which eventuated in yourbegetting was indulged in by two whose genes and chromosomes united toproduce a male rather than a female child. For think, Weener, if you hadbeen born
a woman, with what gusto would you have peddled your flaccidflesh upon the city streets and offered your miserable dogsbody to thereluctant use of undiscriminating customers. You are the paradigmaticwhore, Weener, and I weep for the physiological accident which condemnsyou to sell your servility rather than your vulva. Ah, Weener, itrestores my faith in human depravity to have you around to attempt yourpetty confidence tricks on me once more; I rejoice to find I had notoverestimated mankind as long as I can see one aspect of it embodied inyour 'homely face and bad complexion,' as the great Gilbert so mildlyput it. I shall give orders to triplelock the pettycash, to count thestampmoney diligently, to watch all checks for inept forgery. Welcomeback to the _Intelligencer_ and be grateful for nature's mistakes, sincethey afford you employment as well as existence.

  "But enough of the friendly garrulousness of an old man whose powers arefailing. Remove your unwholesomelooking person from my sight and conveythe decrepit vehicle of your spirit to San Diego. It is but a gesture; Iexpect no coherent words from your clogged and sputtery pen; but while Iam sufficiently like yourself to deceive the public into thinking youhave written what they read, I am not yet great enough scoundrel to doso without your visiting the scene of your presumed labors. Go--and donot stop on the way to draw expensemoney from the cashier for she hasstrict orders not to pay it."

  Jealousy, nothing but jealousy, I thought, first of my literary abilityand now of my independence of his crazy whims. I turned my backdeliberately and walked slowly out, to show my contempt for hisrantings.

  In my heart, now, there was little doubt the new grass was an extensionof the old and it didnt take more than a single look at the overrun parkto confirm this. The same creeping runners growing perceptibly frominstant to instant, the same brilliant color, the same towering centralmass gorged with food. I could have described it line by line and bladeby blade in my sleep. I wasted no more time gazing at it, but hurriedaway after hardly more than a minute's inspection.

  I could take no credit for my perceptivity since everyone in San Diegoknew as well as I that this was no duplicate freak, but the same, theidentical, the fearsome grass. But a quite understandable conspiracy hadbeen tacitly entered into; the knowledge was successfully hushed untilproperty could be disposed of before it became quite worthless. Theconspiracy defeated itself, however, with so many frantic sellerscompeting against each other and the news was out by the time the firstof my new columns appeared in the _Intelligencer_.

  The first question which occurred to those of us calm enough to escapepanic was, how had the weed jumped the saltband? It was answeredsimultaneously by many learned professors whose desire to break intoprint and share the front page with the terrible grass overcame theirnatural academic reticence. There was no doubt that originally thepeculiar voracity of the inoculated plant had not been inherited; butit was equally uncontroverted that somehow, during the period it hadbeen halted by the salt, a mutation had happened and now every windblowing over the weed carried seeds no longer innocent but bearingembryos of the destroyer.

  Terror ran before the grass like a herald. The shock felt when LosAngeles went down was multiplied tenfold. Now there was no predictablecourse men could shape their actions to avoid. No longer was it possibleto watch and chart the daily advance of a single body so a partiallyaccurate picture could be formed of what might be expected tomorrow.Instead of one mass there were countless ones; at the whim of a chancewind or bird, seeds might alight in an area apparently safe andoverwhelm a community miles away from the living glacier. No place wasout of range of the attack; no square foot of land kept any value.

  The stockmarket crashed, and I congratulated myself on having sent Flesorders to sell. A day or two later the exchanges were closed and,shortly after, the banks. Business came to a practical standstill. Thegreat industries shut down and all normal transactions of daily lifewere conducted by means of barter. For the first time in threequartersof a century the farmer was topdog; his eggs and milk, his wheat andcorn and potatoes he could exchange for whatever he fancied and on hisown terms. Fortunately for starving citydwellers his appetite formanufactured articles and for luxuries was insatiable; theirautomobiles, furcoats, costumejewelry, washingmachines, files of the_National Geographic_, and their periodfurniture left the city flat forthe farm, to come back in the more acceptable form of steaks, butter,fowl, and turnips. The whole elaborate structure of money and creditseemed to disappear overnight like some tenuous dream.

  The frenzied actions of the humanbeings had no effect on the grass. Thesaltband still stood inviolate, as did smaller counterparts hastily laidaround the earlier of the seedborne growths, but everywhere else thegrass swept ahead like a tidalwave, its speed seemingly increased by themonths of repression behind. It swallowed San Diego in a gulp andleaped beyond the United States to take in Baja California in one swiftdownward lick. It sprang upon the deserts, whose lack of water was nodeterrent, now always sending little groups ahead like paratroopers orfifthcolumnists; they established positions till the main body came upand consolidated them. It curled up the high mountains, leaving only thesnow on their peaks unmolested and it jumped over struggling rivers withthe dexterity of a girl playing hopscotch.

  It lunged eastward into Arizona and Nevada, it swarmed north up the SanJoaquin Valley through Fresno and spilled over the lip of the HighSierras toward Lake Tahoe. New Los Angeles, its back protected by theSalton Sea, was, like the original one, subjected to a pincer movementwhich strangled the promising life from it before it was two years old.

  Forced to move again, Le ffacase characteristically demanded the burdenfall upon the employees of the paper, paying them off in scrip on thepoor excuse that no money was available. I saw no future in staying withthis sinking ship and eager to be back at the center of things--Fleswrote me that the large stock of pemmican which had been accumulatingwithout buyers could now be very profitably disposed of--I severed myconnection for the second time with the _Intelligencer_ and returned tomy proper sphere.

  This of course did not mean that I failed to follow each step of thegrass; such a course would have been quite impossible since its everymove affected the life and fortune of every citizen. By some strangefreak it spared the entire coast north of Santa Barbara. Whether it hadsome disinclination to approach saltwater--it had been notably slow inits original advance westward--or whether it was sheer accident, SanLuis Obispo, Monterey and San Francisco remained untouched as the citiesto the south and east were buried under grassy avalanches. This oddmercy raised queer hopes in some: perhaps their town or their statewould be saved.

  The prostration of the country which had begun with the first wave ofpanic could not be allowed to continue. The government moved in andseized, first the banks and then the railroads. Abandoned realestate wasdeclared forfeit and opened to homesteading. Prices were pegged andfarmers forced to pay taxes in produce.

  Although these measures restored a similitude of life to the nation, itremained but a feeble imitation of its previous self. Many of the idlefactories failed to reopen, others moved with painful caution. Goods,already scarce, disappeared almost completely and at the same time areckless disregard of formerly sacred symbols seized upon the people.The grass was coming, so what good was the lot on which they were payinginstallments? The grass was coming, so why gather together the dollarsto meet the interest on the mortgage? The grass was coming--what was theuse of depositing money in the bank which would probably go busttomorrow?

  The inflation would have been worse had it not been for the peggedprices and other stern measures. The glut on the labor market wastremendous and wages reached the vanishing point in a currency whichwould buy little. Suddenly, the United States, which had so long boastedof being the richest country in the world, found itself desperatelypoor.

  Government work projects did little to relieve the suffering of theproletariat. Deaths from malnutrition mounted and the feeble strikes inthe few operating industries were easily and quickly crushed by starvingstrikebreakers ashamed of their deed y
et desperately eager to feed theirhungry families. Riots broke out in New York and Detroit, but the policewere fortunately wellfed and the arms wielding the blackjacks whichcrushed the skulls of the undernourished rioters were stout.

  There was a sweeping revival of organized religion and men too broke toafford the neighborhood movie flocked to the churches. Brother Paul, nowon a national hookup, repeated his exhortations to all Christians,urging them to join their Savior in the midst of the grass. There wasgreat agitation for restraining him; more reserved pastors pointed outthat he was responsible for increasing the national suicide rate, butthe Federal Communications Commission took no action against him,possibly because, as some said, it was cheaper to let a percentage ofthe surplus population find an ecstatic death than to feed it.

  On political maps the United States had lost not one foot of territory.Population statistics showed it harbored as many men, women, andchildren as before. Not one tenth of the national wealth had beendestroyed by the grass or a sixth of the country given up to it, yet ithad done what seven wars and many vicissitudes had failed to do: itbrought the country to the nadir of its existence, to a hopelessdespondency unknown at Valley Forge.

  At this desperate point the federal government decided it could nolonger temporize with the clamor for using atomic power against thegrass. All the arguments so weighty at first became insignificantagainst the insolent facts. It was announced in a Washingtonpressconference that as soon as arrangements could be made the mostfearful of all weapons would be employed.

  _38._ No one doubted the atomicbomb would do the trick, finally andconclusively. The searing, volcanic heat, irresistible penetration,efficient destructiveness and the aftermath of apocalyptic radiationpromised the end of the grass.

  When I say no one, of course I mean no clearthinking person of visionwith his feet on the ground who didnt go deliberately out of his way tolook for the dark side of things. Naturally there were crackpots, asthere always are, who opposed the use of the bomb for various untenablereasons, and among them I was not surprised to find Miss Francis.

  Though her pessimistic and unpopular opinions had been discredited timeand again, the newspapers, possibly to enliven their now perpetuallygloomy columns with a little humor, gave some space to interviews which,with variations predicated on editorial policy, ran something likethis:

  Will you tell our readers what you think of using the atom bomb against the grass?

  I think it at the very best a waste of time; at the worst, extremely dangerous.

  In what way, Miss Francis?

  In every way. Did you ever hear of a chain-reaction, young man? Or radioactivity? Can you conceive, among other possibilities--and mind, this is merely a possibility, a quite unscientific guess merely advanced in the vain hope of avoiding one more folly--of the whole mass becoming radioactive, squaring or cubing its speed of growth, or perhaps throwing before it a lethal band miles wide? Mind you, I'm not anticipating any of this, not even saying it is a probability; but these or similar hazards may well attend this illconsidered venture.

  You speak strongly, Miss Francis. None of the rather fantastic things you predict followed Hiroshima, Nagasaki or Bikini.

  In the first place, I tried, with apparent unsuccess, to make it clear I'm not predicting. I am merely mentioning possibilities. In the second place, we don't know exactly what were the aftereffects of the previous bombs because of a general inability to correlate cause and effect. I only know that in every case the use of the atomic bomb has been followed at greater or lesser intervals by tidal waves, earthquakes and other 'natural' phenomena. Now do not quote me as saying the Hilo tidal wave was the result of the Nagasaki bomb or the Chicagku earthquake, the Bikini; for I didnt. I only point out that they followed at roughly equal intervals.

  Then you are opposed to the bomb?

  Common sense is. Not that that will be a deterrent.

  What would you substitute for it?

  If I had a counteragent to the grass ready I would not be wasting time talking to reporters. I am working on one. When it is found, by me or another, it will be a true counteragent, changing the very structure and habit of _Cynodon dactylon_ as the Metamorphizer changed it originally. External weapons, by definition, can at best, at the very best, merely stop the grass--not render it innocuous. Equals fighting equals produce only deadlocks.

  And so on. The few reputable scientists who condescended to answer herat all and didnt treat her views with dignified silence quicklydemonstrated the absurdity of her objections. Chainreactions andradioactive advanceguard! Sundaysupplement stuff, without the slightestbasis of reasoning; not a mathematical symbol or laboratory experimentto back up these fictional nightmares. And not use external weapons,indeed! Was the grass to be hypnotized then? Or made to change itsbehaviorpatterns through judicious sessions with psychoanalystsstationed along its periphery?

  Whether because of Miss Francis' prophesies or not, it would be futileto deny that a certain amount of trepidation accompanied the decision touse the bomb. Residents of Arizona wanted it dropped in California; SanFranciscans urged the poetic justice and great utility of applying it tothe very spot where the growth originated; all were in favor of thedevastation at the farthest possible distance from themselves.

  Partly in response to this pressure and partly in consideration of otherfactors, including the possibility of international repercussions, theCommission to Combat Dangerous Vegetation decided on one of the leastawesome bombs in the catalogue. Just a little bomb--hardly more than atoy, a plaything, the very smallest practicable--ought to allay allfears and set everyone's mind at rest. If it were effective, a biggerone could be employed, or numbers of smaller ones.

  This much being settled, there was still the question of where toinitiate the attack. Edge or heart? Once more there was controversy, butit lacked the enthusiasm remembered by veterans of the salt argument; acertain lassitude in debate was evident as though too much excitementhad been dissipated on earlier hopes, leaving none for this one. Therewas little grumbling or soreness when the decision was finally confirmedto let fall the bomb on what had been Long Beach.

  When I read of the elaborate preparations being made to cover the greatevent, of the special writers, experts, broadcasters, cameramen, I wasthankful indeed I was no longer a newspaperman, arbitrarily to beordered aloft or sent aboard some erratic craft offshore on the barechance I might catch a comprehensive or distinctive enough glance of theaction to repay an editor for my discomfort. Instead, I sat contentedlyin my apartment and listened to the radio.

  Whether our expectations had been too high or whether all theeyewitnesses became simultaneously inept, I must say the spot broadcastand later newspaper and magazine accounts were uniformly disappointing.It was like the hundredth repetition of an oftentold story. The flash,the chaos, the mushroomcloud, the reverberation were all in preciseorder; nothing new, nothing startling, and I imagine the rest of thecountry, as I did, turned away from the radio with a distinct feeling ofhaving been let down.

  First observation through telescope and by airplanes keeping anecessarily cautious distance, showed the bomb had destroyed a patch ofvegetation about as large as had been expected. Though not spectacular,the bombing had apparently been effective on a comparatively smallsegment and it was anticipated that as soon as it was safe to come closeand confirm this, the action would be repeated on a larger scale. Whilehundreds more of the baby bombs, as they were now affectionately called,were ordered and preparations made systematically to blast the grass outof existence, the aerial observers kept swooping in closer and closerwith cameras trained to catch every aspect of the damage.

  There was no doubt an area of approximately four square miles had beenutterly cleaned of the weed and a further zone nine times that size hadbeen smashed and riven, the grass there torn and mangled--in allprobability deprived of life. Successive reconnoitering showed nocha
nges in the annihilated center, but on the tenth day after theexplosion a most startling observation of the peripheral region wasmade. It had turned a brilliant orange.

  Not a brown or yellow, or any of the various shades of decay whichBermuda in its original form took on at times, but a glowing andunearthly, jewellike blaze.

  The strange color was strictly confined to the devastated edge of thebombcrater; airmen flying low could see its distinction from the rest ofthe mass clear and sharp. In the center, nothing; around it, the weirdorange; and beyond, the usual and accustomed green.

  But on second look, not quite usual, not quite accustomed. Theinoculated grass had always been a shade or two more intense thanordinary _Cynodon dactylon_; this, just beyond the orange, was stillmore brilliant. Not only that, but it behaved unaccountably. It writhedand spumed upward in great clumps, culminating in enormous, overhangingcaps inevitably suggesting the mushroomcloud of the bomb.

  The grass had always been cautious of the sea; now the dazzling growthplunged into the saltwater with frenzy, leaping and building uponitself. Great masses of vegetation, piers, causeways, isthmuses of grassoffered the illusion of growing out of the ocean bottom, linkingthemselves to the land, extending too late the lost coast far out intothe Pacific.

  But this was far from the last aftereffect. Though attention hadnaturally been diverted from the orange band to the eccentric behaviorof the contiguous grass, it did not go unobserved and about a week afterits first change of color it seemed to be losing its unnatural hue andturning green again.

  Not the green of the great mass, nor of the queer periphery, nor ofuninspired devilgrass. It was a green unknown in living plant before; aglassy, translucent green, the green of a cathedral window in themoonlight. By contrast, the widening circle about it seemed subdued andorderly. The fantastic shapes, the tortured writhings, the unnaturalextensions into the ocean were no longer manifest, instead, for milesaround the ravaged spot where the bomb had been dropped, the grass burstinto bloom. Purple flowers appeared--not the usual muddy brown, faintlymauve--but a redviolet, brilliant and clear. The period of generationwas abnormally shortened; seed was borne almost instantly--but the seedwas a sport.

  It did not droop and detach itself and sink into the ground. Instead,tufted and fluffy, like dandelion seed or thistledown, it floated upwardin incredible quantities, so that for hundreds of miles the sky wasobscured by this cloud bearing the germ of the inoculated grass.

  It drifted easily and the winds blew it beyond the confines of thecreeping parent. It lit on spots far from the threatening advance andsprouted overnight into great clumps of devilgrass. All the anxiety andpanic which had gone before was trivial in the face of this new threat.Now the advance was no longer calculable or predictable; at any moment aspot apparently beyond danger might be threatened and attacked.

  Immediately men remembered the exotic growth of flowers which came up tohide some of London's scars after the blitz and the lush plantlifeobserved in Hiroshima. Why hadnt the allwise scientists remembered andtaken them into account before the bomb was dropped? Why had they beenblind to this obvious danger? Fortunately the anger and terror wereassuaged. Observers soon discovered the mutants were sterile, incapableof reproduction. More than that: though the new clumps spread andflourished and grew rapidly, they lacked the tenacity and stamina of theparent. Eventually they withered and dwindled and were in the end nodifferent from the uninoculated grass.

  Now a third change was seen in the color band. The green turneddistinctly blue and the sharp line between it and the rest of the weedvanished as the blueness shaded out imperceptibly over miles into thegreen. The barren spot made by the bomb was covered; the whole mass ofvegetation, thousands of square miles of it, was animated by a surgingnew vigor, so that eastward and southward the rampant tentacles jumpedto capture and occupy great new swaths of territory.

  Triumphantly Brother Paul castigated the bombardiers and urgedrepentance for the blasphemy to avert further welldeserved punishment.Grudgingly, one or two papers recalled Miss Francis' warning. Churchesopened their doors on special days of humiliation and fasting. But formost of the people there was a general feeling of relief; the ultimatein weapons had been used; the grass would wear itself out in good time;meanwhile, they were thankful the effect of the atomicbomb had been noworse. If anything the spirit of the country, despite the great setback,was better after the dropping of the bomb than before.

  I was so fascinated by the entire episode that I stayed by my radiopractically all my waking hours, much to the distress of Button Fles.Every report, every scrap of news interested me. So it was that I caughtan item in a newscast, probably unheard by most, or smiled aside, ifheard. _Red Egg_, organ of the Russian Poultry Farmers, editorialized,"a certain imperialist nation, unscrupulously pilfering the technicaladvance of Soviet Science, is using atomic power, contrary tointernational law. This is intolerable to a peace-loving peopleembracing 1/6 of the earth's surface and the poultrymen of theCollective, _Little Red Father_, have unanimously protested against suchcapitalist aggression which can only be directed against the SovietUnion."

  The following day, _Red Star_ agreed; on the next, _Pravda_ reviewed the"threatening situation." Two days later _Izvestia_ devoted a column to"Blackmail, Peter the Great, Suvarov and Imperialist Slyness."Twentyfour hours after, the Ministerial Council of the Union of SovietRepublics declared a state of war existed--through no action of itsown--between the United States and the Soviet Union.

