Last Gasp

by Trevor Hoyle

  Couldn’t be dead, could he, not in that position? Like that old lady a couple of weeks ago who’d been cold as a side of beef by the time they got to Williamsport? Sweet Jesus, please not another one. He couldn’t go through that routine all over again. Cops with questions. Forms to fill in. The depot manager handing him the hard line about how it was “uncool for the company image.” Fuck the company’s image. He was a bus driver, not a fucking heart surgeon. What was he supposed to do?

  He sighed and looked at his watch. Another forty-five minutes and that was it, thank Christ. Passengers traveling east into New Jersey and New York State had to transfer to sealed transportation at Williamsport. Here the air was breathable, more or less, whereas on the other side of Allentown you choked your goddamn lungs up.

  Come to think of it, hadn’t the kid boarded the bus carrying an oxygen cylinder? That’s right. He’d been cradling it like a baby, as if it were as delicate and as precious too.

  The driver sniffed experimentally. The bus was equipped with a filtration plant, but it wasn’t oxygenated. Anyway, smelled okay to him. What was that disease that guy on TV had said was on the increase? Anorexia? Naw, that was teen-age tarts starving themselves to death. Anoxia. That was it. Maybe the kid suffered from anoxia and needed his own oxygen supply.

  It occurred to him to wonder that if there was a lack of oxygen, would the air smell any different? Wouldn’t he just black out and run the bus off the road? He sniffed again, nervously this time.

  On the back seat Mara sat with folded arms, oblivious to the jolting motion of the bus, oblivious to everything. The small gray metal cylinder was wedged beside him so that it couldn’t roll off the seat.

  He was submerged fathoms deep, his heartbeat like a slow muffled drumbeat, his circulatory and respiratory systems slowed right down to the minimum for life support. Time had no reality. At the very center of his consciousness there was a fierce, white-hot, molten core of purpose. Nothing else mattered or had meaning or existence.

  He didn’t have to think.

  The instruction had been implanted during trance.

  It told him precisely what had to be done.

  And how it was to be achieved.

  His life and being were dedicated to the single act he was about to perform. In the language of the Faith he was approaching the moment of Optimum Orbital Trajectory. In that moment everything he had learned would become meaningful and fulfill its purpose in the one supreme act.

  The world must be cleansed, the litany unrolled endlessly inside his head. Consumed in the purging flames of damnation. The world is evil and must die in order to be reborn, according to the teaching and prophecy of Bhumi Bhap, Earth Father.

  And I, Mara thought exultantly, I am the chosen instrument of sweet searing death.

  They had seen all the sights and visited the tourist attractions. The Statue of Liberty inside its transparent protective dome, like an ornate green cake under a glass cover; the Empire State Building, where they had hired masks and strolled blindly around the now purposeless observation deck on the one hundred and second floor; Central Park with its hellish landscape of stunted trees, gray grass, searchlight towers, and graffiti scrawled in blood on Wollman Rink; the eternal guitar-shaped holographic flame of the John Lennon Memorial on the upper west side; Checkpoint X, which marked the entrance into the electrified perimeter fence surrounding Harlem; the one remaining steel-and-glass rectangle of the World Trade Center alongside its shattered sister tower, which had burned down in the three-week-long hostage caper in 2005.

  Dan was eager to see everything. Rather than to enjoy the experience itself, Chase suspected, this was more so that he could boast afterward of having been to New York, which was considered daring and dangerous, like penetrating a forbidden zone, a dark continent.

  They dined with Ruth at a small restaurant on Third Avenue. All that day Dan had been chirpy and in high spirits, and so the change in him was apparent straightaway. He hardly touched his ragout de boeuf bourguignon. He looked pale and said he felt sick. Chase wanted to get him to the hospital, but Ruth advised against it; hospitals in New York were no places for sick people. Her apartment was three blocks away and they managed to get him there in a sealed cab. In the bathroom he heaved up some stringy black bile and complained of dizziness and buzzing in the ears. Ruth examined him and said he had a touch of “Manhattan Lung,” prescribed aspirin and rest, and insisted on putting him in her own bed.

