by James Gunn
During the daytime the crowds of people clumped together, their luggage deposited around them like megaliths, and talked, at first agitated and then, as anger faded, in bitterness and fear. Others, isolated in cocoons of individual concerns, listened to radios or sat in front of television screens in the bars, drawing their eyes away only to order another round. Some competed for the chairs that were never planned for such a multitude; some stood or sat on their bags or settled on the floor where they could lean against the wall. Some fell asleep.
Troops in khaki and blue and green marched into the terminal and then stood around, smoking cigarettes and feigning nonchalance until ushered first through metal detectors into waiting airplanes; then civilians surged forward, tickets clutched high in one hand, bags held in the other, all but a lucky few to be turned back by sweating airline personnel. Some left the terminal in discouragement, but always more came until gradually, as night fell, the numbers dwindled as some gave up and others drifted toward nearby motels or homes.
By night the terminal had assumed a different character. The coming and going airplanes were more mysterious and less fascinating; they appeared out of nothing preceded by lights glaring like the eyes of mad dragons, and disappeared into nothing, leaving only their thunder behind. The lights in the terminal ceiling far overhead could not replace the sunlight that had streamed through the windows, and people turned to each other, spoke to strangers, confided their problems.
Talking about the terrifying uncertainty of attack, confessing why they had come to this distant place and why they had to get back, laying out their plans for what they would do when they got where they were going, how they would survive the bombs and how they would survive after the bombs, none mentioning the possibility of surrender, none of them repeating the cowardly statement that the living would envy the dead, all of them sure that living, if only for a few more days or a few more hours, was worthwhile, speaking most of all to the man with the curly brown hair and the dark eyes that looked as if they had seen too much for one so young. For he listened, listened while engines roared in the night like carnivorous jungle animals, listened to confidences and revelations in the sterile light of fixtures embedded in concrete beams high above, listened without judging, listened with occasional sounds of sympathy....
...Listened to an older man in uniform who had been called back into service as a member of the reserve, complaining that he had been assured that those in the reserve, because they already had been trained, would be called after everybody else, reflecting that with the potential for worldwide destruction it might not matter whether a person was in the service or at home, shaking his head at the folly of war but his voice hardening when he spoke of the cruelty and barbarity of “the enemy,” he who had been through one war already, but smiling, finally, with the relief of feeling that it was going to be all right anyway.
...Listened to a boy in marine green, his blond hair still cut only half an inch from his pink scalp, just out of boot camp and now, home only three days of a fourteen-day leave and enjoying the admiration of more than one girlfriend, called to rejoin his unit for the real thing, excited, fingers twitching, shoulders jerking, speculating about the thrilling uncertainty ahead, enjoying the anticipation of war, saying that his guys would show them how to fight.
...Listened to a teen-aged girl who had come out here to visit relatives for the summer but now must hurry back to her family so that they could survive—or die—together, depressed and animated in turn, talking about the horrors and insanity of war and her plans for the future as if they could coexist, referring as nastily as she could to the nasty enemy, looking at the boys in uniform with wide, speculative eyes, blushing at their ribald invitations but enjoying them, too.
...Listened to an older man, maybe forty-five or fifty, with eyes gray and deep, here to look for work but now returning to his home to die, if it came to that, where he had lived, talking about success and failure and how it didn't matter any more, and if he were younger he would join up and fight the bastards, as if it would be hand-to-hand combat, but maybe it didn't matter anyway, and the people who died in the city were just as important as the people who pushed buttons that shot weapons.
...Listened to an old woman who had been born in Europe, her face lined with memories, talking with resignation about the dream that was turning to ashes.
...Listened to a young sailor who had just raped a girl, only it wasn't really rape, just a shortage of time.
And measured their guilts and their dreams, their fears and their courage.
And absolved them.
And that was the end of the first day.
* * * *
After the fever of the airports—LaGuardia pulsed at an even higher level—Manhattan was cool. An unbroken stream of traffic was leaving the island on all the bridges and through all the tunnels, and almost no traffic was entering. People moved warily; nobody spoke to anyone else, but occasionally an accidental jostle turned to screams and even blows. And yet the island was calm; people went about their jobs purposefully or fatalistically. But there were fewer of them, and this reduced the pressure.
Johnson checked into the anonymity of the New York Hilton. There was no line at the registration desk and few people loitered in the lobby. The restaurants were almost deserted, even though it was breakfast time.
About ten in the morning Johnson walked the three short blocks to the Associated Press Building in Rockefeller Center and took the elevator to the editorial offices. He told the receptionist that he wanted to see the managing editor. “She's busy right now,” the young man said. He was tall and dark and not particularly good-looking, but he had an expressive face. Right now it expressed suspicion. “May I tell her your name and the business you want to discuss?"
“Bill Johnson,” Johnson said and smiled without showing his teeth. The receptionist's apprehension eased. “And the business I have is how to stop a war."