  _39._ At first the people were incredulous. They could not believe theradio reports were anything but a ghastly mistake, an accidentalgarbling produced by atmospheric conditions. Historians had told themfrom their schooldays of traditional Russian-American friendship. TheRussian Fleet came to the Atlantic coast in 1862 to escape revolutionaryinfection, but the Americans innocently took it as a gesture ofsolidarity in the Civil War. The Communist party had repeated with themonotony of a popular hymntune at a revival that the Soviet Union askedonly to be let alone, that it had no belligerent designs, that it was,as Lincoln said of the modest farmer, desirous only of the land that"jines mine." At no point were the two nations' territories contiguous.

  Agitators were promptly jailed for saying the Soviet Union wasnt--if itever had been--a socialist country; its imperialism stemming directlyfrom its rejection of the socialist idea. As a great imperialist powerbursting with natural resources it must inevitably conflict with theother great imperialist power. In our might we had done what we could tothwart Russian ambition; now they seized the opportunity to disable arival.

  Congressmen and senators shredded the air of their respective chamberswith screams of outrage. In every speech, "Stab in the back" found anhonorable if monotonous place. Zhadanov, boss of the Soviet Union sincethe death of the sainted Stalin, answered gruffly, "War is no minuet. Wedo not wait for the capitalist pigs to bow politely before we rise todefend the heritage of Czar Ivan and our own dear, glorious, inspiring,venerated Stalin. Stab in the back! We will stab the fascist lackeys ofMorgan, Rockefeller and Jack and Heinze in whatever portion of theanatomy they present to us."

  As usual, the recurring prophets who hold their seances betweenhostilities and invariably predict a quick, decisive war--in 1861 theygave it six weeks; in 1914 they gave it six weeks; in 1941 they gave itsix weeks--were proved wrong. They had been overweeningly sure thistime: rockets, guided missiles or great fleets of planes would sweepacross the skies and devastate the belligerents within three hours ofthe declaration of war--which of course would be dispensed with. Not abuilding would remain intact in the great cities nor hardly a civilianalive.

  But three hours after Elmer Davis--heading an immediately revived Officeof War Information--announced the news in his famous monotone, New Yorkand Chicago and Seattle were still standing and so, three days later,were Moscow and Leningrad and Vladivostok.

  Astonishment and unbelief were nationwide. The Empire State, thePalmolive Building, the Mark Hopkins--all still intact? Only whencommentators, rummagin
g nervously among old manuscripts, recalled thesolemn gentlemen's agreement never to use heavierthanaircraft of anydescription should the unthinkable war come, did the public give aheartfelt sigh of relief. Of course! Both the Soviet Union and theUnited States were nations of unstained honor and, rather than recalltheir pledged word, would have suffered the loss of a dozen wars.Everyone breathed easier, necks relaxed from the strain of scanning theskies; there would be neither bombs, rockets, nor guided missiles inthis war.

  As soon as the conviction was established that the country was safe fromthe memory of Hiroshima, panic gave place to relief and for the firsttime some of the old spirit was manifest. There was no rush torecruitingstations, but selectiveservice, operating smoothly except inthe extreme West, took care of mobilization and the war was accepted, ifnot with enthusiasm, at least as an inescapable fate.

  The coming of the grass had not depleted nor unbalanced the country'sresources beyond readjustment, but it had upset the sensitive workingsof the national economy. This was tolerable by a sick land--and thegrass had made the nation sick--in peacetime; but "war is the health ofthe state" and the President moved quickly.

  All large industries were immediately seized, as were the mines andmeans of transportation. A basic fiftyfivehour workweek was imposed. Anew chief of staff and of naval operations was appointed and the youngmen went off to camp to train either for implementing or repellinginvasion. Then came a period of quiet during which both countriesattacked each other ferociously over the radio.

  _40._ In the socialistic orgy of nationalizing business, I wasfortunate; Consolidated Pemmican and Allied Concentrates was left in thehands of private initiative. Better than that, it had not been tieddown and made helpless by the multiplicity of regulations hampering thefew types of endeavor remaining nominally free of regimentingbureaucracy. Opportunity, long prepared for and not, I trust,undeserved, was before me.

  In the pass to which our country had come it seemed to me I could be ofmost service supplying our armed forces with fieldrations. Such anunselfish and patriotic desire one would think easy of realization--as Iso innocently did--and I immediately began interviewing numberlessofficers of the Quartermaster's Department to further this worthy aim.

  I certainly believe every corporation must have its rules, otherwiseexecutives would be besieged all day by timewasters. The United Statesgovernment is surely a corporation, as I always used to say inadvocating election of a business administration, and standardprocedures and regulations are essential. Still, there ought to be alimit to the number and length of questionnaires to fill out and thenumber of underlings to interview before a serious businessman can getto see a responsible official.

  After making three fruitless trips to Washington and gettingexhaustively familiar with countless tantalizing waitingrooms, I becameimpatient. The man I needed to see was a Brigadier General Thario, butafter wasting valuable days and hours I was no nearer reaching him thanin the beginning. I had filled out the necessary forms and stated thenature of my business so often I began to be alarmed lest my hand refuseto write anything else and I be condemned for the rest of my life torepeat the idiotic phrases called for in the blank spaces.

  I am afraid I must have raised my voice in expressing my exasperation tothe young lady who acted as receptionist and barrier. At any rate shelooked startled, and I think pressed a button on her desk. A pinkfaced,whitemustached gentleman came hastily through the door behind her. Thejacket of his uniform fitted snugly at the waist and his bald head wassunburnt and shiny.

  "What's this? What's this? ... going on here?"

  I saw the single star on his shoulderstraps and ventured, "GeneralThario?"

  He hid his white mustache with a forefinger pink as his cheeks. "Yes.Yes. But you must have an appointment to speak to me. That's the rule,you know. Must have an appointment." He appeared extremely nervous andharassed, his eyes darting back to the refuge of his office, but he wasevidently held to the spot by whatever distress animated hisreceptionist.

  "General Thario," I persisted firmly, "I quite appreciate yourviewpoint, but I have been trying for days to get such an appointmentwith you on a matter of vital concern and I have been put off every timeby what I can only describe as redtape. I am sorry to say so, GeneralThario, but I must repeat, redtape."

  He looked more worried than before and his eyes ranged over the room forsome escape. "Know just how you feel," he muttered, "Know just how youfeel. Horrible stuff. Swaddled in it here. Simply swaddled in it.Strangled." He cleared his throat as though to disembarrass it of agarrote. "But, uh, hang it, Mr--"

  "Weener. Albert Weener. President of Consolidated Pemmican and AlliedConcentrates Incorporated."

  "--Well, you know, Mr. Weener ... man your position ... appreciateabsolute necessity certain amount of routine ... keep the cranks out,otherwise swarming with them, simply swarming ... wartime precautions... must excuse me now ... terribly rushed ... glad to have met--"

  Swallowing the rest of the sentence and putting his hand over his mouthlest he should inadvertently regurgitate it, he started for his office."General Thario," I pleaded, "a moment. Consider our positions reversed.I have long since established my identity, my responsibility. I wantnothing for myself; I am here doing a patriotic duty. Surely enough ofthe routine you mention has been complied with to permit me to speak toyou for five or ten minutes. Do for one moment as I say, General, andput yourself in my place. Think of the discouragement you as a citizenwould feel to be hampered, perhaps more than is necessary."

  He took his hand down from his mouth and looked at me out of blue eyesso pale as to be almost colorless. "But hang it, you know, Mr Weener ...highly irregular. Sympathize completely, but consider ... don't likebeing put in such a position ... why don't you come back in themorning?"

  "General," I urged, flushed with victory, "give me ten minutes now."

  He collapsed. "Know just how you feel ... wanted to be out in the fieldmyself ... no desk soldier ... lot of nonsense if you ask me. Come in,come in."

  In his office I explained the sort of contract I was anxious to secureand assured him of my ability to fulfill its terms. But I could see hismind was not intent upon the specifications for fieldrations. Looking upoccasionally from a dejected study of his knees, he kept inquiring, inelliptical, practically verbless questions, how many men my plantemployed, whether I had a satisfactory manager and if a knowledge ofchemistry was essential to the manufacture of concentrates; evading ordiscussing in the vaguest terms the actual business in hand.

  However, he seemed very friendly and affable toward me personally oncethe chill air of the waitingroom had been left behind and as Button Fleshad advised me insistently to entertain without regard to expense anyofficials with whom I came in contact, I thought it politic to invitehim to dinner. He demurred at first, but at length accepted, instructinghis secretary to phone his wife not to expect him home early. Isuggested Mrs Thario join us, but he shook his head, muttering, "Noplace for women, Mr Weener, no place for women." Whether this referredto Washington or the restaurant where we were going or to his lifelargely was not clear.

  Wartime Washington was in its usual chaotic turmoil and it wasimpossible to get a taxi, so we had to walk. But the general did notseem at all averse to the exercise. It seemed to me he rather enjoyedreturning the salutes with the greatest punctilio and flourish. On ourway we came to one of the capital's most famous taverns and I thought Idetected a hesitancy in his stride.

  Now I am not a drinking man myself. I limit my imbibing to an occasionalglass of beer on account of the yeast it contains, which I considerbeneficial. I hope, however, I am no prig or puritan and so I askedcasually if he would care to stop in for an appetizer.

  "Well, now you mention it, Mr Weener ... hum ... fact is ... don't mindif I do."

  While I confined myself to my medicinal beverage the general conducted amost remarkable raid on the bar. As I have hinted, he was in demeanor amild appearing, if not indeed a timid man. In the course of an hour'sconvers
ation no word of profanity, such as is affected by many militarymen, had crossed his lips. The framed photograph of his wife anddaughters on his desk and his respectful references to women indicatedhe was not the type of soldier who lusts for rapine. But seated beforethat dull mahogany bar, whatever inhibitions, whatever conventionalshackles, whatever selfdenials and repressions had been inculcated fellfrom him swiftly and completely. He barked his orders at the bartender,who seemed to know him very well, as though he were addressing a paradeformation of badly disciplined troops.

  Not only did General Thario drink enormously, but he broke all the rulesI had ever heard laid down about drinking. He began with a small, squatglass, which I believe is called an Oldfashioned glass, containing halfcognac and half ryewhisky. He followed this with a tall tumbler--"twelvefull ounces ... none of your eightounce thimbles ... not trifledwith"--of champagne into which the bartender, upon his instructions andunder his critical eye, poured two jiggers of tropical rum. Then hewiped his lips with a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve and began witha serious air on a combination of benedictine and tequila. The more heimbibed, the longer, more complete and more coherent his sentencesbecame. He dropped his harassed air; his abdomen receded, his chestexpanded, bringing to my notice for the first time the rows of ribbonswhich confirmed his earlier assertion that he was not a desk soldier.

  He was sipping curacao liberally laced with applejack when he suggestedwe have our dinner sent in rather than leave this comfortable spot. "Thefact of the matter is, Mr Weener--I'm going to call you Albert if youdon't mind--"

  I said I didnt mind with all the heartiness at my command.

  "The fact of the matter is, Albert, I have devoted my unfortunate lifeto two arts: the military and the potatory. As you may have noticed,most of the miserable creatures on the wrong side of a bar adopt one oftwo reprehensible courses: either they treat drinking as though the aimof blending liquids were to imitate some French chef's fiddlefaddle--adash of bitters, a squirt of orange, an olive, cherry, or onion wrenchedfrom its proper place in the saladbowl, a twist of lemonpeel, sprig ofmint or lump of sugar and an eyedropperful of whisky; or else theyembrace the opposite extreme of vulgarity and gulp whatever rotgut isthrust at them to addle their undiscerning brains and atrophy theirundiscriminating palates. Either practice is foreign to my nature andphilosophy. I believe the happiest combinations of liquors are simpleones, containing no more than two ingredients, each of which should benoble--that is to say, drinkable in its own right."

  He raised his fresh glass, containing brandy and arrack. "No doubt youhave observed a catholicity in my taste; I range through the whole gamutfrom usquebaugh to sake, though during the present conflict for obviouspatriotic reasons, I cross vodka from my list, while as a man born southof the Mason-Dixon Line, sir, I leave gin to Nigras."

  I must say, though somewhat startled by his manner of imbibing, I wasinclined to like General Thario, but I was impatient to discuss thematter of a contract for Consolidated Pemmican. Every time I attemptedto bring the subject round to it he waved me grandly aside. "Dinner," heconfirmed, when the waiters brought in their trays. "Yes; no drink iscomplete without a little bit of the right food to garnish it. Eating inmoderation I approve of; but mark my words, Albert, the man who takes ameal on an empty stomach is digging his grave with his teeth."

  If he would not talk business I could only hope his amiability wouldcarry over till I saw him again in his office tomorrow. I settled downas far as I could, simply to enjoy his company. "You may have beensurprised at my referring to my life as unfortunate, Albert, but it is ajudicious adjective. Vilely unfortunate. I come of a military family,you know; you will find footnotes mentioning the Tharios in the historyof every war this country has had."

  He finished what was in his glass. "My misfortunes, like TristramShandy's, began before my birth--and in the same way, exactly the sameway. My father was a scholar and a gentleman who dreamed his life awayover the campaigns of the great captains instead of attempting to becomea great captain himself. I do not condemn him for this: the organizationof the army is such as to encourage impracticality and inadvertence, butthe consequences were unfortunate for me. He named me after his favoriteheroes, Stuart Hannibal Ireton Thario, and so aloof was he from thevulgarities of everyday life that it was not until my monogram wasordered painted upon my first piece of luggage that the unfortunatecombination of my initials was noted. Hannibal and Ireton promptlysuppressed in the interests of decency, nevertheless at West Point mysurname was twisted by fellow classmates into Lothario, giving it aconnotation quite foreign to my nature. I lived down both vexations onlyto encounter a third. Though Ireton remained successfully concealed, theHannibal leaked out and when, during the World War, I had the misfortuneto lead a company which was decimated"--his hand strayed to the ribbonson his chest--"behind my back the enlistedmen called me CannibalThario."

  He began discussing another drink. "Of one thing I'm resolved: my sonshall not suffer as I have suffered. I did not send him to West Point sohe might win decorations on the field of valor and then be shunted offto sit behind an unsoldierly desk. I broke with tradition when I kepthim from a military career, quite on purpose, just as I was thinking ofhis welfare and not some silly foible of my own when I called him by thesimplest name I could find."

  "What is your son's name?" I was constrained to ask.

  "George," he answered proudly, "George Thario. There is no nickname forGeorge as far as I know."

  "And he's not in the army now?" I queried, more in politeness thaninterest.

  "No, and I don't intend he shall be." The general's pink face grewpinker with his vehemence. "Albert, there are plenty of dunderheads andduffers like me in the country who are good for nothing better thancannonfodder. Let them go and be killed. I'm willing enough--only anidiotic General Staff has booted me into the Quartermaster Corps forwhich I am no more fitted than to run an academy for lady marines--butI'm not willing for a fine sensitive boy, a talented musician likeGeorge to suffer the harsh brutalities of a trainingcamp andbattlefield."

  "The draft ..." I began tentatively.

  "If George had a civilian position in an essential industry--say oneholding a contract with the army for badly needed fieldrations...."

  "I should like to meet your son," I said. "I have been looking aroundfor some time for a reliable manager...."

  "George might consider it." General Thario squinted his glass againstthe light. "I'll have him stop by your hotel tomorrow."

  The little radio behind the bar, which had been mumbling to itself forhours, spoke loudly. "We interrupt this program to bring you anewsflash: Eire has declared war on the Soviet Union. I repeat, war hasbeen declared on the Union of Soviet Republics by Eire. Keep tuned tothis station for further details. We return you now to our regularprogram."

  There was an absent pattering of applause and General Thario stood upgravely, glass in hand. "Gallant little Eire--or, if I may be permittedonce the indulgence of using the good old name we know and love sowell--brave old Ireland. When the world was at war, despite everyprovocation, she stayed peaceful. Now that the world is disgracefullypacific--and you have all heard foreign ministers unanimously declaringtheir countries neutral--so fast did they rush to the microphones thatthey were still panting when they went on the air--when the whole worldwas cautious, Ireland, true to her traditions, joined the just cause.Gentlemen, I give you our fighting ally, Eire."

  Departing from his usual custom, he drank the toast in one gulp, but noone else in the room paid any attention. I considered this lack ofenthusiasm for a courageous gesture quite unworthy and meditated for amoment on the insensitivity into which our people seemed to have sunk.

  As the evening went on, the general grew more and more affable and, ifpossible, less and less reticent. He had, he assured me, been theconstant victim, either of men or of circumstances. At the militaryacademy he had trained for the cavalry only to find himself assigned tothe tank corps. He had reconciled himself, pursued his duties with z
eal,and was shunted off to the infantry, where, swallowing chagrin, he hadled his men bravely into a crossfire from machineguns. For this he gotinnumerable decorations and a transfer to the Quartermaster'sDepartment. His marriage to the daughter of an influential politicianshould have assured peacetime promotion, but the nuptials coincided withan election depriving the family's party of power.

  Now another war had come and he was a mere brigadier pigeonholed in anunimportant office with juniors broadly hinting at his retirement whileclassmates were leading divisions and even army corps to gloriousvictory on the field of battle. At least, they would have been leadingthem to glorious victory if there had been any action at all.

  "Invade," insisted General Thario, becoming sufficiently stirred by hisfervor to lapse into sober incoherence. "Invade them before they invadeus. Aircraft out ... gentlemen's agreement ... quite understand ... well... landingbarges ... Bering Sea ... strike south ... shuttletransports ... drive left wing TransSiberian ... holding operation byright and center ... abc ..."

  No doubt it was a pity he was deprived of the opportunity to try thesetactics. I was one of the few who had not become a military theoreticianupon the outbreak of the war, but to my lay mind his plan soundedfeasible. Nevertheless, I was more interested in the possible contractfor food concentrates than in any strategy, no matter how brilliant. I'mafraid I showed my boredom, for the general abruptly declared it wastime to go home.

  _41._ I was a little dubious that after all the drinking and confidenceshe would remember to send his son around, and to tell the truth, in thecalm morning, I felt I would not be too sorry if he didnt, for he hadnot given me a very high opinion of that young man. What on earthConsolidated Pemmican could do with a musician and a draftevader asgeneralmanager--even if the title, as it must be, were purelyhonorary--I couldnt imagine.

  I had been long up, shaved and breakfasted and had attended to mycorrespondence, before the telephone rang and George Thario announcedhimself at my disposal.

  He was what people call a handsome young man. That is, he was big andburly and slow and his eyelashes were perceptible. His hair was shortand he wore no hat, but lounged about the room with his hands, thumbsout, in his jacketpockets, looking at me vaguely through the curlingsmoke from a bent pipe. I had never seen anyone look less like amusician and I began to wonder if his father had been serious in sodescribing him.

  "I don't like it," he announced abruptly.

  "Don't like what, Mr Thario?" I inquired.