  Chase felt guilty at this imposition, though Ruth told him she had two days off-duty owed her and could catch up on her sleep later.

  “It isn’t anything serious?” he asked when they had tucked Dan in and closed the bedroom door.

  “Most out-of-towners feel the effects. Streaming eyes, nausea, dizziness, and so forth. You can’t help breathing in some of the foul stuff that passes for air in this city.” Ruth poured out two glasses of bourbon. “Were you outside for any length of time today?”

  “For minutes at a time, that’s all, between cars and enclosures. What did you call it? ‘Manhattan Lung?’

  Ruth nodded. “Some people are more allergic than others. Don’t worry, Gavin, he’ll be fine in the morning. He’s young and strong.” She gave him a reassuring smile and sat back in the square chunky armchair. The living room was furnished with period pieces and bric-a-brac in the style known as mid-century kitsch. There was a half-moon coffee table inlaid with tiles of antique cars. The three-pronged tubular light fitting had inverted pink plastic shades. In an alcove were a circular dining table and four chairs in matching blond wood.

  “Why does anyone stay here?” Chase asked with genuine consternation. “Why do you, for God’s sake?”

  “I guess people just come to accept things. Conditions get worse year by year and you learn to live with them.” Ruth shrugged, the green velvety material of her dress, pinned by a dark green brooch at the gathered neckline, emphasizing the pale rounded smoothness of her neck and shoulders. “Think of the really terrible conditions people have endured in the past. New York isn’t the first city to choke its inhabitants to death. It’s been going on for centuries.”

  “Is it safe for Dan to travel? The sooner I get him out of this place, the better.”

  “Let him rest for a couple of days, then it should be okay. Are you ready to leave right away? What about your business at the UN?”

  “Good question.” Chase sipped his drink. “Wish I knew the answer.”

  “The answer to what?”

  Chase told her about his meeting with the secretary-general and Senator Prothero. It wasn’t so much, he felt, that he needed Ruth’s advice as to air his own feelings, examine his own doubts out loud. She was a receptive audience and could be trusted.

  As he spoke he could see Ruth becoming absorbed in the proposal as put to him by Ingrid Van Dorn and Prothero. Finally she said, “Quite honestly I don’t see the dilemma. If it’s technically possible, then you’ve got to do it.”

  “But don’t you see, Ruth, that is the dilemma.”

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know if it can be done—nobody does. Take any ten scientists and you’ll get three who’ll say yes, three who’ll say no, and the other four wouldn’t care to express an opinion either way.”

  “Then suppose we leave the environment alone,” Ruth said. “Does it have the ability to restore the natural balance without our interfering? Perhaps in a few years time the biosphere will revert back to normal.”

  “There’s no such thing as a ‘normal’ biosphere,” Chase explained. “Life creates the conditions for its own existence. Before life appeared this planet was incapable of supporting life. What’s happened now is that we’ve come full circle and the converse is true: Life has created the conditions for its own extinction.” '

  “Does that mean those conditions will get steadily worse and there’s nothing we can do about them?”

  Chase shook his head wearily. “I don’t know. Nature has no ethics; it’s not bound by moral
considerations. It simply obeys the fundamental laws of cause and effect, of supply and demand. It doesn’t concern itself with whether conditions are suitable for life or not. Species are created and become extinct while nature looks on indifferently.”

  “Ingrid Van Dorn and Senator Prothero seem to think we can alter things positively.”

  “They’re not scientists. It’s hope, blind faith, nothing more.”

  Ruth watched him closely. “And you think it’s futile.”

  “Oh, no. If I thought it were futile I wouldn’t need to think twice.” Chase pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, rubbing the tiredness away. He raised his head, blinking. “You think I’m making excuses?”

  “Yes, I do,” Ruth said bluntly.

  “But why me, for Christ’s sake? I’m not a climatologist or an atmospheric physicist—”

  “One minute you’re saying that none of the so-called experts can agree, the next you’re saying you’re not fit for the job. But just think what someone with your reputation and influence could achieve! That’s why they approached you, why they need you—you must see that!”