  "Joe to you," he corrected. "Mister from you to me belies ourprospective relationship. Just call me Joe."

  "I thought your name was George."

  "Baptismal--whim of the Old Man's. But it's a stuffy label--noshortening it, you know, so the fellows all call me Joe. Chummier. Don'tlike the idea of evading the draft. Shows a lack of moral courage. Byrights I ought to be a conchie, but that would just about kill the OldLady. She's in a firstclass uproar as it is--like to see me in thefrontlines right now, bursting with dulce et decorum. I don't believe itwould bother the Old Man any if I sat out the duration in a C O camp,but it'd hurt his job like hell and the poor old boy is straining hisguts to get into the trenches and twirl a theoretical saber. So I guessI'm slated to be your humble and obedient, Mr Weener."

  "I'll be delighted to have you join our firm," I said wryly, for I felthe would be a completely useless appendage. In this I am glad to say Idid him an injustice, for though he never denied his essential lack ofinterest in concentrates and the whole process of moneymaking, he provednevertheless--at such times as he chose to attend to his duties--afaithful and conscientious employee, his only faults being lack ofinitiative and a tendency to pamper the workers in the plant.

  But I have anticipated; at the moment I looked upon him only as aliability to be balanced in good time by the asset of his father'sposition. It was therefore with irritation I listened to his insistenceon my coming to the Thario home that afternoon to meet his mother andsisters. I had no desire for purely social intercourse, last evening'souting being in the nature of a business investment and it seemedsuperfluous to be forced to extend courtesies to an entire familybecause of involvement with one member.

  However great my reluctance I felt I couldnt afford to risk givingoffense and so at fouroclock promptly I was in Georgetown, using theknocker of a door looking like all the other doors on both sides of thestreet.

  "I'm Winifred Thario and youre the chewinggum man--no, wait a minute,I'll get it--the food concentrate man who's going to make Joe essentialto the war effort. Do come in, and excuse my rudeness. I'm the youngest,you know, except for Joe, so everybody excuses me." Her straight, blondhair looked dead. The vivacity which lit her windburned face seemed afalse vivacity and when she showed her large white teeth I thought itwas with a calculated effort.

  She led me into a livingroom peopled like an Earlyvictorianconversationpiece. Behind a low table, in a rockingchair, sat a large,fullbosomed woman with the same dead hair and weatherbeaten cheeks, theonly difference being that the blondness of her hair was mitigated bygray and in her face were the tiny broken red lines which no doubt intime would come to Winifred.

  "This is Mama," said Winifred, accenting the second syllable stronglyand contriving at once to be vivacious and reverent.

  Mama inclined her head toward me without the faintest smile, welcomingor otherwise, placing her hand as she did so regally upon the teacozy,as upon a royal orb.

  "Mrs Thario," I said, "I am delighted to meet you."

  Mama found this beneath her condescension.

  "And this is Constance, the general's firstborn," introduced Winifred,still retaining her liveliness despite Mama's low temperature. Constancewas the perfect connectinglink between Winifred and her mother, not yetgray but soon to be so, without Winifred's animation, but with the samevoluntary smile showing the same white teeth. She rose and shook my handas she might have shaken a naughty puppy, with a vigorous sidewise jerk,disengaging the clasp quickly.

  "And this," announced Winifred brightly, "is Pauline."

  To say that Pauline Thario was beautiful would be like saying MountEverest is high. In her, the blond hair sparkled like newly threshedstraw, the teeth were just as white and even, but they did not seem toolarge for her mouth, and her complexion was faultless as a cosmetic ad.She was an unbelievably exquisite painting placed in an appropriateframe.

  And yet ... and yet the painting had a quality of unreality about it, asthough it were the delineation of a madonna without child, or of a nun.There was no vigor to her beauty, no touch of the earthiness or ofblemish necessary to make the loveliness real and bring it home. She didnot offer me her hand, but bowed in a manner only slightly less distantthan her mother's.

  I sat down on the edge of a petitpoint chair, thoroughly illatease. "Youmust tell us about your pills, Mr Weener," urged Winifred.

  "Pills?" I asked, at a loss.

  "Yes, the thingamyjigs youre going to have Joe make for you," explainedConstance.

  Mama made a loud trumpeting noise which so startled me I half rose frommy seat. "Damned slacker!" she exclaimed, looking fiercely right over myhead.

  "Now, Mama--bloodpressure," enjoined Pauline in a colorless voice.

  Mama relapsed into immobility and Winifred went on, quite as if therehad been no explosion. "Are you married, Mr Weener?"

  I said I was not.

  "Then here's our chance for Pauline," decided Winifred. "Mr Weener, howwould you like to marry Pauline?"

  I could do nothing but smile uncomfortably. Was this the sort ofconversation habitually carried on in their circle or were they quitemad? Constance mentioned with apparent irrelevance, "Winifred is sogiddy," and Pauline smiled at me understandingly.

  But Winifred went on, "Weve been trying to marry Pauline off for years,you know. She's wonderful to look at, but she hasnt any sexappeal."

  Mama snorted, "Damned vulgar thing to have."

  "Would you like some tea, Mr Weener?" asked Constance.

  "Tea! He looks l
ike a secret cocacola guzzler to me! Are you an AmericanMr Uh?" Mama demanded fiercely, deigning for the first time to addressme.

  "I was born in California, Mrs Thario," I assured her.

  "Pity. Pity. Damned shame," she muttered.

  I was partially relieved from my uneasiness by the appearance of GeorgeThario, who bounded in, waved lightly at his sisters and kissed hismother just below her hairline. "My respectful duty, Mama," he greeted.

  "Damned hypocrisy. You did your duty youd be in the army."

  "Bloodpressure," warned Constance.

  "Have they made you thoroughly miserable, Mr Weener? Don't mindthem--there's something wrong with all the Tharios except the Old Man.Blood gone thin from too much intermarriage."

  "Just like incest," exclaimed Winifred. "Don't you think incest'sfascinating, Mr Weener? Eugene O'Neill and all that sort of thing?"

  "Morbid," objected Constance.

  "Damned nonsense," grunted Mama.

  "Cream or lemon, Mr Weener?" inquired Constance. Mama, moved by ahospitable reflex, filled a grudging cup.

  "Cream, please," I requested.

  "Turn it sour," muttered Mama, but she poured the cream and handed thecup to Constance who passed it to Pauline who gave it to me with agracious smile.

  "You just mustnt forget to keep Pauline in mind, Mr Weener; she would bea terrific help when you become horribly rich and have to do a lot ofstuffy entertaining."

  "Really, Winifred," protested Constance.

  "Help him to the poorhouse and a damned good riddance."

  I spent another uneasy fifteen minutes before I could decently make mydeparture, wondering whether I hadnt made a mistake in becoming involvedwith the Tharios at all. But there being no question of the solidity ofthe general's position, I decided, since it was not afterall incumbentupon me to continue a social connection with them, to bear with it andconfine my acquaintance as far as possible to Joe and his father.

  _42._ As soon as the contracts were awarded the struggle began to obtainnecessary labor and raw materials. We were straining everything to do apatriotic service to the country in time of war, but we came up againstthe competition for these essentials by ruthless capitalists who had nothought but to milk the government by selling them supplies at anenormous profit. Even with the wholehearted assistance of General Tharioit was an endless and painful task to comply with, break through, orevade the restrictions and regulations thrown up by an uncertain andslowmoving administration, restrictions designed to aid our competitorsand hamper us. Yet we got organized at last and by the time threeRussian marshals had been purged and the American highcommand had beenshaken up several times, we had doubled the capacity of our plant andwere negotiating the purchase of a new factory in Florida.

  I set aside a block of stock for the general, but its transfer was adelicate matter on account of the indefatigable nosiness of thegovernment and I approached his son for advice. "Alberich!" exclaimedJoe incomprehensibly. "Just wrap it up and mail it to him. Mama, Godbless her, takes care of all financial transactions anyway." Anddoubtless with great force, I thought.

  Such directness, I pointed out, might have embarrassing repercussionsbecause of inevitably smallminded interpretation if the facts everbecame public. We finally solved the problem by putting the gift inGeorge Thario's name, he making a will leaving it to the general. Iinformed his father in a guarded letter of what we had done and hereplied at great length and somewhat indiscreetly, as the followingquotation may show:

  "... In spite of pulling every handy and unhandy wire I am stillbilleted on this ridiculous desk. The General Staff is the mostincompetent set of blunderers ever to wear military uniform since BullRun. They've never heard of Foch, much less of Falkenhayn and Mackensen,to say nothing of Rommel, Guderian or Montgomery. They rest idly behindtheir Washington breastworks when the order of the day should be attack,attack, and again attack; keeping the combat entirely verbal, weakeningthe spirit of our forces and waiting supinely for the enemy to bring thewar to us...."

  Although I was too much occupied with the press of business to followthe daytoday progress of hostilities, there was little doubt the generalwas justified in his strictures. The war was entirely static. With fearof raids by marauding aircraft allayed, the only remaining uneasiness ofthe public had been whether the words "heavier than air craft" coveredrobot or V bombs. But when weeks had passed without these dreadfulmissiles whistling downward, this anxiety also went and the countrysettled down to enjoy a wartime prosperity as pleasant, notwithstandingthe fiftyhour week, rationing, and the exorbitant incometax, as thepeacetime panic had been miserable. In my own case Consolidated Pemmicanwas quoted at 38 and I was on my way, in spite of all hamperingcircumstances, to reap the benefits of foresight and industry. Uniqueamong great combats, not a shot had so far been exchanged and everyone,except cranks, began to look upon the academic conflict as an unalloyedbenefit.

  Gradually the war began leaving the frontpages, military analysts foundthemselves next to either the chessproblems, Today's Selected Recipe, orthe weekly horoscope; people once more began to concern themselves withthe grass. It now extended in a vast sweep from a point on the Mexicancoast below the town of Mazatlan, northward along the slope of the RockyMountains up into Canada's Yukon Province. It was wildest at its pointof origin, covering Southern California and Nevada, Arizona and part ofNew Mexico, and it was narrowest in the north where it dabbled withdelicate fingers at the mouth of the Mackenzie River. It had sparedpractically all of Alaska, nearly all of British Columbia, most ofWashington, western Oregon and the seacoast of northern California.

  Why it surged up to the Rockies and not over them when it had conqueredindividually higher mountains was not understood, but people were quickonce more to take hope and remember the plant's normal distaste for coldor think there was perhaps something in the rarefied atmosphere toparalyze the seeds or inhibit the stolons, so preventing furtherprogress. Even through the comparatively low passes it came at such aslow pace methods tried fruitlessly in Los Angeles were successful inkeeping it back. Everyone was quite ready to wipe off the Far West ifthe grass were going to spare the rest of the country.

  General Thario's indiscreet letters kept coming. If anything, theyincreased in frequency, indiscretion, and length as his continuedfrustration in securing a field command was added to his helpless wrathat the generalstaff's ineptitude. "... They have got hold of that oddfemale scientist, Francis," he wrote, "and have made her turn over herformula for making grass go crazy. It's to be used as a war weapon, buthow or where I don't know. Just the sort of silly rot a lot of armchairtheorists would dream up...."

  Later he wrote indignantly: "... They are sending a group of picked mento Russia to inoculate the grasses on the steppes with this Francisstuff. Sheer waste of trained men; bungling incompetence. Why not send aspecially selected group of hypnotists to persuade the Russians to suefor peace? It would be better to have given them Mills bombs and letthem blow up the Kremlin. Time and effort and good men thrown away ..."

  Still later he wrote with unconcealed satisfaction: "... Well, thatsilly business of inoculating the steppes came to exactly nothing. Ourfellows got through of course and did their job, but nothing happened tothe grass. Either Francis gave them the wrong formula (possibly mislaidthe right one in her handbag) or else what worked in California wouldn'tdo elsewhere. She is busy trying to explain herself to a militarycommission right now. For my part they can either shoot her or put herin charge of the WAC. It's of no moment. You can't fight a determinedenemy with sprayguns and formulas. Attack with infantry by way ofSiberia ..."

  _43._ While everyone, except possibly General Thario and others insimilar position, was enjoying the new comradeinarms atmosphere theabortive war had brought on, a sudden series of submarine attacks on thePacific Fleet provided a disagreeable jolt and ended the bloodless stageof the conflict. Tried and proved methods of detection and defensebecame useless; the warships were nothing more than targets for theenemy's torpedoes.


  In quick succession the battleships _Montana_, _Louisiana_, _Ohio_, and_New Hampshire_ were sunk, as were the carriers _Gettysburg_,_Antietam_, _Guadalcanal_, and _Chapultepec_ as well as the cruisers_Manitowoc_, _Baton Rouge_, _Jackson_, _Yonkers_, _Long Beach_,_Evanston_ and _Portsmouth_, to say nothing of the countless destroyersand other craft. Never had the navy been so crippled and the people,presaging correctly a forthcoming invasion, suffered a new series ofterrors which was only relieved by the news of the Russian landings onthe California coast at Cambria, San Simeon and Big Sur.

  "... What did I tell you? What did I tell them, the duffers anddunderheads? We could have been halfway across Asia by now; instead wewaited and hemmed and hawed till the enemy, from the sheer weight of ourinertia, was forced to attack. The whole crew should be courtmartialedand made to study the campaigns of Generals Shafter and Wheeler aspunishment." General Thario's always precise handwriting wavered andtrembled with the violence of his disgust.

  An impalpable war, pregnant with annihilating scientific devices andother unseen bogies was one thing; actual invasion of the sacred soilover which Old Glory flew, and by presumptuous foreigners who couldnteven speak English, was quite another. At once the will of the nationstiffened and for the first time something approaching enthusiasm wasmanifest. Cartoonists, moved by a common impulse, unanimously drewpictures of Uncle Sam rolling up his sleeves and preparing to give thepesky interlopers a good trouncing before hurling them back into thePacific.

  Unfortunately the presence of the grass prevented quick eviction of theunwelcome visitors. Only a small portion of the armed forces was basedon the Pacific coast, because of the logistical problems presented byinadequacies of supply and transportation. Of these only a fractioncould be sent to the threatened places for fear dispersions of the mainbody would prove disastrous if the landings were feints. Thus the enemycame ashore practically unopposed at his original landingpoints andsecured small additional beachheads at Gorda, Lucia, Morro Bay andCarmel.

  East of the grass there were whole armies who had completed basictraining, fit and supple. The obvious answer to the invasion was to loadthem on transports and ship them to the theater of operations.Unfortunately the agreement not to use heavierthanaircraft was aninsuperable bar to this action.

  That the pact had never been designed to prevent nations from defendingtheir soil against an invader was certain; thousands of voices urgedthat we keep the spirit of the treaty and disregard the letter. No onecould expect us to sit idly by and let our homeland be invaded becauseof overfinicky interpretation of a diplomatic document.

  But in spite of this clear logic, the American people were swept by awave of timidity. "If we use airplanes," they argued, "so will theRussians; airplanes mean bombs; bombs mean atombombs. Better to let theRussians hold what advantage their invasion has given them than to haveour cities destroyed, our population wiped out, our descendants--ifany--born with six heads or a dozen arms as a result of radioactivity."

  According to General Thario, for a while it was touchandgo whether thePresident would yield to the men of vision or the others. But in the endapprehension and calculation ordained that every effort must be made toreinforce the defense of the West Coast--except the effective one.

  Of course every dirigible was commandeered and work speeded up on thoseunder construction; troopships, heedless of their vulnerability, rushedfor the Panama Canal; while negotiations were opened with Mexico,looking toward transporting divisions over its territory to a pointsouth of the weed.

  While confusion and defeatism took as heavy a toll of the country'sspirit as an actual defeat on the battlefield, the Russians slowlypushed their way inland and consolidated their positions. The Americanunits offered valiant resistance, but little by little they were drivennorthward until a fairly fixed front was established south of SanFrancisco from the ocean to the bay and a more fluid one from the bay tothe edge of the grass. Army men, like the public, were suspicious of theenemy's apparent contentment with this line, for they reasoned itpresaged further landings to the north.

  General Thario's jubilation contrasted with the common gloom. "At lastthe blunderers have given me active duty. I have a brigade in the ThirdArmy--finest of all. Can't write exactly where I'm stationed, but it isnot far from a wellknown city noted for its altitude, located in amining state. Brigade is remarkably fit, considering, and the men arerearing to go. Keep your ear open for some news--it won't be long...."

  _44._ The news was of the heroic counterlandings. The entire fleet,disdainful of possible submarine action, stood off from the rear of theRussian positions, bombarding them for fortyeight hours preliminary tolanding marines who fought their way inland to recapture nearly half theinvaded territory. Simultaneously the army below San Francisco pushedthe Russians back and made contact at some points with the marines. Theenemy was reduced to a mere foothold.

  But the whole operation proved no more than a rearguard action. AsGeneral Thario wrote, "We are fighting on the wrong continent." Joe waseven broader and more emphatic. "It's a putup job," he complained, "tokeep costplus plants like this operating. If they called off their sillywar (Beethoven down in the cellar during the siege of Vienna expressesthe right attitude) and went home, the country would fall back intodepression, we'd have some kind of revolution and everybody'd be betteroff."

  I had suspected him of being some kind of parlor radical and although hewould doubtless outgrow his youthful notions, it made me uneasy to havea crank in my employ. But beyond urging him to keep his ideas strictlyto himself and not leave any more memopads scribbled over with clefsigns on his desk, I could do nothing, for upon his retention dependedhis father's goodwill--the general's assignment to a fieldcommand hadntaltered the status of our contracts--and we had too many unscrupulouscompetitors to rely solely upon merit for the continuance of our sales.

  George Thario's attitude was symptomatic of the demoralization of thecountry, apparent even during our momentary success. There was no willto victory, and the generalstaff, if one could believe General Thario,was too unimaginative and inflexible to meet the peculiar conditions ofa war circumscribed and shaped by the alien glacier dividing the countryand diverting normal operations into novel channels.

  So the new landings at Astoria and Longview, though anticipated andindeed precisely indicated by the flimsiness of the Russian resistanceto the counteroffensive, caught the highcommand by surprise. "Never wasa military operation more certain," wrote General Thario, "and never wasless done to meet the certainty. Albert, if a businessman conductedhimself like the military college he would be bankrupt in six months."Wherever the fault lay, the American gains were wiped out and theinvaders swept ahead to occupy all of the country west of the grass.

  Boastfully, they sent us newsreels of their entries into Portland andSeattle. They established headquarters in San Francisco and paradedforty abreast down Market Street--renamed Krassny Prospekt. The Russiansalso renamed Montgomery Street and Van Ness after Mooney and Billingsrespectively, but for some reason abandoned these designations almostimmediately.

  But for all their celebrations and 101 gun salutes, this was as far asthey could go; the monstrous growth which had clogged our defense nowsealed the invaders off and held them in an evershrinking sector. Nowcame another period of quiescence in the war, but a period radicallydifferent in temper from the first. There were many, perhapsconstituting a majority, who like George Thario wanted a peace, almostany kind of peace, to be made. Others attempted to ignore the presenceof a war entirely and to conduct their lives as though it did not exist.Still others seemed to regard it as some kind of game, a contest carriedon in a bloodless vacuum, and from these to the newspapers and theWardepartment came the hundreds of plans, nearly all of them entirelyfantastic, for conquering an enemy now unassailably entrenched.

  But while pessimism and lassitude governed the United States theintruders were taking energetic measures to increase their successes. "Ihave been present at the questioning of two spies," reported GeneralThario,
"and I want to tell you the enemy is not going to miss a singleopportunity, unlike ourselves. What they have in mind I cannot guess;they can't fly over the grass any more than we can as long as they wantto conciliate world opinion and I doubt if they can tunnel under it, butthat they intend to do _something_ is beyond question."

  Often the obvious course is the surprising one; since the Russianscouldnt go over or under the grass they decided to march on top of it.They had heard of our prewar snowshoe excursions on its surface and sothey equipped a vast army with this clumsy footgear and set it in motionwith supplytrains on wide skis pulled by the men themselves. Russianingenuity, boasted the Kremlin, would succeed in conquering the grasswhere the decadent imperialists had failed.

  "It is unbelievable--you might even call it absurd, but at least theyare doing something, not sitting twiddling their thumbs. My men wouldgive six months' pay to be as active as the enemy. To be sure they aregrotesque and inefficient--so was the Army of Italy. Imagine sending anarmy--or armies if our reports are correct--on a six hundred mile marchwithout an airforce, without artillery, without any mechanizedequipment whatsoever. Unless, like the Army of Italy, they have aBonaparte concealed behind their lunacy they have no chance at all ofsuccess, but by the military genius of Joseph Eggleston Johnston, if Iwere a younger man and not an American I would like to be with them justfor the fun they are having."

  By its very nature the expedition was composed exclusively of infantrydivisions carrying the latest type of automatic rifle. The fieldcommissaries, the ambulances, the baggagetrains, had to be cut to thebarest minimum and General Thario wrote that evidently because of theimpossibility of taking along artillery the enemy had also abandonedtheir light and heavy machineguns. Against this determined threat,behind the wall of the Rockies, the American army waited with fieldartillery, railway guns, bazookas and flamethrowers. For the first timethere was belief in a Russian defeat if not in eventual Americanvictory.

  But the waiting Americans were not to be given the opportunity forhandtohand combat. Since planes could not report the progress of thesnowshoers over the grass, dirigibles and free balloons drifting withthe wind gave minutetominute reports. Though many of the airships wereshot down and many more of the balloons blown helplessly out of thearea, enough returned to give a picture of the rapid disintegration ofthe invading force.

  Nothing like it had happened to an army since 1812. The snowshoes,adequate enough for short excursions over the edge of the grass, becamesuicidal instruments on a march of weeks. Starting eastward from theirbases in northern California, Oregon and Washington, in militaryformation, singing triumphantly in minor keys, the Slavic steamrollerhad presented an imposing sight. Americans in the occupied area, seeingcolumn after column of closely packed soldiers tramping endlessly up andover the grass, said it reminded them of old prints of Pickett's chargeat Gettysburg.

  The first day's march went well enough, though it covered no more than afew miles. At night they camped upon great squares of tarpaulin and inthe morning resumed their webfooted way. But the night had not provedrestful, for over the edges of every tarpaulin the eager grass hadthrust impatient runners and when the time came to decamp more than halfthe canvases had been left in possession of the weed. The second day'sprogress was slower than the first and it was clear to the observers themen were tiring unduly. More than one threw away his rifle to make themarching easier, some freed themselves of their snowshoes and so after afew yards sank, inextricably tangled into the grass; others lay downexhausted, to rise no more. The men in the balloons could see by the waythe feet were raised that the inquisitive stolons were more and moreentangling themselves in the webbing.

  Still the Soviet command poured fresh troops onto the grass. Profitingperhaps by the American example, they transported new supplies to thearmy by dirigibles, replacing the lost tarpaulins and rifles, daringlysending whole divisions of snowshoers by parachute almost to the easternedge. This last experiment proved too reckless, for enough of theseadventurers were located to permit their annihilation by longrangeartillery.

  "Their endurance is incredible, magnificent," eulogized General Tharioenthusiastically. "They are contending not only with the prospect ofmeeting fresh, unworn troops on our side, but against a tireless enemywho cannot be awed or hurt and even more against their own feelings offear and despair which must come upon them constantly as they getfarther into this green desert, farther from natural surroundings,deeper into the silence and mystery of the abnormal barrier they haveundertaken to cross. They are supermen and only supernatural means willdefeat them."

  But there was plenty of evidence that the general credited the foe witha stronger spirit than they possessed. Their spirit was undoubtedlyhigh, but it could not stand up against the relentless harassment of thegrass. The weary, sodden advance went on, slower and slower; the tollhigher and higher. There were signs of dissatisfaction, mutiny andmadness. Some units turned about to be shot down by those behind, somewandered off helplessly until lost forever. The dwindling of the greatarmy accelerated, airborne replacements dependent on such erratictransport failed to fill the gaps.

  The marchers no longer fired at the airships overhead; they moved theirfeet slowly, hopelessly, stood stockstill for hours or falteredaimlessly. Occasional improvised white flags could be seen, heldapathetically up toward the balloonists. Long after their brave startthe crazed and starving survivors began trickling into the Americanlines where they surrendered. They were dull and listless except for onestrange manifestation: they shied away fearfully from every living plantor growth, but did they see a bare patch of soil, a boulder or stretchof sand, they clutched, kissed, mumbled and wept over it in a veryfrenzy.

  _45._ But the catastrophic loss of their great armies was not all theenemy had to endure. As the grass had stood our ally and swallowed theattackers, helping us in a negative fashion as it were, it now turnedand became a positive force in our relief. Unnoticed for months, it hadcrept northwestward, filching precious mile after mile of the hostilefoothold. Now it spurted ahead as it had sometimes done before, at afurious pace, to take over the coast as far north as the Russian River,which now doubled the irony of its name, and added thousands of squaremiles to its area at the enemy's expense. It surged directly westwardtoo, making what was left of the invader's foothold precarious in theextreme.

  The stockmarket boomed and the country went wild with joy at the news ofthe Soviet defeats. At the darkest moment we had been delivered byforces outside ourselves, but still indubitably American. Hymns ofpraise were sung to the grass as the savior of the nation and in a burstof gratitude it was declared a National Park, forever inviolate.Rationing restrictions were eased and many industries were sensiblyreturned to private ownership. Good old Uncle Sam was unbeatableafterall.

  But if the Americans were jubilant, the Russians were cast into deepestgloom. Accustomed to tremendous wartime losses of manpower, they had atfirst taken the news stoically, interpreting it as just another defeatto be later redeemed by pouring fresh troops and then more fresh troopsafter those which had gone down. But when they realized they had lostnot divisions but whole armies, that they had suffered a greater blowthan any in their history, that their reserve power was little greaterthan the armies remaining to the Americans, and finally that the grass,the foe which had dealt all these grievous blows, was rapidly wiping outwhat remained of their bridgehead, they began to murmur against the waritself.

  "Under our dear little Uncle Stalin," they said, "this would never havetaken place. Our sons and brothers would not have been sent to die sofar away from Holy Mother Russia. Down with the enemies of Stalin. Downwith the warmongering bureaucracy."

  The Kremlin hastened to assure the population it was carrying out thewishes of the sainted Stalin. It convinced them of the purity of itsmotives by machinegunning all demonstrators and executing after publictrials all Trotskyite-fascist-American saboteurs and traitors. For somereason these arguments failed to win over the people and on November 7 anew slogan was heard,
"Long live Stalin and Trotsky," which proved sopopular that in a short time the entire bureaucracy was liquidated, theSoviet Union declared an unequivocal workers' state, the army replacedby Redguards, the selling of Soviet bonds decreed a contravention ofsocialist economy, wages of all were equalized, and the wordstakhanovism erased from all Russian dictionaries.

  No formal peace was ever made. Neither side had any further appetite forwar and though newspapers like the _Daily Intelligencer_ continued formonths to clamor for the resumption of hostilities, even to usingaircraft now that there was less danger of reprisal, both countriesseemed content to return quietly to the status quo. The only results ofthe war, aside from the tremendous losses, was that in America the grasshad been unmolested for a year, and the Soviet Union had a newconstitution. One of the peculiar provisions of this constitution wasthat political offenders--and the definition was now severely limited,leaving out ninetynine percent of those formerly jeoparded--shouldhenceforth expiate their crimes by spending the term of their sentencegazing at the colossal and elaborate tomb of Stalin which occupied thecenter of Red Square.

  _46._ General Stuart Thario, rudely treated by an ungrateful republic,had the choice of a permanent colonelcy or retirement. I have alwaysthought it was his human vanity, making him cling to the title ofgeneral, which caused him to retire. At any rate there was no difficultyin finding a place for him in our organization, and if his son's salaryand position were reduced in consequence, it was all in the family, asthe saying goes.

  One of the happy results of our unique system of free enterprise was therewarding of men in exact proportion to their merits and abilities. Thewar, bringing disruption and bankruptcy to so many shiftless andshortsighted people, made of Consolidated Pemmican one of the country'sgreat concerns. The organization welcoming General Thario was fardifferent from the one which had hired his son. I now had fourteenfactories, stretching like a string of lustrous pearls from Quebec downto Montevideo, and I was negotiating to open new branches in Europe andthe Far East. I had been elected to the directorship of severalimportant corporations and my material possessions were enough toconstitute a nuisance--for I have always remained a simple, literarysort of fellow at heart--requiring secretaries and stewards to lookafter them.

  It is a depressing sidelight on human nature that the achievement ofeminence brings with it the malice and spite of petty minds and no oneof prominence can avoid becoming the target of stupid and unscrupulousattack. It would be pointless now to go into those carping and unjustaccusations directed at me by irresponsible newspaper columnists.Another man might have ignored these mean assaults, but I am naturallysensitive, and while it was beneath my dignity to reply personally Ithought it perhaps one of the best investments I could make to add anewspaper to my other properties.

  Now I am certainly not the sort of capitalist portrayed by cartoonistsin the early part of the century who would subvert the freedom of thepress by handpicking an editor and telling him what to say. I think theproof of this as well as of my broadmindedness is to be found in thefact that the paper I chose to buy was the _Daily Intelligencer_ and theeditor I retained was William Rufus Le ffacase. The _Intelligencer_ hadlost both circulation and money since it had, so to speak, no home base.But moved perhaps by sentiment, I was not deterred from buying it forthis reason, and anyway it was purchasable at a more reasonable figureon this account.

  Small circulation or no, it--or rather Le ffacase himself--stillpossessed that intangible thing called prestige and I was satisfied withmy bargain. Le ffacase showed no reluctance--as why indeed shouldhe?--to continue as managingeditor and acted toward me as though therehad never been any previous association, but I did not object to thisharmless eccentricity as a smallerminded person might have.

  As publisher I named General Thario. I never knew exactly what purpose apublisher serves, but it seemed necessary for every newspaper to haveone. Whatever the duties of the office, it left the general plenty oftime to attend to the concerns of Consolidated Pemmican. I fed the paperjudiciously with money and it was not long before it regained most ofthe circulation it had lost.

  _47._ There was no doubt the grass, our ally to such good purpose in thewar, had definitely slowed down; now it was looked upon as a fixture, apart of the American heritage, a natural phenomenon which had outlivedits sensational period and come to be taken for granted. Botanistspointed out that _Cynodon dactylon_, despite its ability to sheatheitself against a chill, had never flourished in cold areas and there wasno reason to suppose the inoculated grass, even with its abnormalmetabolism, could withstand climates foreign to its habit. It was trueit had touched, in one place, the arctic tundra, but it was confidentlyexpected this excursion would soon cease. The high peaks of the Rockieswith the heavy winter snowdrifts lying between them promised nopermanent hospitality, and what seeds blew through the passes andlighted on the Great Plains were generally isolated by saltbands, andsince they were confined to comparatively small clumps they were easilywiped out by salt or fire. To all appearance the grass was satiated andcontent to remain crouching over what it had won.

  Only a minority argued that in its new form it might be infinitelyadaptable. Before, when stopped, it had produced seeds capable ofbearing the parent strain. So now, they argued, it would in timeacclimate itself to more rigorous temperatures. Among these pessimists,Miss Francis, emerging from welldeserved obscurity, hysterically rangedherself. She prophesied new sudden and sweeping advances and demandedmoney and effort equal to that expended in the late war be turned tocombating the grass. As if taxes were not already outrageously high.

  Those in authority, with a little judicious advice from persons ofstanding, quite properly disregarded her querulous importunities. Thewhole matter of dealing with the weed was by now in the hands of apermanent body, the Federal Disruptions Commission. This group had spentthe first six months of its existence exactly defining and asserting itsjurisdiction, which seemed to spread just as the vegetation calling itinto being did; and the second six months wrangling with the FederalTrade Commission over certain "Cease and Desist" orders issued to firmsusing allusions to the grass on the labels of their products, therebyimplying they were as vigorous, or of as wide application, as therepresentation. The Disruptions Commission had no objection in principleto this castigation; they merely thought it should have come from theirregulatory hands.

  But with the end of the war a new spirit animated the honorable membersof the commission and as a token of revived energy they issued a sterndirective that no two groups engaged in antigraminous research were topool their knowledge; for competition, the commission argued in thesixtyseven page order, spurred enthusiasm and the rivalry betweenworkers would the sooner produce a solution. Having settled thisbasically important issue they turned their attention to investigatingthe slower progress of the grass to determine whether it was permanentor temporary and whether its present sluggishness could be turned togood account. As a sort of side project--perhaps to show the wideness oftheir scope--they undertook as well to study the reasons for the failureof the wartime inoculation of the steppes as contrasted with theoriginal too successful California one. They planned a compilation oftheir findings, tentatively scheduled to cover a hundred and fortysevenfoliovolumes which would remain the basic work for all approaching theproblem of attacking the grass; and as an important public figure whohad some firsthand knowledge of the subject they requested me to visit,at my own expense, the newest outposts of the weed and favor them withmy observations. I was not averse to the suggestion, for the authorityof the commission would admit me to areas closed to ordinary citizensand I was toying with the idea it might be possible in some way to usethe devilgrass as an ingredient in our food products.

  _48._ George Thario having shown in many ways he was growing stale onthe job and in need of a vacation, I decided to take him with me.Besides, if the thought of using the weed as a source of cheaprawmaterial came to anything, the engagement of his interest at an earlystage would increase his usefulness. B
efore setting out for the field Iread reports of investigators on the spot and was disquieted to note aunanimous mention of new stirrings on the edges of the green glacier. Idecided to lose no time and we set out at once in my personal plane fora mountain lodge kindly offered by a business acquaintance. Here, forthe next few weeks, keeping in touch with my manifold affairs only bytelephone, Joe and I devoted ourselves to observing the grass.

  Or rather I did. George Thario's idea of gathering data differedradically from mine--I feel safe to say, as well as from that of almostany other intelligent man. In a way he reminded me of the cameramanSlafe in his brooding obliviousness to everything except the grass; butSlafe had been doing a job for which he was being paid, whereas Joe wasonly yielding to his own mood. For hours he lay flat on his belly,staring through binoculars; at other times he wandered about the edge,looking at, feeling, and smelling it and once I saw him bend down andnibble at it like a sheep.

  "You know, A W," he observed enthusiastically--he always called me "A W"with just enough of a curious intonation to make it doubtful whether theuse of the initials was respectful or satirical--"you know, A W, Iunderstand those fellows who went and chucked themselves into the grass.It's sublime; it has never happened in nature before. Ive read newspaperand magazine accounts and either the writers have no eyes or else theylie for the hell of it. They talk about the 'dirty brown' of theflowers, but A W, Ive seen the flowers myself and theyre a vividglorious purple. Have you noticed the iridescent sparkle when the windripples the blades? All the colors of the spectrum against thebackground of that marvelous green."

  "There's nothing marvelous about it," I told him a little irritably."It used to be really green, a bright, even color, but up here whereit's high and cold it doesnt look much different from ordinarydevilgrass--dirty and ugly." I thought his enthusiasm distinctly out ofplace in the circumstances.

  He did not seem to hear me, but went on dreamily, "And the sounds itmakes! My God, A W, a composer'd give half the years of his life toreproduce those sounds. High and piercing; soft and muted; creatingtonepoems and etudes there in its lonely grandeur."

  I have spoken before of the noise produced by the weed, a thunderouscrackling and snapping attributable to its extraordinary rate of growth.During its dormancy the sound had ceased and, in the mountains at least,was replaced by different notes and combinations of notes as the windblew through its culms and scraped the tough stems against each other.Occasionally these ululations produced reflections extremely pleasing,more often it hurt the ears with a shrieking discordance; but even atits best it fell far short, to my mind--and I suppose I may say I'm assensitive to beauty as anybody--of meriting Joe's extravagantrhapsodies.

  But he was entranced beyond the soberness of commonsense. He fillednotebooks, those thick pulppapered volumes which children are supposedto use in school but never do, with his reactions. In idle moments whenhe was away, I glanced through them, but for the most part they wereincoherent. Meterless poems, lists of adjectives, strainedinterpretations of the actions of the grass, and many musical notationswhich seemed to get no farther than a repetitive and faltering start.

  I reproduce a few pages of the less chaotic material for what it isworth: "The iceage drove the Cromagnon from the caves which prophesiedCnossus and Pithom and the Temple of Athena in the Acropolis. Thisgrass, twentiethcentury ice, drives magnates from their twentyroomvillas to their twentyroom duplexes. The loss was yesterday's. WaltWhitman.

  "For it is the animals. Cows and pigs, horses, goats, sheep and rabbitsabandoned by the husbandman, startled, puzzled; the clock with thebroken mainspring running backward. The small game: deer, antlered,striped, and spotted; wildsheep, _ovis poli_, TeddyRooseveltshot andAudubonprinted, mountaingoats leaping in terror to hazardous safety onbabel's top, upward to the pinpoint where no angels dance. But notalone.

  "Meat and meateater, food and feeder, predator and prey; foxes, lynx,coyotes, wolves, wildcats, mountainlion (the passengerpigeon's gone, thedung they pecked from herds thick as man born and man yet to be bornlies no more on the plains, _night and day we traveled, but the birdsoverhead gave cover from the sun and the buffalo before us stretchedfrom the river to the hills_), driven by the ice not ice, but livinggreen, up and up. Pause here upon this little shelf to nibble bark, tomate and bear; to snarl and claw and rend and suck hot blood from movingjugularvein; and then move again upward with docile hoof or else retreatwith lashing tail and snarling fang. Biter and bitten transfused withfear, the timberline behind, the snow alone welcoming, ironically theglacier meets another glacier and only glacier gives refuge to glacier'shunted.