  A siren wailed somewhere in the city, sounding like a bird crying mournfully in the wilderness.

  Ruth went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. She came back and knelt down next to the half-moon table to pour. Chase tried not to stare but couldn’t stop his eyes following the luminously pale contours of her shoulders and the upper parts of her breasts above the green swathe of material. He looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. What ought he to do? Leave Dan here and come back for him in the morning? There was another option, which at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to consider too closely.

  “When do you have to give them a decision?” Ruth asked, handing him his coffee.

  “What?” He dragged his mind back.

  “Whether or not you’re going to accept.”

  “Before I leave town. In a day or two.”

  Ruth cupped her hands around the mug. In between sips she said, “You can stay the night if you want to.” She looked at him. “I want you to.”

  Chase paused with the mug halfway to his lips.

  “Of course we don’t have to make love,” Ruth said with a crooked half-smile. “There’s no compulsion.”

  “There’s no compulsion,” Chase agreed. “But I’m not made of steel and you’re no paper doll.”

  She had straightened up, still kneeling, and the heady sensuous smell of perfume and warm female filled his nostrils. The kiss lasted a long time, Chase tumbling gently into warm perfumed darkness, his senses shimmering and fully alive.

  Behind them the crack in the bedroom door thinned to a black line and vanished without a sound.

  “Ruth, I’m sorry.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Is it because of your son?”

  “No.”

  “Me?”

  Chase shook his head. “Certainly not you.” He felt tongue-tied and horribly embarrassed. “It’s stupid. You wouldn’t understand. Something that was done to me when I was married—years ago. I just don’t like the idea of doing the same thing to someone else, someone I love.” It sounded so feeble and saintlike that he couldn’t meet her eye. “Never apologize or explain to a woman who’s been rebuffed,” Ruth said brightly, her face brittle as if any any moment it might shatter. “Doesn’t make her feel any better, you know. Only much, much worse.”

  A man with a reddish beard and a bald head fringed by curly gingerish hair strode through the crowd and stuck out his hand. Chase stared at him for a full five seconds. Then he said involuntarily, “What in hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m the welcoming committee,” said Nick Power with a grin, pumping his hand. “Didn’t Gene mention I worked in his department? Gav, it’s great to see you again!”

  Nick chattered on as they walked across the concourse of the Princeton monorail terminal and down the steps into a large glass-enclosed parking lot. A winking neon sign cautioned ELECTRIC VEHICLES ONLY!

  “Came over in ’97 and spent a year with a government outfit in Washington. Bloody awful! Then I applied for a post at the Geophysical Fluid Dynamics Lab and I’ve been here ever since. Gene didn’t know we knew each other, but I saw the program you two did together and when he told me you were coming down I volunteered to meet you. You’re looking well, you old bastard!”

  Chase dropped his briefcase onto the rear seat of the small battery-powered runabout. “Still working in glaciology?”

  “That and fifty other things,” Nick replied cheerfully, climbing in behind the wheel. “We all pitch in here. Climatology, meteorology, paleontology, Scientology—” He registered Chase’s reaction. “Joke.” He swung the little car around in a tight circle and coasted down the tunnel ramp to the street. “How long are you staying?”

  “I have to get back to New York later today. My son’s there. I want to get him away as soon as I can.”

  “That’s a pity. If you were staying over you could have met Jen, my wife.” Nick’s face contorted hideously. “Can you believe it—me marrying somebody called ‘Jennifer’? Shit and corruption.”

  “I don’t know, you seem to be thriving on it,” Chase said. He grinned, genuinely pleased to have run across Nick after all this time. Perhaps it was a good omen.

  “She’s thriving, I’m losing my hair,” Nick said, patting the top of his head. “But she’s a truly wunnerful person and we have a wunnerful daughter.”

  “Are you still smoking the Moroccan Blue?”

  “Algerian Red.” Nick pursed his lips in wistful remembrance. “Wow, that was prime stuff, my boy. You can’t get hold of natural health-giving weed like that nowadays. Now it’s all chemical shit. After a couple of trips you start to smell like a photographer’s rubber apron.”