  "Here little islands on the peaks. Vegetation's sea is death creepingupward to end at the beginning. The carnivores, whippedtailed, seek thetop, ambition's pinnacle, surveying nothing. Tomorrow is for man, thelower mind is reasonable and ponders food and dung and lust, soobstinate the padclaw prowls higher till nothing's left but pedestal andwould then wing, but being not yet man can only turn again.

  "The ruminants, resigned, nibble at the edges of their death, convertingdeath to life, chewing, swallowing, digesting, regurgitating anddigesting again inescapable fate. Reluctant sustenance. Emptybellied,the pointed teeth descend again to take their food at secondhand, to goback sated, brown blood upon the snow and bits of hide and hair,gnawedat bones, while fellows, forgetting fear, remaining stoic, eat,stamp and stamp without impatience and eat again of that which hascondemned them.

  "Learned doctor, your addingmachine gives you the answer: so manycarnivores, so many herbivores, the parallel dashes introduceextinction. Confusedly the savor of Abel's sacrifice was sweet to Hisnostrils, not Cain's fruits. So is the mind confounded. Turning anddevouring each other over prostrate antlers the snarlers die, theirfurry hides bloat and then collapse on rigid bones to make a place forcurious sniffings and quick retreat in trampled snow. There is novictory without harshness, no hope in triumph. The placid ruminantslive--the conquerors have conquered nothing.

  "The grass comes to the edge of the snow; they eat and fill their meagerbellies, they chew the cud and mate and calve and live in wretchedunawareness of the heat of glory and death. So is justice done and mercyand yet not justice and yet not mercy. Who was victor yesterday is notvictor today, but neither is he victim. Who was victim yesterday is notvictor, but neither is he victim...."

  _49._ In all this confused rambling I thought there might be a curiousand interesting little observation about animal migration--if one couldtrust the accuracy of an imagination more romantic than factual--and Ireduced it to some kind of coherence and added it not only to my reportfor the Federal Disruptions Commission, but for the dispatches I foundtime to send in to the _Intelligencer_. I hardly suppose it is necessaryto mention that by now my literary talents could no longer be denied orignored and that these items were not edited nor garbled but appearedexactly as I had written them, boxed and doubleleaded on page one.Though the matter was really trivial and in confessing it I don't mindadmitting all of us are subject to petty vanities I was gratified tonotice too that Le ffacase had the discernment to realize how much thepublic appreciated my handling the news about the grass, for headvertised my contributions lavishly.

  In my news stories I could tell no less than the full truth, which wasthat the grass, after remaining patriotically dormant throughout the warexcept for the spurt northward to destroy the remnants of the invadinghost, had once more set out upon the march. The loss of color I hadpointed out to Joe was less apparent each day of our stay as the oldvividness revived with its renewed energy and the sweet music whichentranced him gave place to the familiar crackling, growing louder witheach foot it advanced down the slope, culminating every so often inthunderous explosions.

  For down the thousand mile incline of the Mississippibasin it waspouring with accelerating tempo, engulfing or driving everything beforeit. It was the old story of the creeping stolons, the steppedup tangledmass and the great, towering bulk behind; the falling forward and thenthe continued headway. Once more the
eastbound trains and highwaysclogged with refugees.

  My affairs not permitting a longer stay, I returned to New York, but Icould not pry Joe from his preoccupation. "A W," he argued, "I'd be nomore use to Consolidated Pemmican right now than groundglass in a hamsandwich. My backside might be in a swivelchair, but my soul would beright up here. It's Whitman translated visibly and tangibly, A W, 'Comelovely and soothing death, undulate round and round.' Besides, youve gotthe Old Man now, he's worth more to you than I ever will be; he lovesbusiness. It's just like the army--without a doddering old generalstaffto pull him back every time he gets enthusiastic."

  If anyone else in my organization had talked like this I would havefired him immediately, but I was sure down underneath his aestheticposes and artistic pretensions there was a foundation of goodcommonsense inherited from the general. Give the boy his head, Ithought; let him stay here and rhapsodize till he gets sick of it; he'llcome back the better executive for having got it out of his system.Also, as he himself pointed out, I had his father to rely on and he wasa man to whip up production if ever there was one.

  _50._ The chief purpose of my visit to the grass was, at leastmomentarily, a failure. There was little point sampling and analyzingthe weed for its possible use as an ingredient in a food concentrate ifit were impossible to set up a permanent place to gather and process it.I won't say I considered my time wasted, but its employment had not beenprofitable.

  But even immersed in the everexpanding affairs of Consolidated Pemmicanand Allied Industries, as we now called the parent company, I could notget away from the grass. Each hour's eastward thrust was reported indetail by an hysterical radio and every day the newspapers printed mapsshowing the newly overrun territory. Once more the grass was the mostprominent thought in men's minds, not only over the land of its being,but throughout the world. Scientists of every nationality studied it atfirsthand and only strict laws and rigid searches by customs inspectorsprevented the importation of specimens for dissection in their ownlaboratories.

  The formula of Miss Francis, now at length revealed in its entirety, wasdiscussed by everyone. There was hardly a man, woman or child who didnot dream of finding some means to destroy or halt the grass and therebymake of himself an unparalleled benefactor. A new crop of suggestionswas harvested by the _Intelligencer_; in addition to the old theyincluded such expedients as reinoculating the grass with theMetamorphizer in the hope either of its cannibalistically feeding uponitself or becoming so infected with giantism as to blow up andburst--the failure of the experiment on the Russian steppes was ignoredor forgotten by these contributors; building barriers of dryice; and theuse of infrared lamps.

  One of the proposals which tickled the popular imagination was a planfor vast areas to be roofed and glassenclosed, giant greenhouses tooffer refuge for mankind in the very teeth of the grass. Artesian wellscould be sunk, it was argued, power harnessed to the tides of the seaand piped underground, the populace fed by means of concentrates orhydroponic farming. Everyone--except those in authority, the ones whowould have to approve the expenditure of the vast sums necessary--thoughtthere was something in the idea, but nothing was done about it.

  Many, believing physical means could be of little avail, suggestedmetaphysical ones, and these were always punctiliously printed by the_Intelligencer_. They ranged from disregarding the existence of the weedand carrying on ordinary life as though it presented no threat, throughHolding the Correct Thought, praying daily for its miraculousdisappearance, preferably at a simultaneous moment, to reorganizing thespiritual concepts of the human totality.

  _51._ But even without the newspapers George Thario would have kept meinformed. "Piteous if not too comprehensive for small emotions," hewrote in a letter only a little more intelligible than the stuff in hisnotebooks. "Yesterday I stopped by a small farm or ranch as localgrandiloquence everseeking purple justification has it here. Submarginalland the tabulating minds of governmentofficials (spectacles precise onnosebridge, daily ration of exlax safe in briefcase) would have labeledit, sitting in expectant unease on hilltops and the uncomfortable slopesbetween. Dryfarming; the place illegally acquired from cattlerange (moreproper and more profitable) by nester grandsire; surviving drought andduststorm, locust, weevil, and straying herds; feeding rachitic kids,dull women and helpless men for halfacentury.

  "The Farm Resettlement Administration would have moved them to fatterground a hundred times, but blindly obstinate they held to what wastheirs and yet not theirs. In the frontseat the man and wife and whatremained of quick moments of dropjawed ecstasy, in back unwieldlychickencoop, slats patched with bits of applebox and wire, weatheredgray; astonished cocks crowing out of time and hens heads down. Hitchedbehind, the family cow, stiffribbed and emptyuddered. The grass, deaflover, had seized the shack, its fingers curled the solid door, bodypressed forward for joyful rape. The nesters don't look back but pantahead; the bumping of the car accommodates the cow.

  "Ive had to leave the lodge of course and spend my nights in a thinhouse with a roof shaped like two playingcards, with the misleadingsign, in punishment crippled, half fallen from its support, 'TouristsAccommodated' (if accommodation be empty spaces with mottoes andporcelain pisspots then punishment was unrighteous). I shall move onsoon, perhaps for the worse since there is green now, beneath the blue.

  "If I can ever come away I shall, but I'd not miss this gladiator show,this retiarii swing.

  "Give my best to the Old Boy--tell him I'd write direct, but familyfeeling makes it hard. Joe."

  I showed the letter to the general, expecting him perhaps to be annoyedby Joe's instability, but he merely said, "Boy shouldnt be wasting histalents ... put it in sound ... orchestrate it."

  Just as Joe's enthusiasm covered only one aspect of the grass so hisretreat from lodge to wayside hostel, to city hotel, embraced only aminute sector of the great advance. Neither moral nor brute force slowedthe weed. It clutched the upper reaches of the Rio Grande and ran downits course to the Gulf of Mexico like quicksilver in a brokenthermometer. It went through Colorado, Oklahoma and Kansas; it nibbledat the forks of the Platte; it left behind the Great Salt Lake like achip diamond lost in an enormous setting.

  There is no benefit to be derived from looking at the darker side ofthings and indeed it is a universal observation that there is nomisfortune without its compensation. The loss of the great cattlegrazingareas of the West increased the demand for our concentrated foods by thehundredfold. We paid no duty on the products shipped in from our SouthAmerican factories for they competed only with ourselves and we did thecountry the humanitarian service of preventing a famine by rushingcarload after carload westward, rising above all thoughts of petty gainby making no increase whatever in our prices despite the expandingdemand.

  _52._ About this time it became indisputable that Button Gwynnet Fleswas no longer of value to Consolidated Pemmican. His Yankee shrewdnessand caution which enabled him to run the corporation when it was merelya name and a quotation on the stockmarket had the limits of its virtues.He was extraordinarily provincial in outlook and quite unable to see theconcern on a world scale. In view of our vast expansion such narrownesshad become an unbearable hindrance.

  I had permitted him to hold a limited number of shares and to actnominally as secretary in order to comply with the regulations of theSecurity and Exchange Commission, but now it was expedient to add to ourofficers directors of other companies whose fields were complementary toours. Besides, in General Thario I had a much abler assistant and so,perhaps reluctantly because of my oversensitivity, I displaced Fles andmaking the general president of the corporation I accepted the post ofchairman of the board.

  I must say he took a perfectly natural business move with unbecomingillgrace. "It was mine, Mr Weener, you know it was mine and I did notprotest when you stole it; I worked loyally and unselfishly for you. Itisnt the money, Mr Weener, really it isnt--it's the idea of being thrownout of my own business. At least let me stay on the Board of Directors;youll never have any trouble
from me, I promise you that."

  It distressed me to reject his abject plea, but my hands were tied by mydevotion to the welfare of the company. Besides, he annoyed me by hispalpably untrue reference to what had been a legitimate transaction,never giving a thought to my generosity in not exposing his chicanery,nor the fact that the dummy he manipulated bore no resemblance whateverto the firm I had brought by my own effort to its present size.

  Leaving matters in the able hands of General Thario, after warning Joehe had better soon return to his father's assistance, I went abroad toarrange for wider European representation. There I found a curiouseagerness to be of help to me and almost fawning servility antipatheticto my democratic American notions. Oddly enough, the Europeans lookedupon the United States as a doomed country, thinking I, like somemembers of our wealthier classes, had come to escape disruption anddislocation at home. Only in England did I find the belief prevalentthat the Americans would somehow muddle through because afterall theyrethe same sort of chaps we are, you know.

  After a highly successful trip I returned home the same day the Grassreached the headwaters of the Mississippi.

  _53._ William Rufus Le ffacase astonished me, as well as everynewspaperman in the country by resigning as editor of the _DailyIntelligencer_, a post he had held before many of its reporters wereborn. When I phoned him to come to my office and explain himself herefused, in tones and manner I had not heard from any man since the dayswhen I had wasted my talents as a subordinate. Having none of thepettiness of pride which makes some men fearful of their position, sincehe would not come to my office, I went to his. There he shocked me forthe third time: a high, glossy collar, a flowing and figured cravatconcealed the famous diamond stud, while instead of the snuffbox hishands hovered over a package of cheap cigarettes.

  "Weener," he rasped, jettisoning all those courtesies to which I hadbecome accustomed, "I never thought I'd be glad to see your vapid faceagain, unless on a marble slab in some city morgue, but now youre here,moneybags slapping the insides of your thighs in place of the scrotumfor which you could have no possible use, I am delighted to tell you inperson to take my paper--my paper, sir, note that well, for all yourdirty pawings could not make it anything but mine--and supposit it. Ihope it frets you, Weener, for the sake of your sniveling but immortalsoul, I sincerely hope it rasps you like a misplaced hairshirt. You willget some miserable lickspittle to take my place, some mangy bookkeepingpimp with a permanentwaved wife and three snottynosed brats, but thespirit and guts of the _Intelligencer_ depart with W R Le ffacase."

  I disregarded both his illmanners and his bombast. "What's the matter,Bill?" I asked kindly, "Is it more money? You can write your own ticket,you know. Within reason, of course."

  His fingers looked for the snuffbox, but found only the cigarettes whichhe inspected puzzledly. "Weener, no man could do you justice. You arethe bloody prototype of all the arselickers, panders, arsonists,kidnapers, cutthroats, pickpockets, abortionists, pilferers, cheats,forgers, sneakthieves, sharpers and blackmailers since Jacob swindledhis brother. Do not fawn upon me little man, I am too old to want womenor money. The sands are running out and I shall never now read theimmortable Hobbes, but I'll not die in your bloody harness. In me you donot see the man who picked up the torch of Franklin and Greeley and Danawhere Henry Watterson dropped it. Loose of your gangrenous chains, youbehold the freelance correspondent of the North American NewspaperAlliance, the man who will devote his declining years to reporting inthe terse and vivid prose for which he is justly famous the progress ofthe grass which strangles the country as you have tried to strangle me."

  Again I put personal feelings aside. "If your mind is really made up,we'll want your stuff for the _Intelligencer_, Bill."

  "Sir, you may want. I hope the condition persists."

  There being no profit in arguing with a madman, I made arrangements toreplace him immediately. I reproduce here, not for selfjustification,which would be superfluous, but merely for what amusement it may afford,one of his accounts which appeared in the columns of so many third andfourth rate newspapers. I won't say it shows the decay of a oncepossibly great mind, but it certainly reveals that the _Intelligencer_suffered no irreparable loss.

  "Today at Dubuque, Iowa, the Mississippi was crossed. Not by redmen incanoes, nor white on logs or clumsy rafts, nor yet by multiwheeledlocomotives gliding over steel bridges nor airplanes so high the widestream was a thread below. Nature and devastation, hand in hand, for themoment one and the same, crossed it today as Quantrell or Kirby Smith orNathan Bedford Forrest crossed it, sabers glittering, so many forgottenyears ago. But if the men in gray and butternut raided a store or burneda tavern they thought it a mighty victory and went home rejoicing; thegreen invader is an occupier and colonizer, come to remain for all time,leaving no town, no road, no farm where it has passed.

  "A few weeks ago Dubuque was still here, quiet, old and pleasant, thebutt of affectionate jokes, the Grass still miles away, the populationstill hopeful of salvation. And then, because of the panic, the franticscurry to save things once valuable and now only valued, no one noticedwhen a betraying wind blew seeds beyond the town, over the river, tofind receptive soil on the Wisconsin side. The seeds germinated, theclump flourished. It cut the highway and reached down the banks into theMississippi, waiting. And while it waited it built up greater bulk foritself, behind and beside. Each day it pushed a little farther towardmidstream, drowning its own foremost runners so those behind might havesolidity to advance upon.

  "Meanwhile from the west the continent imposed upon a continent camecloser. The other day Dubuque went, its weathered bricks and immaturestucco alike obliterated. The Grass ran out like a bather on a coldmorning, hastening to the water before timidity halts him. Although Iwas watching I could not tell you at what exact instant the gap wasclosed, at what moment the runners from one clump intertwined with thoseof the other. But such a moment did occur, and shedding water like asurfacing whale the united bodies rose from the riverbed to form averdant bridge.

  "You could not walk across it, at least no man I know would want to try,but it gives the illusion of permanency no work of man, stone or steelor concrete, has ever given and it is a dismaying thing to see man'strade taken over by nature in this fashion.

  "The bridge is a dam also. All the debris from the upper reachescollects against it and soon there will be floods to add to the otherdistress the Grass has brought. More than half the country is gone now:the territories pillaged from Mexico, argued from Britain, bought fromFrance, have all been lost. Only the original states and Florida remain.Shall we be more successful in defending our basic land than all theacquisitions of a century and a half?"

  But why add any more? Dry, senile, without feeling, my only wonder wasthat his stuff was printed, even in the obscure media where it appeared.

  _54._ With twothirds of the country absorbed and a hundred fifty millionpeople squeezed into what was left, economic conditions became worsethan ever. No European ghetto was as crowded as our cities and nooverpopulated countryside farmed so intensively to so little purpose. Analmost complete cessation of employment except in the remnant of theexport trade, valueless money--English shillings and poundnotesillegally circulated being the prized medium of exchange--starvationonly irritated rather than relieved by the doles of food seized from thefarmers and grudgingly handed out to the urban dwellers.

  Each election saw another party in power, the sole demand of the votersbeing for an administration capable of stopping the Grass. Since nonewas successful, the dissatisfaction and anger grew together with thepanic and dislocation. Messiahs and fuehrers sprang up thickly. Riots inall cities were daily occurrences, rating no more than obscureparagraphs, while in many areas gangs of hoodlums actually maintainedthemselves in power for weeks at a time, ruling their possessions likefeudal baronies and exacting tribute from all travelers through theirdomain.

  Immigration had long ago been stopped, but now the government, in orderto preserve what space was left fo
r genuine Americans, canceled thenaturalization of all foreignborn and ordered them immediately deported.All Jews who had been in the country less than three generations wereshipped to Palestine and the others deprived of political rights inorder to encourage them to leave also. The Negroes, who except for aperiod less than a decade in length had never had any political or civilrights, planned a mass migration to Africa, a project enthusiasticallyspurred by such elder statesmen as the learned Maybank and the judiciousRankin. This movement proved abortive when statisticians showed therewere not enough liquid assets among the colored population to pay aprofit on their transportation.

  An attempt to oust all Catholics failed also, for the rather odd reasonthat many of the minor Protestant sects joined in a body to oppose it.The Latterday Saints--now busy building New Deseret in CentralAustralia--and the Church of Christ, Scientist, as well as theEpiscopalians, Doweyites, Shakers, Christadelphians, and thecongregation of the Chapel of the Former and Latter Rains presented aunited front for tolerance and equity.

  An astonishing byproduct of the national despair and turmoil was thefeverish activity in all fields of creative endeavor. Novels streamedfrom the presses, volumes of poetry became substantial items onpublishers' lists and those which failed to find a publisher weremimeographed and peddled to a receptive public, while painters workingwith Renascence enthusiasm turned out great canvases as fast as theirbrushes could spread the oils. We had suddenly become a nation madlydevoted to the arts. When Orpheus Crisodd's Devilgrass Symphony wasfirst played in Carnegie Hall an audience three times as great as thatadmitted had to be accommodated outside with loudspeakers and when theawesome crescendo of horns, drums, and broken crockery rubbed over slatesurfaces announced the climax of the sixth movement, the crowds wept.Even for Mozart the hall was full, or practically full.