  Chase laughed, his spirits lifting. After New York Nick’s company was as bracing as a breath of pure clean air.

  The white modular construction of the Geophysical Fluid Dynamics Laboratory reminded Chase of a cubist painting. Nick showed his pass and they went up to Gene Lucas’s office on the second floor, which, like the man, was neat and tidy to the point of prim fastidiousness. A blackboard took up all of one wall. Even the equations were written in a carefully rounded hand in chalk of different colors. Diagrams, flow charts, and memoranda were pinned in precise patterns to the cork boards along two walls. The window looked out onto a deserted campus, wraiths of mist draping the trees.

  The Peterson pipe that Gene Lucas was smoking looked several sizes too big for him. He shook hands, remarking in his soft drawl that he thought Chase was way out west somewhere; he certainly hadn’t expected his call.

  Now that Chase had made up his mind to head the project he was anxious to get started. He told them as much as he knew, which as he spoke seemed to him to be precious damn little.

  “Who’s funding this grandiose enterprise?” Nick inquired, picking idly at a loose thread in his striped pullover. “The estate of Howard Hughes?”

  “They’ve assured me—Van Dorn and Prothero, that is—that they can raise the money,” Chase said, stroking his beard. He shrugged and looked across the desk to where Gene Lucas, pipe clenched between his teeth, was leaning back in an aluminum chair with a padded headrest. “I told them straight off that this was a multimillion-dollar undertaking and it didn’t phase them one bit. I suppose there are wealthy people around who feel their money isn’t much use if there isn’t a world to spend it in.”

  Lucas wafted smoke away. “This is quite some job you’ve landed yourself, Gavin,” he said. “One helluva job.”

  Chase opened his briefcase and took out three photocopied sheets stapled together. He passed them across the desk. “That’s why I’m here, Gene. This is a list of the people I intend to approach. Seventy-four names.” He had another thought, asked for the sheets back, and added another name. “Seventy-five.” To Nick Power he said, “Sorry about that. If I’d kn
own you were here I’d have put you top of the list.”

  Nick groaned. “Please, Gav, just forget we ever knew each other. That kind of favor I can do without.”

  Lucas glanced up. “You’ve put Frank Hanamura down.”

  “He’s one of the top people in his field. That electrolysis idea of his might be the answer—or one of them.”

  Lucas went back to the list with a noncommittal grunt. He didn’t seem impressed. After a few moments he laid it aside. “You want me to comment, Gavin? Your nucleus of scientists sounds all right: atmospheric physicists, oceanographers, climatologists, all good research people, strong on theory. But you’re going to need a lot of practical help too. Engineers, lab technicians, computer staff, people with practical skills. The backup team is essential if this project isn’t just going to turn into a seminar of abstract theories that never get off the blackboard. It’s practical solutions you want, right?”

  “The more practical the better,” Chase said. “Any names you feel ought to be on the list, go ahead and put them down. I’d be grateful for your advice and help, Gene.”

  Lucas nodded. “Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you. Where are you planning to be over the next couple of weeks?”

  “I spoke to Prothero on the phone yesterday and he wants me to look over the Desert Range site at Wah Wah Springs. First I intend to get my son out of New York and then I’ll fly out there.”

  Nick’s face lit up. “Listen, he could stay with us. Our house is northwest of town, in the country, and the air is clean by New York standards. Sure, send him here, Gav. Jen and my daughter, Jo, will like that.”

  Chase thanked him and turned to Lucas. “There’s something else you could help me with, a second opinion on the Desert Range site. If it’s suitable Prothero believes we can take it over without the Defense Department being any the wiser. Anyone you could spare for a day or two?”

  “Yes, we can fix that,” Lucas said promptly. “Can’t we, Nick?” Nick Power gave Lucas the steely eye. His head fell back and he stared disconsolately at the ceiling. “I knew this wasn’t going to be my day when I couldn’t find the strato-shuttle in the cornflakes packet.” He sighed heavily. “I guess everyone ought to visit Utah once before they die. Then they’ll know the difference.”