  In the lively arts the impact of the Grass was more overt. On thecomicpage, Superman daily pushed it back and there was great regret hisactivities were limited to a fourcolor process, while Terry Lee andFlash Gordon, everinspirited by the sharp outlines of mammaryglands,also saved the country. Even Lil Abner and Snuffy Smith battled thevegetation while no one but Jiggs remained absolutely impervious. The_Greengrass Blues_ was heard on every radio and came from everyadolescent's phonograph until it was succeeded by _Itty Bitty Seed MadeAwfoo Nasty Weed_.

  Perhaps the most notable feature of this period was a preoccupation withpermanency. Jerrybuilding, architectural mode since the first falsefrontwas erected over the first smalltown store, practically disappeared. Theskyscrapers were no longer steel skeletons with thin facings of stonehung upon them like a slattern's apron, while the practice of daubingmud on chickenwire hastily laid over paper was discontinued. Everyonewanted to build for all time, even though the Grass might seize upontheir effort next week. In New York the Cathedral of St John the Divinewas finally completed and a new one dedicated to St George begun. Thedemand for enduring woods replaced the market for green pine and menplanned homes to accommodate their greatgrandchildren and not to attractprospective buyers before the plaster cracked.

  Naturally, forwardlooking men like Stuart Thario and myself, though wehad every respect for culture, were not swamped by this sudden urge toencourage the effervescent side of life. Our feet were still upon theground and though we knew symphonies and novels and cathedrals had theirplace, it was important not to lose sight of fundamentals; while weapproved in principle the desire for permanency, we took reality intoaccount. We had every faith in the future of the country, being certaina way would be found before long to stop the encroachments of the weed;nevertheless, as a proper precaution--a safeguarding counterbalance toour own enthusiastic patriotism--we invested our surplus funds inConsols and European bonds, while hastening our plans for new factorieson other continents.

  I'm sure George Thario must have been a great cross to his fatheralthough the general never spoke of him save in the most affectionateterms. Living like a tramp--he sent a snapshot once showing him with along starveling beard, dressed in careless overalls, his arm over theshoulder of a slovenly looking girl--he stayed always on the edge of theadvancing weed, moving eastward only when forced. He wrote from Galena:

  "Eagle forgotten. The rejected accepted, for yesterday's eagle istoday's, the hero is man and man his own hero. I was with him when hedied and when he died again and a hundred miles to the south is anothereagle forgotten and all the prairies, green once more, will be as theywere before men insulted them. O eagle forgotten. O stained prairie, Ogallows, thirsty mob, knife, torch, revolver. Contumely, parochialism,the shortvision forever gone; and the long vision too, the eagleforgotten is the national bird, the great merging with the greater, sogained too late a vision and saw the hope that was despair.

  "I named the catalogue of states and the great syllables rolled from mytongue to echo silence. My sister, my bride. Gone and gone; theConestoga wagons have no more faint ruts to follow, the Little Big Hornis a combination of letters, the marking sunflowers exist no more. Wedestroyed, we preempted; we are destroyed and we have been thrust out.Illinois admitted to the Union on suchandsuch a date, the Little Giantrubbed stubby fingers through pompous hair heavy with beargrease, theHonorable Abe in Springfield's most expensive broadcloth, necktie in thelatest mode but pulled aside to free an eager adamsapple; the drunkentanner, punctual with the small man's virtues, betrayed and dyingpainfully with so much blood upon his hands; and the eagle himself,forgotten and now again forgotten.

  "I move once more. Step by step I give it up, the land we took and theland we made. Each foot I resign leaves the rest more precious. Oprecious land, O dear and fruitful soil. Its clods are me, I eat them,give them back; the bond is indissoluble. Even the land gone is stillmine, my bones rest in it, I have eaten of its fruits and laid my markon it...."

  All of which was a longwinded way of saying the Grass was overrunningIllinois. In contrast I cannot forbear to quote Le ffacase, though hisfaults, at the opposite end of the scale, were just as glaring: "It isin Kentucky now, birthstate of Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth president ofthe United States, a country which once stretched south of theForty-ninth Parallel from the Atlantic to the Pacific. I have beentraveling extensively in what is left of Lincoln's nation. 'Dukes,'remarked Chesterton, 'don't emigrate.' This country was settled by thepoor and thriftless and now few more than the poor and thriftless remainin it.

  "Let me try to present an overall picture: What is left of the countryhas become a nineteenth century Ireland, with all economic power in thehands of absentees. It is not that everyone below the level of amillionaire is too stupid to foresee possibility of completedestruction; or the middle and lower classes virtuously imbued with suchfanatical patriotism they are prepared for mass suicide rather thanleave. Because dukes _are_ emigrating and sending the price ofshippingspace into brackets which make the export of any commodity butdiamonds or their own hides a dubious investment, even the pawning ofall the family assets would not buy steerage passage for a year oldbaby. Besides there are not enough bottoms in the world to transport ahundred and fifty million people. If the Grass is not stopped, exceptfor a negligible few, it will cover Americans when it covers America.

  "No wonder a strange and conflicting spirit animates our people. Apathy?Yes, there is apathy; you can see it on the faces in a line of reliefclients wondering how long an industrially stagnant country can continuetheir dole--even though now it consists of nothing but unpalatablechemicals--socalled 'Concentrates.' Despair? Certainly. The riots andlootings, especially the intensified ones recently in Cleveland andPittsburgh, are symptoms of it. The overcrowded churches, the terrificincrease in drugging and drinking, the sex orgies which have been takingplace practically in the open in Baltimore and Philadelphia and Bostonare stigmata of desperation.

  "Hope? I suppose there is hope. Congress sits in uninterrupted sessionand senators lend their voices night and day to the destruction of theGrass. The Federal Disruptions Commission has published the eleventhvolume of its report and is currently holding hea
rings to determine howclosely the extinct buffalograss is related to _Cynodon dactylon_. Everyresearch laboratory in the country, except those whose staffs andequipment have been moved with their proprietary industries, isexpending its energies in seeking a salvation.

  "Perhaps only in the Deep South, as yet protected by the width of thelower Mississippi, is there something approaching a genuine hope,although ironically that may be the product of ignorance. Here theoverlords have gone and the poor whites, unsupported by an explicitkinship, have withdrawn into complete listlessness. Some black men havefled, but to most the Grass is a mere bogey, incapable of frighteningthose who have survived so much. Now, for the first time since 1877 thepolls are open to all and there are again Negro governors, and blacklegislatures. And they are legislating as if forever. Farm tenancy hasbeen abolished, the great plantations have been expropriated and madecooperative, the Homestead Act of 1862 has been applied in the South andevery citizen is entitled to claim a quartersection. There is a greatdeal of laughter at this childish lawmaking, but it goes on, changingthe face of the region, the lawmakers themselves not at all averse tothe joke."

  Everything Le ffacase wrote was not only dull, but biased and unjust aswell. It was true capital was leaving the country rapidly, but whatother course had it? To stay and attempt to carry on industry in themidst of the demoralization was obviously impractical. The plantsremained and when a way was found to conquer the Grass we would be gladto reopen them, for this would be a practical course, just as the flightof capital was a practical course; standards of living were now soreduced in the United States it would be more profitable to employ cheapAmerican labor than overpaid Latin or European.

  _55._ I had now no fixed abode, dividing my time between Rio and BuenosAires, Melbourne and Manchester. General Thario and his family lived inCopenhagen, overseeing our continental properties, now of equalimportance with the South American holdings. Before leaving, and indeedon every trip back home, he visited his son--no easy thing to do, whatwith the young man's constant movement and the extreme difficulty ofgoing from east to west against the torrent pouring in the oppositedirection. Joe had married the female of the snapshot, or contractedsome sort of permanent alliance with her--I never got it quite straightand the Tharios were deplorably careless about such details; and sheproved as eccentric as he was. No appeal to selfinterest, no pleading heforgo his morbid preoccupation with the Grass for the sake of hisfamily, could move them.

  "A W--you have seen it, heard it, smelled it. Can't youexplain--miraculously touched with the gift of lucidity for fact as youare for the fictions of production, overhead and dividends? Oh, not toMama--either she understands better than I or not at all--but to the OldMan or Connie?

  "As a child you learn for the first time of death: the heart isshuttered in a little cell, too cruel for breathing; the sun is gray. Inan instant you forget; the sky is bright; the blood pounds. Years laterthe adolescent falls in love with death; primps his spirit for it;recalls in unpresumptuous brotherhood Shelley and Keats and Chatterton.Afterward the flush fades; we are reconciled to life, but the promise isstill implicit. Now, however, it must be earned, awaited. Haste woulddestroy the savor. The award assured, pace becomes dignified.

  "But death is not death; life is never mocked. The Grass is not deathany more than it is evil. The Grass is the Grass. It is me and I am it;'in my father's house there are many mansions, if it were not so I wouldnot have told you.'

  "No, I suppose not; yet it hurts my liver to offer the old boyincomprehensible reasons or verbiage like 'compulsion neurosis' when allhe wants is to protect me from my own impulses as he protected me fromthe army. Florence and I delight in him--he comes again next week ifpossible--but we cannot convey to him the unthinkableness ofleaving...."

  I heard about this visit later from the general. Joe had scoured Chicagofor the alcoholic commodities now practically unprocurable, and returnedin triumph to the couple's furnished room. There they entertained himwith two bottles of cointreau and a stone demijohn of cornwhisky."Touched ... filial affection ... even drank the cointreau--fiddlingstuff, no wonder it was still available in the drought ... better son aman never had....

  "Girl's all right. Moved in circles ... perhaps not accustomed ... bitrough in speech, but heart of gold ... give you the shirt right off herback ... hum ... manner of speaking ... know what I mean...."

  But she would not add her persuasions to those of the general. "Joe'sgot to stay. It's not something he sat down and thought up, the way youplan dinner or whether blue goes good with your new permanent. He's gotto stay because he's got to stay. And of course, so do I. We couldnt besatisfied anywhere we couldnt see the Grass. Life's too dull away fromit ... but of course that's only part--it's too big to explain...."

  "But George--Joe as you call him ... highly talented ... sensitive ...shouldnt be allowed to decay," the general argued. "Fascination ...understand, but effort of will ... break the spell. Europe ...birthplace of culture ... reflection ... give him a proper perspective... chance to do things...."

  Even when the evening lengthened and he became more lucid under thestimulus of cornwhisky and cointreau he could not shake them. "Judiciousretreat, especially in the face of overwhelming superiority, has alwaysbeen a military weapon and no captain, no matter how valiant, has everfeared to use it."

  "Pop," George Thario had retorted goodhumoredly, "you dragged in themetaphor, not I. Youve heard of the Alamo and Vicksburg and Corregidor?Well, this is them--all rolled into one."

  _56._ The first snows of this ominous winter halted progress of theGrass. It went sluggish and then dormant first in the far north, whereonly the quick growingseason, once producing cabbages big as hogsheads,had allowed it to spread at a rate at all comparable to its progressfarther south. But by now there could be no doubt left that _Cynodondactylon_, once so sensitive to cold that it had covered itself, even inthe indistinguishable Southern California winter, with a protectivesheath, had become inured to frost and chill, hibernating throughout theseverest cold and coming back vigorously in the spring.

  It now extended from Alaska to Hudson Bay, covering all Manitoba andparts of Ontario. It had taken to itself Minnesota, the northernpeninsula of Michigan, Wisconsin, a great chunk of Illinois, and stoodbaffled on the western bank of the Mississippi from Cairo to its mouth.The northwestern, underpopulated half of Mexico was overrun, the Grassmoving but sluggishly into the estados bordering the Gulf Coast.

  I cannot say this delusive safety was enjoyed, for there wasunbelievable hardship. In spite of the great bulk of the country'scoalfields lying east of the Grass and the vast quantities of oil andnatural gas from Texas, there was a fuel famine, due largely to thebreakdown of the transportation system. People warmed themselves after afashion by burning furniture and rubbish in improvised stoves. Of coursethis put an additional strain on firedepartments, themselves sufferingfrom the same lack of new equipment, tires, and gasoline, afflicting thegeneral public and great conflagrations swept through Akron, Buffalo andHartford. Garbage collection systems broke down and no attempt was madeto clear the streets of snow. Broken watermains, gaspipes and sewerswere followed by typhus and typhoid and smallpox, flux, cholera andbubonic plague. The hundreds of thousands of deaths relieved only insmall degree the overcrowding; for the epidemics displaced thoserefugees sheltered in the schoolhouses, long since closed, when thesewere made auxiliary to the inadequate hospitals.

  The strangely inappropriate flowering of culture, so profuse the yearbefore, no longer bloomed. A few invincible enthusiasts, mufflered andraincoated, still bore the icy chill of the concert hall, a quorum ofpainters besieged the artist supply stores for the precious remainingtubes of burntumber and scarletlake, while it was presumed that intraditionally unheated garrets orthodox poets nourished their muse onpencil erasers. But all enthusiasm was individual property, the reactionof single persons with excess adrenalin. No common interests uniteddoctor and stockbroker, steelworker and truckdriver, laborer andlaundryman, except common fear
of the Grass, briefly dormant but ever inthe background of all minds. The stream of novels, plays, and poemsdried up; publishers, amazed that what had been profitable the yearbefore was no longer so, were finally convinced and stopped printinganything remotely literate; even the newspapers limped along crippledly,their presses breaking down hourly, their circulation and coverage alikedubious.

  The streets were no more safe at night than in sixteenth century London.Even in the greatest cities the lighting was erratic and in the smallerones it had been abandoned entirely. Holdups by individuals had beenpractically given up, perhaps because of the uncertainty of any footpadgetting away with his loot before being hijacked by another, but smallcompact gangs made life and property unsafe at night. Tempers wereextraordinarily short; a surprised housebreaker was likely to addbattery, mayhem and arson to his crimes, and altercations which commonlywould have terminated in nothing more violent than lurid epithets nowfrequently ended in murder.

  Since too many of the homeless took advantage of the law to commit pettyoffenses and so secure some kind of shelter for themselves, all lawenforcement below the level of capital crimes went by default. Prisonerswere tried quickly, often in batches, rarely acquitted; and sentences ofdeath were executed before nightfall so as to conserve both prison spaceand rations.

  In rural life the descent was neither so fast nor so far. There was nogasoline to run cars or tractors, but carefully husbandedstoragebatteries still provided enough electricity to catch the news onthe radio or allow the washingmachine to do the week's laundry. To agreat extent the farmer gave up his dependence on manufactured goods,except when he could barter his surplus eggs or milk for them, andinstead went back to the practices of his forefather, becoming for allintents and purposes practically selfsufficient. Soap from woodashes andleftover kitchen grease might scratch his skin and a jacket of rabbit orwolverine hide make him selfconscious, but he went neither cold norhungry nor dirty while his urban counterpart, for the most part, did.

  One contingency the countrydweller prepared grimly against: roaminghordes of the hungry from the towns, driven to plunder by starvationwhich they were too shiftless to alleviate by purchasing concentrates,for sale everywhere. Shotguns were loaded, corncribs made tight, stockzealously guarded. But except rarely the danger had been overestimated.The undernourished proletariat lacked the initiative to go out where thefood came from. Generations had conditioned them to an instinctivebelief that bread came from the bakery, meat from the butcher, butterfrom the grocer. Driven by desperation they broke into scantily suppliedfood depots, but seldom ventured beyond the familiar pavements. Faminetook its victims in the streets; the farmers continued to eat.

  I arrived in New York on the clipper from London in mid-January of thisdreadful winter. I had boarded the plane at Croydon, only subconsciouslyaware of the drive from London through the traditionally neathedgerows, of the completely placid and lawabiding England around me,the pleasant officials, the helpful yet not servile porters. Long Islandshocked me by contrast. It had come to its present condition by slowdegrees, but to the returning traveler the collapse was so woefullyabrupt it seemed to have happened overnight.

  Tension and hysteria made everyone volatile. The customs officials,careless of the position of those whom they dealt with, either inspectedevery cubic inch of luggage with boorish suspicion and resultant damageor else waved the proffered handbags airily aside with false geniality.The highways, repeating a pattern I had cause to know so well, werenearly impassable with brokendown cars and other litter. The streets ofQueens, cluttered with wreckage and refuse, were bounded by houses in astate of apathetic disrepair whose filthy windows refused to look uponthe scene before them. The great bridges over the East River were notbeing properly maintained as an occasional snapped cable, hanging overthe water like a drunken snake, showed; it was dangerous to cross them,but there was no other way. The ferryboats had long since broken down.

  At the door of my hotel, where I had long been accustomed to just theright degree of courteous attention, a screaming mob of men and boyswrapped in careless rags to keep out the cold, their unwashed skinsshowing where the coverings had slipped, begged abjectly for theprivilege of carrying my bags. The carpet in the lobby was wrinkled andsoiled and in the great chandeliers half the bulbs were blackened.Though the building was served by its own powerstation, the elevators nolonger ran, and the hot water was rationed, as in a fifthrate Frenchpension. The coverlet on the bed was far from fresh, the window wasdusty and there was but one towel in the bathroom. I was glad I had notbrought my man along for him to sneer silently at an American luxuryhotel.

  I picked up the telephone, but it was dead. I think nothing gave me thefeeling that civilization as we knew it had ended so much as the blanksilence coming from the dull black earpiece. This, even more than theautomobile, had been the symbol of American life and activity, theessential means of communication which had promoted every business deal,every social function, every romance; it had been the first palliationof the sickbed and the last admission of the mourner. Without telephoneswe were not even in the horse and buggy days--we had returned to theoxcart. I replaced the receiver slowly in its cradle and looked at it along minute before going back downstairs.

  _57._ I had come home on a quixotic and more or less unbusinesslikemission. It had long been the belief of Consolidated Pemmican's chemiststhat the Grass might possibly furnish raw material for food concentratesand we had come to modify our opinion about the necessity for aprocessing plant in close proximity. However, at secondhand, nopracticable formula had been evolved. Strict laws against thetransportation of any specimens and even stricter ones barring them fromevery foreign country made experiment in our main research laboratoriesinfeasible; but we still maintained a skeleton staff in our Jacksonvilleplant and I had come to arrange the collection of a large enough samplefor them to get to work in earnest. It was a tricky business and I hadno one beside myself whom I could trust to undertake it except GeneralThario, and he was fully occupied.

  In addition to being illegal it also promised little profit, for whiledislocation of the normal foodsupply made the United States our mainmarket for concentrates, American currency had fallen so low--the francstood at $5, the pound sterling at $250--it was hardly worthwhile toimport our products. Of course, as a good citizen, I didnt send Americanmoney abroad, content to purchase Rembrandts, Botticellis, Titians or ElGrecos; or when I couldnt find masterpieces holding a stable price onthe world market, to change my dollars into some of the gold from FortKnox, now only a useless bulk of heavy metal.

  My first thought was Miss Francis. Though she had more or less droppedfrom public sight, my staff had ascertained she was living in a smallSouth Carolina town. My telegrams remaining unanswered, there wasnothing for me to do but undertake a trip there.

  Despite strict instructions my planes had not been kept in propercondition and I had great difficulty getting mechanics to service them.There were plenty of skilled men unemployed and though they were noteager to earn dollars they were willing to work for other rewards. Butthe pervading atmosphere of tension and anxiety made concentrationdifficult; they bungled out of impatience, committed stupidities theywould normally be incapable of; they quit without cause, flew into ragesat the machines, the tools, their fellows, fate, at or without theslightest provocation.

  My pilot was surly and hilarious by turn and I suspected him ofdrinking, which didnt add to my confidence in our safety. We flew lowover railroadtracks stretching an empty length to the horizon, oversmokeless factorychimneys, airports whose runways were broken and whoselandinglights were dark. The land was green and rich, the industriallife imposed upon it till yesterday had vanished, leaving behind it thebleaching skeleton of its being.

  The field upon which we came down seemed in slightly better repair thanothers we had sighted. The only other ship was an antique biplane whichdeserved housing in a museum. As I looked around the desertedlandingstrip a tall Negro emerged leisurely from one of the buildingsand walked
toward us.

  "Where are the airport officials?" I asked rather sharply, for I didntrelish being greeted by a janitor.

  "I am the chief dispatcher. In fact, I am the entire personnel at themoment."

  My pilot, standing behind me, broke in. "Boy, where're the white folksaround here?"

  The chief dispatcher looked at him steadily a long moment beforeanswering. "I imagine you will find people of various shades all overtown, including those allegedly white. Was there anyone in particularyou were interested in or are you solely concerned with pigmentation?"

  "Why, you goddam--"

  I thought it advisable to prevent a possible altercation. I recalled Leffacase's articles on the Black South which I had considered vastlyoverdrawn. Evidently they were not, for the chocolatecolored man spokewith all the ease and assurance of unquestioned authority. "I want toget to a Miss Francis at--" I consulted my notes and gave him theaddress. "Can you get me a taxi or car?"

  He smiled gravely. "We are without such luxuries at present, I regret tosay. But there will be a bus along in about twenty minutes."

  It had been a long time since I suffered the wasted time andinconvenience of public transportation. However, there was no help forit and I resigned myself philosophically. I walked with the chiefdispatcher into the airport waitingroom, dull with the listless air, notof unoccupancy, but disuse.

  "Not much air travel," I remarked idly.

  "Yours is the first plane in a month."

  "I wonder you bother to keep the airport open at all."

  "We do what we can to preserve the forms of civilization. The substance,unfortunately, cannot be affected by transportation, production,distribution, education or any other such niceties."

  I smiled inwardly. What children these black people were, afterall. Iwas relieved from further ramblings by the arrival of the bus which wasas laughable as the chief dispatcher's philosophizing. The dented andrusty vehicle had been disencumbered of its motor and was hitched tofour mules who seemed less than enthusiastic over their lot. I got inand seated myself gingerly on one of the dilapidated seats, noting thatthe warning signs "For White" and "For Colored" had been smeared overwith just enough paint to make the intent of obliteration clear withoutactually doing so.

  _58._ How Miss Francis contrived to make every place she lived in,apartment, chickenhouse or cottage, look exactly alike was remarkable.Nothing is more absurd than the notion that socalled intellectualworkers are always alert--as Miss Francis demonstrated by her greetingto me.

  "Well, Weener, what is it this time? Selling on commission or aninterview?"

  It was inconceivable any literate person in the United States could beignorant of my position. "It is neither," I returned with some dignity."I am here to do you a favor. To help you in your work." And I explainedmy proposition.

  She squatted back on her heels and gave me that old, familiar, searchinglook. "So you have made a good thing out of the Metamorphizer afterall,"she said irrelevantly and untruthfully. "Weener, you are a consistentcharacter--a beautifully consistent character."

  "Please come to the point, Miss Francis. I am a busy man and I have comedown here simply to see you. Will you accept?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "I doubt if I could combine my research with your attempt to process theinoculated _Cynodon dactylon_. However, that would not prevent me fromtaking you up and using you in order to further a good cause. But I amnot yet ready--I shall not be ready for some time, to go directly to theGrass. That must come later. No, Weener."

  I was exasperated at the softness of my impulse which had made me seekout this madwoman to do her a favor. I could not regret my charitablenature, but I mentally resolved to be more discriminating in future.Besides, the thought of Miss Francis for the work had been sheersentimentality, the sort of false reasoning which would make of everymother an obstetrician or every hen an oologist.

  As I sauntered through the drowsy streets, killing time till the driverof the ridiculous "bus" should decide to guide his mules back to theairport, I was struck by the lack of tension, of apprehension andanxiety, so apparent in New York. Evidently the Black South sufferedlittle from the brooding fear and terror; I put it down to theirchildish thoughtlessness.

  Walking thus reflectively, head down, I looked up suddenly--straightinto the face of the Strange Lady I had driven from Los Angeles to Yuma.

  I'm sure I opened my mouth, but no words came out. She was hurryingrapidly along, paying no attention either to me or to her surroundings,aloof and exquisite. I think I put out my hand, or made some otherreflexive gesture to stop her, but either she failed to notice ormisunderstood. When I finally recovered myself and set out after her,she had vanished.

  I waited for the bus, wondering if I had been victim of anhallucination....

  _59._ In spite of Miss Francis' blindness to her own interest I stillhad a prospective superintendent for the gathering and shipping of thegrass: George Thario. Unless his obsession had sent him down intoMississippi or Louisiana, I expected to find him in Indianapolis.

  The short journey west was tedious and uncomfortable, repeating thepattern of the one southward. At the end of it there was no garrulouschief dispatcher, for the airport was completely deserted, and I wasthankful for an ample stock of gas for the return flight.

  I had no difficulty locating Joe in an immense, highceilingedfurnishedroom in one of the ugliest gray weatherboarded houses, of whichthe city, never celebrated for its architecture, could boast. The firstthing to impress me was the room's warmth. For the first time sincelanding I did not shiver. A woodfire burned in an open grate and akerosene heater smelled obstinately in an opposite corner. A grandpianostood in front of the long narrow windows and on it slouched severalthick piles of curlyedged paper.

  He greeted me with something resembling affection. "The tycoon himself!Workers of the world--resume your chains. A W, it's a pleasure to seeyou. And looking so smooth and ordinary and unharassed too, at themoment everyone else is tearing himself with panic or anguish. How doyou do it?"

  "I look on the bright side of things, Joe," I answered. "Worry neverhelped anybody accomplish anything--and it takes fewer muscles to smilethan to frown."

  "You hear that, Florence?"

  I had not noticed her when I came in, the original of the snapshot,sitting placidly in a corner darning socks. I must say the photographhad done her less than justice, for though she was undoubtedlycommonlooking and sloppy, with heavy breasts and coarse red cheeks andunconcealedly dyed hair, there was yet about her an air of greatvitality, kindness, and good nature. Parenthetically she acknowledged mypresence with a pleasant smile.

  "You hear that? Remind me the next time I am troubled by a transpositionor a solopassage that it takes less muscles to smile than to frown. ForI have got to work at last, A W; the loafing and inviting of my soul ispast, my soul has responded to my invitation. You remember Crisodd'sDevilgrass Symphony? A horrible misconception if ever there was one, apersonal insult to anyone who ever saw the Grass; a dull, unintentionaljoke; bad Schoenberg--if that isnt a tautology--combined with faintmemories of the most vulgar Wagner--if that isnt anothertautology--threaded together on _Mighty Like a Rose_ and _Alexander'sRagtime Band_. But what am I saying, A W, to you who are so free fromthe virus of culture? What the hell interest have you in Crisodd'ssymphony or my symphony or anybody's symphony, except the polyphony ofprofits?"

  "I hope no one thinks I'm a narrowminded man, Joe," I reproved him. "Iventure to say I have as much interest in Art as the next person. Ivedone a bit of writing myself, you know, and literature--"

  "Oh sure. I didnt mean to hurt your feelings."

  "You did not. But while I believe Music is a fine thing in its place, Icame to discuss a different subject."

  "If you mean taking Joe back to Europe with you, youre out of luck, MrWeener," put in Florence placidly. "He's almost finished the firstmovement and we'll never leave the Grass till it's all done."

  "You mistake me, Mrs Thari
o. I have a proposition for your husband, butfar from taking him away from the Grass, it will bring him closer toit."

  "Impossible," exclaimed Joe. "I am the Grass and the Grass is me; inmystical union we have become a single entity. I speak with its voiceand in the great cadences which come from its heart you can hearThario's first, transfigured and magnified a hundred thousand times."

  I was sorry to note his speech, always so simple and unaffected incontrast to his letters, was infected with an unbecoming pomposity.Looking at him closely I saw he had lost weight. His flesh had shrunkcloser to his big frame and the lines of his skull stood out sharply inhis cheek and jaw. There was the faintest touch of gray in his hair andhis fingers played nervously with the ragged and illadvised beard on hischin. He hardly looked the man who had evaded serious work in order toencourage a silly obsession, comfortably supported all the while by asizable remittance from his father.

  I outlined to them my plans for gathering samples of the weed. Florencetucked her stillthreaded needle between her teeth and inspected thecurrent pair of socks critically. Joe walked over to the piano andstruck several discordant notes.

  "I understand there are several parties making expeditions onto theGrass," I said.

  "Lots," confirmed Joe. "There's a group sent out by Brother Paul on somevery mysterious mission. It's called the Sanctification of theForerunner. God knows how many thousands he's made his suckers cough up,for theyre equipped with all the latest gadgets for polar exploration,skis and dogsleds, moompitcher cameras, radios and unheardof quantitiesof your very best pemmican. They started as soon as the snow was thickenough to bear their weight and if we have an untimely thaw theyll go tojoin the Russians.

  "Then there's the government bunch, the Disruptions Commission havingfinally and reluctantly produced an idea, but exactly what it is theyhavent confided to an eager citizenry. Smaller groups too: scientistsand nearscientists, enthusiasts who have got the notion somehow thatanimals or migratory game are roaming the snow on top of thegrass--exactly how they got there is not explained--planning tophotograph, hunt or trap; and just plain folk making the trip for thehell of it. We might have gone ourselves if it hadnt been for thesymphony."

  "Your symphony is concerned with the Grass?" I asked politely.

  "It's concerned with combinations of sound." He looked at me sharply andbanged out harsher discords. "With life, if you want to talk like aprogramnote."

  "If you go on this expedition it will give you an opportunity to gathernew material," I pointed out.

  "If I look out the window or consult my navel or 'meditate while atstool' or cut my finger I will get new material with much less hardship.The last thing a composer or writer or painter needs is material; it isfrom excess of material he is the besotted creature he is. He may lackleisure or energy or ability or an active colon, but no masterpiece everwas or conceivably could be thwarted from lack of material."

  "Yet you have tied yourself to the Grass."

  "Not to prostitute it to whatever talents I have, but because it is themost magnificent thing on earth."

  "Then of course youll go," I said.

  "Why don't you go yourself, A W? Do you good to live out in the open."

  "I can't afford the time, Joe; I have too many things that need mypersonal attention."

  He struck a series of great thumping notes. "And so have I, A W, so haveI. I'm afraid youll have to get somebody else."

  I could neither understand nor shake his obstinacy and when I left themI had almost determined to abandon the whole project, for I could notthink whom else trustworthy I could get. His idea of my ownparticipation was fantastic; I had long since come to the point where itwas necessary to delegate all such duties to subordinates.

  _60._ Perhaps it was Joe's sly remark about it doing me good to be outin the open, or the difficulty of getting a conveyance, but I decided towalk to my hotel. Taxis of course disappeared with gasoline, butingenious men, unwilling to be pauperized by accepting the dole, haddevised rickshaws and bicycle carriages which were the only means oflocal transportation. The night was clear and cold, the stars gleamingin distant purity, but all around, the offensive smell of the disheveledcity played on my disgusted nostrils.

  "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen. Brother, are you saved?"

  When the figure had come out from the shadow of a building to accost memy first thought had been of a holdup, but the odd salutation made thisseem unlikely. "What do you want?" I asked.

  "Brother, are you a Christian man?"

  I resented the impertinence and started to walk on; he followed closebeside me. "Harden not your heart, miserable sinner, but let Jesusdissolve your pride as he washes away your other sins. Be not high andmighty for the high shall be low and the mighty powerless; in a shorttime you will be food for grass. The Grass is food for the Ox, thedivine Ox with seven horns which shall come upon the world with a greattrumpeting and bellowing soon after the Forerunner."

  I knew of the great multiplication of insanity and hoped I could reachthe hotel before he grew violent. "What is your name?" I temporized.

  "Call me Brother Paul, for I was once Saul the worldly; now I am yourbrother in Christ."

  "Brother Paul! The radio preacher?"

  "We are all members one of another and He who watches the sparrow fallmakes no distinction between one manmade label and another. All of uswho have found Christ Jesus with the help of Brother Paul are calledBrother Paul. Come to the Loving Arms, O miserable sinner, and beBrother Paul also."

  I thought it might be very confusing. "I have always been interested inreligion."

  "O puny man. Interested in life and interested in death, interested inbeing and interested in begetting, interested in religion and interestedin dung. Turn from those interests which the devil pays upon your soul'smortgage; your Savior resides in the heart of the Grass--withhold notyour precious soul from Him. At this very moment the Forerunner is beingsanctified and after her there will come the Ox to eat the Grass andthen the end of the world. Give Brother Paul your worthless earthlypossessions, give your soul to Jesus and hasten that glorious day.Hallelujah!"

  The fervid jumble ended in a near scream. What a waste of oratorical andperhaps organizational energy, I mused as I strode along rapidly, stillintent on escaping the fanatic. Under different circumstances, Ithought, a man like this might turn out to be a capable clerk or minorexecutive. Suddenly I had a hunch.

  "Mr--?"

  "Brother Paul. I have no earthly name."

  "I wish youd come with me for a few minutes; I have a proposition whichmight interest you."

  In the darkness I could see him peering at me suspiciously. "Is thissome worldly seduction from the Christian path?"

  "I think you will find what I have to offer a material aid to yourchurch."

  "I have no church," he said. "We are Christians and recognize no manmadeinstitution."

  "Well, then, to your movement or whatever you call it." In spite of hisreluctance, which was now as great as mine had been originally, Ipersuaded him to accompany me. He sat uneasily forward while I told himwho I was and sketched the plan for collecting some of the Grass.

  "What is this to me? I have long ago put aside all material thoughts andnow care only for the life of the spirit."

  This must be true, I thought, noting his shabby clothes, sweatgreasymuffler at once hiding and revealing lack of necktie, and cracked shoes,one sock brown, the other black. "It is this to you: if you don't wantthe salary and bonus attached to organizing and superintending theexpedition--and I am prepared to be generous--you can turn it over toBrother Paul. I imagine it will be acceptable."

  He shook his head, muttering, "Satan, Satan." The lower part of his facewas wide and divided horizontally, like an inverted jellymold. Ittapered up into bracketing ears, supporting gingery eaves. I pressedhome my arguments.

  "I will put your proposition to Brother Paul," he conceded at length.

  "I thought distinctions between one man and another were worldly and
trivial," I prodded him. "Arent you Brother Paul?"

  "Satan, Satan," he repeated.

  I'm sure it could have been nothing but one of those flashes ofintuition for which successful executives are noted which caused me topick this man in spite of his absurd ranting and illfavored appearance.Not intuition really, but an ability to evaluate and classifypersonalities instantly. I always had this faculty; it helped me in myearly experiences as a salesman and blossomed out when I entered myproper field.

  Anthony Preblesham--for that was his worldly name--did not disappoint myjudgment for he proved one of the most aggressive men I ever hired. TheBrother Paul hocuspocus, which he quickly dropped, had merely caught andcanalized an abounding energy that would otherwise have flowed aimlesslyin a stagnant world. In Consolidated Pemmican he found his true faith;his zeal for our products proved as great if not greater than his formerhysteria for the salvation of mankind. It was no fault of his that theexpedition he led proved fruitless.

  The men Tony Preblesham took with him were all Brother Pauls who--sincethey disdained them--had not been told of material rewards but given theimpression they were furthering their fanatical creed. They built a campupon the Grass, or rather upon the snow which overlay the Grass, nearwhat had once been Springfield, Illinois. Digging down through the snowto the weed, they discovered it to have lost most of its rubberyqualities of resistance in dormancy, and cut with comparative ease morethan four tons which were transported with the greatest difficulty tothe Florida plant. Here, to anticipate, their work came to nothing, forno practicable method was found for reducing the grass to a form inwhich its nutritive elements could be economically extracted.

  _61._ The secrecy surrounding the government expedition could not bemaintained and it was soon learned that what was planned was nothingless than an attempt to burn great areas of the weed while in itsdormant state. All previous attempts to fire the Grass had been madewhen the sap was running and it was thought that in its dryer conditionsome measure of success might be obtained. The public instantlytranslated possibility into probability and probability into virtualcertainty, their enthusiastic optimism making the winter more bearable.

  The party proceeded not more than a couple of miles beyond the easternedge, dragging with them a flexible pipeline through which was pumpedfueloil, now priceless in the freezing cities. Methodically they sprayeda square mile and set it afire, feeding the flames with the oil. Theburning area sank neatly through the snow, exposing the grass beneath:dry, yellow and brittle. The stiff, interwoven stolons caught; oil wasapplied unstintedly; the crackling and roaring and snapping could beheard by those well beyond the perimeter of the Grass and the terrificheat forced the temporary abandonment of the work.

  The spotbroadcasters in emotional voices gave the news to those whoseradios still functioned. Reporters flashed their editors, BURNINGSUCCESSFUL. WILL STOP GRASS IF MULTIPLIED. All over the countryvolunteer crews were instantly formed to repeat the experiment.

  When the flames died down the men crept closer to inspect the results.The heat had melted the snow for many yards outside the orbit of fire,revealing a border of dull and sodden grass. Beyond this border ablackened crater had eaten its way straight down to the reclaimed earthbelow. Shouting and rejoicing greeted this evidence of triumph. What ifthe Grass could advance at will in summer? It could be subdued in winterand thus kept in check till the ingenuity which devised this one victorycould win another.

  Working furiously, the oil was again sprayed, this time over a stilllarger piece and again the flames lit the sky. The President issued aProclamation of Thanksgiving; the American dollar rose to $175 to thepound, and several prominent expatriates began to think seriously ofreturning home.

  The second fire burned through the night and aided by a slight change inthe weather thawed the snow over a great area. Eagerly the expedition,now swollen into a small army, returned to continue their triumphantlabors. The bright sun shone upon the dirtied snow, upon naked muddyearth in the center of the crater, upon the network of burnt andblackened stems and upon the wide band of grayishgreen grass theretreating snow had laid open to its rays. Grayishgreen, but changing incolor at every moment as the work of spraying began again.

  Changing color, becoming more verdant, thrusting blades into the air,moving its long runners upward and sideways and downward toward thedestroyed part. Revived by the heat, relieved of the snow, the Grass,fighting for its life with the same intensity which animated itsattackers, burst into a fury of growth. It covered the evidences ofdestruction in less time than the burning had taken. It tore thepipeline from its tormentors' hands and drove them away with threats ofswift immolation. Defiantly it rose to a pinnacle, hiding itsmutilation, and flaunted its vivid tendrils to bear witness to itsinvulnerability till a killing frost followed by another snowfallcovered it again.

  Since the delusive hope had been so high, the disappointment threw thepublic into a despair greater than ever before. The nervous tension ofanxiety was replaced by a listlessness of resignation and the suiciderate, high before, now doubled. For the first time a general admissionwas to be heard that no solution would be found and in another seasonthe end would come for the United States. Facing the prospect squarely,an exodus of the little people, as distinguished from the earlier flightof men of wealth and foresight, from the country began.

  This was the first countermeasure attempted since the Grass crossed theMississippi, and in reaction to its collapse, the return of BrotherPaul's expedition passed almost unnoticed. Only _Time_, now published inParis, bothered to report it for general circulation: "Last week fromsome undisclosed spot in mid U.S. returned Mother, 'The Forerunner' Joan(real name: unknown), and party. Dispatched Grassward by Brother Paul,doom-predicting, advent-prophesying graminophile evangelist, the purposeof Mother Joan's expedition had been her 'Sanctification,' above theexact spot where the Savior was waiting in the midst of the Grass toreceive His faithful disciples. Said Brother Paul to reporters afterembracing The Forerunner enthusiastically, 'The expedition has beensuccessful.' Said Mother Joan, off the record, 'My feet hurt.'"

  _62._ The coming of spring was awaited with grim foreboding, but theGrass was not bound by any manmade almanac and unable to contain itselftill the melting of the snow, again leaped the barrier of theMississippi, this time near Natchez, and ran through the South likewater from a sloshed dishpan. The prized reforms of the blacklegislatures were wiped out more quickly even than theirgreatgrandfathers' had been in 1877. The wornout cotton and tobaccolands offered hospitable soil while cypress swamps and winter-swollencreeks pumped vitality into the questing runners. Southward andeastward it spread, waiting only the opening of the first pussywillowand the showing of the first crocus to jump northward and meet thewestern advance there.

  The dwindling remnants of cohesion and selfcontrol existing before nowdisappeared completely. The capital was moved to Portland, Maine. Locallaw and order vanished. The great gangs took over the cities andextracted what tribute they could from the impoverished inhabitants.Utilities ceased functioning entirely, what little goods remained wereobtainable only by barter, and epidemic after epidemic decreased thepopulation to fit the shrinking boundaries.

  Brother Paul, deprived of the radio, now multiplied himself infinitelyin the person of his disciples, preaching unremittingly againstresistance, even by thought, to the oncoming Grass. Mother Joan'sinfrequent public appearances attracted enormous crowds as sheproclaimed, "O be joyful; give your souls to Jesus and your bodies tothe Grass. I am The Forerunner and after me will come the Ox. Rejoice,brothers and sisters, for this is the end of all your suffering andmisery."

  On foot or rarely with the aid of a horse or mule, the panicstrickenpopulation marched northward and eastward. Canadian officials, anxiousto apply immigration controls with the greatest possible latitude, werethrust aside as though their existence were an irrelevance. Along thelower reaches of the St Lawrence the refugees came like locusts todevour the substance of the _habitants_. Into empty Ungava and almo
stequally empty Labrador the hardier ones pushed, armed like theirforebears with only ax and shotgun. Northward and eastward, beyond theArctic Circle and onto the polar ice they trickled, seeking some placewhich promised security from the Grass. Passenger rates to Europe orSouth America, formerly at a premium, now shot to unparalleled heights.

  I wound up my own affairs, disappointed at the failure to find a use forthe Grass, but still keeping it in view as a future objective, andarranged for the removal of the Florida factory to Brazzaville. Heedingthe cabled importunities of Stuart Thario I risked my life to travelonce more into the interior to see Joe and persuade him to come backwith me. I found them in a small Pennsylvania town in the Alleghenies,once a company owned miningvillage. The Grass, advancing rapidly, wasjust beyond the nearest mountainridge, replacing the jagged Appalachianhorizon with a softer and more ominous one.

  They appeared serene and content, Joe's haggard look of the wintererased. "I'm in the middle of the third movement, A W," he told me, likea man who had no time to waste on preliminaries or indirections. "Here."He thrust an enormous manila envelope at me. "Here are the first twomovements. There are no copies and I cannot trust the mails or any othermessenger to get them out. If possible I'll send the Old Man the thirdmovement as soon as it's finished--and the fourth, if I have time. Buttake the first two anyway; at least I'll know theyre preserved."

  "Joe, Florence!" I exclaimed. "This is ridiculous. Insane. Come backwith me."

  Silence.

  "You can compose just as well in Europe, if it is so important to you.In France, say, or England, away from this danger and discomfort. Thereis no doubt the country is finished; come to safety while you can."

  Florence was busy with a stack of musicpaper and offered no comment. Joeput his hand for a second on my shoulder and then turned away, talkingwith his eyes fixed out the window in the direction of the Grass.

  "General Herkimer had both legs shot off at the battle of Oriskany. Hemade his men put his back to a treestump and with a flintlock riflefired at the enemy until he bled to death. Commodore Lawrence, mortallywounded, had only one order. Schoolbooks hold the words of John Paul,selfnamed Jones, and of Hiram Ulysses Grant. Even yesterday, the oldtradition was alive: 'Enemy landing; issue in doubt.' If I finish mysymphony--"

  "When you finish your symphony--" I encouraged.

  "If you finish your symphony--" said Florence quietly.

  "If I finish my symphony, it must be in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont."His speech took on a hushed, abstracted tone. "Massachusetts, RhodeIsland or Connecticut. New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania--" his voicerose higher-- "Maryland, Virginia or West Virginia--" his shouldersshook and he seemed to be crying-- "North Carolina, South Carolina,Georgia, Florida ..."

  I left them, convinced the madness of the country had found stillanother victim. That night I thankfully boarded the European Clipper forthe last time. The next day I sank back into civilization as into acomfortable bed.

  _63._ "The United States, July 4 (N.A.N.A.)--'A decent respect for theopinion of mankind' dictates the content of this summary. Less than twocenturies past, a small group of smugglers, merchants and plantersunited in an insurrection which in its course gathered to itself such anaccreta of riffraff--debtors, convicts, adventurers, careerists,foreigners, theoreticians, idealists, revolutionaries, soldiers offortune and restless men, that at the height of their numbers theycomposed, with their sympathizers, perhaps a third of the people in thecountry. After seven years of inept war in which they had all thebreaks, including that of a halfhearted enemy, they established 'uponthis continent a new nation.' Some of the phrases thrown off in the heatof propaganda were taken seriously and despite shocked oppositionwritten into basic law.

  "The cryptogram is readable backward or forward, straightaway or upsidedown. Unparalleled resources, the fortuitous historical moment, the tideof immigration drawing on the best of the world, the implicit good inconception necessarily resultant in the explicit best of being; highpurpose, inventive genius, exploratory urge, competitive spirit,fraternal enthusiasm, what does the ascription matter if the end productwas clear for all to see?

  "Is it not fitting that a nation calling itself lightly 'God's Country,'meaning a land abundantly favored by nature, should find its dispatchthrough an act of the benefactor become understandably irritable? Thisis not to pose the editorial question of justice, but to remember inpassing the girdled forests, abused prairies, gullied lands, thestupidly harnessed plains, wasted coal, gas, petroleum; the millions oftons of rich mud denied hungry soil by Mississippi levees and forcedprofitlessly into the salt sea.

  "A small part, a heartbreakingly small part of the United States remainsat this moment. In a matter of weeks even this little must be overrun,stilled and covered green as all graves are. Scattered through the worldthere will be Americans, participants in a bitter diaspora. Forthem--and for their children to be instructed zealously in theformalities of an antique civilization--there can be no Fourth of July,no Thanksgiving; only one holiday will remain, and that continue throughall the year. Its name, of course, is Memorial Day. W.R.L."

  _64._ This was the last dispatch from the once great editor. It wasassumed generally that he had perished with so many others. It was onlysome time later I heard a curious story, for whose authenticity I cannotvouch.

  True to the flippant prediction of Jacson Gootes, Le ffacase returned tothe Church into which he had been born. He went further and became a laybrother, taking upon himself the obligation of silence. Though an oldman, he stayed close to the advancing Grass, giving what assistance andcomfort he could to the refugees. The anecdotes of his sudden appearancein typhusridden camps, mute and gaunt, hastening with water for thefeverish, quieting the terrified with a light touch, praying silentlybeside the dying, sound improbable to me, but I mention them for whatthey are worth.

  _65._ When winter came again, the Canadian government petitioned theParliament at Westminster for crowncolony status and the assent of theQueen's Privy Council was given to the ending of the premier Dominion.All that was left of the largest landmass within the BritishCommonwealth was eastern and northern Quebec, the Maritime Provinces andpart of the Northwest Territories.

  The United States and more than half of Mexico had been wiped from themap. From the Pacific to the Atlantic, from Nome to Veracruz stretched anew Sargasso Sea of _Cynodon dactylon_. A hundred and eighty millionmen, women, and children had been thrust from their homes by a despisedweed.

  I cannot say life on the other continents--and I could call any of them,except possibly Africa, my home--was undisturbed by the disappearance ofthe United States. American competition gone, the tempo of businesslifeseemed to run slower and slower. Production dwindled, prices rose;luxury articles were made in abundance, but manufacturers hesitated toadopt American methods of massproduction for necessities.

  Russia, after her new revolution, was a quiet backwater economically,although politically she caused turmoil by giving a home to the FourthInternational. Germany became the leading iron and steel country, but itwas not an aggressive leadership, rather it was a lackadaisicalacceptance of a fortuitous role; while Britain, often on deathbed butnever a corpse, without question took the lead in international affairs.

  Consolidated Pemmican and Allied Industries was now, if not the largest,certainly one of the largest companies in the world. We purchased sheepin Australia, beef and wheat and corn in South America, rice and milletand eggs in Asia, fruit and sugar and milo in Africa, and what thefarmers of Europe could spare, to process and ship back in palatable,concentrated form to a world which now constituted our market. Besidesall this we had of course our auxiliary concerns, many of whichdominated their respective fields. Ministers of finance consulted mebefore proposing new budgets and there was not a statesman--outside theSocialist Union--who didnt listen respectfully to my suggestions.

  Tony Preblesham had proved an invaluable find. Never the type to whomauthority in the largest matters could be delegated, nevertheless he w
asextremely handy as troubleshooter, exploiter of new territory ornegotiator with competitors or troublesome laborleaders. The pioneerswho had fled to the north had little to offer in payment for the vastquantities of food concentrates they required, but the land was rich infurs, timber, and other resources. With permission of the Danishauthorities I sent Preblesham to Julianthaab. There he established ourheadquarters for Greenland, Iceland, and all that was left of NorthAmerica. From Julianthaab immediately radiated a network of posts whereour products were traded for whatever the refugees could bring in.

  But the Americans who had gone into the icy wastes were not seekingsubsistence. They were striving mightily to reach some place ofsanctuary where they could no longer be menaced by the Grass. Beyond theArctic Circle? Here they might learn to imitate the Innuit, living onfish and seals and an occasional obligingly beached whale. But couldthey be sure, on territory contiguous or very nearly contiguous to thatsupporting the weed, that they could count on immunity? They did notbelieve so. They filled up Newfoundland in the hope that the narrow Gulfof St Lawrence and the narrower Straits of Belle Isle might offerprotective barriers. They crossed on sleds to Baffin Island and inhomemade boats to Greenland. Before the Grass had wiped out theirfamilies, and their less hardy compatriots left behind in Nova Scotiaand Prince Edward Island, these pioneers abandoned the continent oftheir origin; the only effect of their passage having been toexterminate the last of the Innuit by the propagation of the manifolddiseases they had brought with them.

  In the south the tempo was slower, the striving for escape lesshysterical and more philosophic. When the Mexican peon heard the Grasswas in the next village he packed his few belongings and moved fartheraway. From Tampico to Chiapas the nation journeyed easily south, notregretting too loudly the lands left behind, not crowding or jostlingrudely on the highways, not failing to pause for siestas when the sunwas hot, but traveling steadily in a quiet resignation that seemedbeyond resignation--the extension of a gracious will.

  _66._ But the rest of the world, even in the lethargy which had comeupon it in viewing the loss of most of North America, could not affordto leave the Grass to its own devices, content to receive the refugeesit drove out or watch them die. A World Congress to Combat the Grass washastily called in London. It was a distinguished body of representativesfrom all the nations and resembled at its best the now functionlessFederal Disruptions Committee.

  At the opening sitting a delegation with credentials from the Presidentof the United States attempted to join in the proceedings. One of theFrench members rose to inquire of the chairman, Where was the UnitedStates? He, the delegate, had read of such a country, had heard itspoken of--and none too favorably--but did it exist, _de facto_?

  The delegate from Haiti asked for the floor and wished to assure hisdistinguished colleague from the motherland of culture--especially didhe wish to assure this learned gentleman, bound as they were by the samebeautiful and meticulous language--that his country had good reason toknow the United States actually existed--or had done so at one time. Hisglorious land bore scars inflicted by the barbarians. His owngrandfather, a great patriot, had been hunted down by the United StatesMarines as a bandit. He implored a congress with humanitarian designs torefuse admission to the delegates of the socalled United States.

  One of the German delegates, after wiping the perspiration from thethree folds on the back of his neck, said he spoke with great diffidencefor fear of being misunderstood. The formerly existent country had twicedefeated, or apparently defeated, his own in a war and his distinguishedcolleagues might misinterpret the spirit which moved him. Nevertheless,he could not refrain from remarking that it appeared to him that a JustProvidence had wiped out the United States and therefore it would beillogical if not blasphemous for this august body to admit a delegationfrom a nonexistent country.

  The American delegation attempted to point out feebly that Hawaii stillremained and Puerto Rico and Guam. The members from the various sectionsof the British Commonwealth, arguing the precedents of thegovernmentsinexile, urged the acceptance of their credentials. Therepresentative of Switzerland called for a vote and the credentials wererejected.

  This controversy being settled, the body, in high good humor, selected agoverning committee to take whatever measures it deemed necessary toprotect the rest of the world from the menace. After lengthy debate andmuch conflicting testimony from experts a bold plan was endorsed. It wasdecided to complete the digging of the Nicaragua Canal and blow up thatpart of Central America lying between it and the Isthmus of Panama. Itwas a colossal feat of engineering which would cost billions of poundsand untold manpower, but the nations of the world, not without somegrumbling, finally agreed to the expenditure.

  While technicians from all over the world directed laborgangs andsteamshovels, ammunitionships loaded with tons of explosives sailed fromevery port for Panama and Colon. Though at first reluctant with theircontributions, the countries had reconsidered and poured forth theirshares without stint. All obsolete warmaterials were shipped to thescene of action. Prisons were emptied to supply the needed manpower andwhen this measure fell short all without visible means of support wereadded to the roll.

  Shortsightedly Costa Rica protested vigorously the proposed destructionof its entire territory and there were even momentary uprisings ofpatriots who proposed to defend their nation with the last drop ofblood, but commonsense and international amity prevailed, especiallywhen Costa Ricans were promised a territory twice as big as their nativecountry in the hinterland between Colombia and Venezuela, a valuelesstract both nations had been trying in vain to settle for decades.

  Night and day the detonations of highexplosives killed fish on both theAtlantic and Pacific sides of Central America and brought stunned birdsplummeting down from the skies to their death. The coastal plains fellinto the sea, great mountains were reduced to powder and little bylittle the gap between North and South America widened.

  But the progress of the work was infinitesimal compared with the advanceof the Grass. It swept over the ancient Aztec empire down to the Isthmusof Tehuantepec. The ruins of Mayan civilization, excavated once, wereburied anew. The demolition engineers measured their daily progress infeet, the Grass in miles. When the waters of the Atlantic and Pacificmet in Lake Nicaragua, the Grass was in Yucatan. When the first greenrunners invaded Guatemala, a bare twenty miles of northern Panama hadbeen demolished and hardly a start had been made in the destruction ofCosta Rica.

  Fleets of airplanes bombed the connecting strip in the area left byengineers to the last, but as their flights went on the Grass crept intoBritish Honduras. The workers sent another twenty miles of Panama intonothingness and the Grass completed the conquest of Guatemala. They blewup another ten miles and the Grass took over El Salvador. Dynamitewidened the Nicaragua Canal to a ridiculously thin barrier as the Grassoverran Honduras.

  They stood now almost facetoface, the width of one pitiful little BananaRepublic between them. On one hand the Grass, funneled and constrictedto a strip of land absurdly inadequate to support its gargantuan might,on the other the combined resources of man, desperately determined todestroy the bridge before the invader. In tropic heat the work was keptup at superhuman pace. Gangs of native laborers fainting under theirloads were blown skyhigh by impatient technicians unwilling to waste thetime necessary to revive them. In selfdefense the South American statesdoubled their contributions. At the edge of the weed all the offensiveweapons of the world were massed to stay it as long as possible, foreven a day's--even an hour's delay might be invaluable.

  But the Grass overbore the heavy artillery, the flamethrowers, thebombs, the radium, and all the devices in its path. The inventions ofwar whose constant improvement was the pride of the human race offeredno more obstacle to the Grass than a few anthills might to a herd ofstampeding elephants. It swept down to the edge of the ditch and pausedat the fiftymile stretch of saltwater between it and the shapelessisland still offering the temptation of a foothold in front of the nowvastly
enlarged Panama Canal.

  If those engaged in the task, from coordinator-in-chief down to thesweating waterboys, had worked like madmen before, they worked liketriple madmen now, for the wind might blow a single seed onto what hadbeen Costa Rica and undo all they had so far accomplished. Theexplosions were continuous, rocking the diminishing territory withceaseless earthquakes. After an hour on the job men reeled away,deafened, blinded and shocked.

  On the South American side, as had been planned, great supercyclone fanswere set up to blow back any errant seed. Fed by vast hydroelectricplants in the Colombian highlands, the noise of their revolving bladesdrowned out the sounds of the explosions for all those nearby. Theoceans became interested participants and enormously high tides possiblycaused by the difference in level between the Atlantic and Pacific,clawed away great hunks of land. The great island became a small island,the small island an islet. At last nothing but ruffling blue water laybetween the Grass and South America. Over this stretch of sea the greatfans blew their steady breath, protecting the continent behind from thefate of its northern twin.

  The passage between was forbidden to all ships for fear they mightinadvertently act as carriers of the seed. The lost continent was notonly isolated, it was sealed off. From the sharp apex of the invertedtriangle to its broad base in the arctic ice the Grass flourished in oneundisputed prairie, the sole legatee of all the hopes, trials,afflictions, dreams and victories of the men and women who had livedthere since the first alien foot was set upon its soil.

 

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