The receptionist looked at him as if speculating how soon to call Bellevue, but Johnson sat down peacefully in a chair beside an end table with a tall lamp on it, and the receptionist looked away. Johnson picked up a copy of the Associated Press annual report and found that the name of the managing editor was Frances Miller. After half an hour of reading balance sheets, Johnson was ushered into a big office. In it was a big desk made of some dark wood that gleamed in the sunlight coming through a window that looked out upon Rockefeller Plaza. Beside the desk was a computer terminal. Facing it were a couple of armchairs covered in brown leather, and against the right wall was a matching sofa. Several framed pictures adorned paneled walls.
The woman behind the desk did not look like a managing editor or a Frances. She was cool and blonde and beautiful in a gray jacket and skirt and white blouse, but her eyes were gray and hard as if too many people had tried to talk her into too many things. “I understand you want to stop a war,” she said. She looked at the LED time display on her desk. “I'm trying to report one, and I'm busier than you can imagine. You've got two minutes to convince me that I ought to take more than that."
“I've got just six days to stop this war,” he said evenly, and sat down on the front of the chair facing the desk, “and two minutes to convince you to help me.” He held out his hands as if measuring something in front of him. “I have visions of the future."
“Ninety seconds,” she said.
“In five seconds your phone is going to ring, and an assistant editor is going to ask if he can release a bulletin—"
The woman's eyes had switched to the time display. As the five-second period elapsed, the telephone rang. After she put it down, she said, “That was a trick. You heard something when you came in, or saw people talking in the office as you came through."
“Your receptionist is going to knock at the door and ask if you need him. He means, of course, to help get rid of me."
After the receptionist went away Miller forgot to look at her time display again. Instead she looked at Johnson as if she saw h
im for the first time. “What kind of talent do you have?"
“I don't really see the future,” he said, and when she started to speak he held up his right hand, palm up, in a gesture of explanation. “I see visions of what will happen if events take their natural course."
“Extrapolation."
“Yes, but more than just a guess."
“And what do you see now?” she asked, unable to keep a note of skepticism from creeping into her voice.
“Explosions. Flames. People dying. All over the world. Some quickly, vaporized in a fraction of a second. Some lingeringly. A world dying. Everything: animals, plants. I see an Earth as sterile as Venus."
“That's what everybody sees,” she said.
“That's what everybody imagines,” he corrected. “I see it."
His eyes were dark with knowledge and deep with anguish. She looked at them, and then, for the first time, turned her gaze away as if she saw a fellow human suffering and could not help.
“I can see individual tragedies. Your death, for instance."
She held up a slender white hand. “No thanks,” she said, with a touch of irony. “I want to be surprised. You said you had a plan."
“I said that my business was how to stop a war. But I do have a plan.” He leaned forward as if taking her into his confidence. “I don't blame you for being suspicious. Lots of people must want to use you, and anybody could walk off the street with a plan."
Some of her inherent skepticism seemed to fade from her face. “It's just that you said you saw the world in flames."
“That's what will happen if events take their natural course.” His voice was low and authoritative. “The future isn't fixed. I have personal knowledge of that. It can be changed. I hope to change it. I must change it."
The pain in his voice stopped her response for a moment. “How? I suppose the Associated Press plays a part in it?"
“You think this institution should not be used for someone else's purposes?"
“We're used all the time. But we don't do it knowingly unless it fits into our basic job."
“You make the news and people respond to it,” he said.
“We just report what happens."
“Everything?"
“Of course."
“Everything?"
“Well, everything that is news."
“Is it news if you don't report it? I'm just a layman, but it seems to me that there is news you don't report in times like these."
“Like what?"
“News about the enemy that doesn't portray him as nasty, belligerent, murderous, treacherous, ignorant, despicable—"
“Stop!” she said, and smiled wryly. “There's some truth in that, but that's what people want to read."
“Oh,” he said, “I thought you reported everything, not everything people wanted to read."
Her gaze came back to his eyes. “What do you want us to do?” She seemed weary suddenly, as if she had been sitting in that chair making too many decisions for too many hours.
“I can tell you what, but it would be better if you didn't know why. Maybe you can figure that out for yourself.” When she seemed about to speak, he held up a hand. “But it doesn't betray your country or your profession."
“What is it?"
“If you could get out a few items here and there that make the enemy seem human—items about his daily life, his loving acts, his generosity, his sacrifices, his hopes and dreams and fears...."
“I could get such items on the wire,” she said, “but how could I get editors to print them or newscasters to broadcast them?"
“I'm not an expert in such matters,” Johnson mused, “but I think I would assign them to someone very good, who would make the stories funny, dramatic, heartrending, witty—"
“You want us to use news as propaganda?"
“To use news as news. You don't have to invent the stories. They're happening. You aren't reporting them now. That's propaganda for war. Just find out about them and report them. Call it propaganda for peace, if you must, but it's really only complete reporting."
She studied his face. “You're giving me lessons in newspaper ethics.” She paused and turned her chair to look out the window for a moment. When she turned back her face was decisive.
“Will it stop the war?"
“It's an indispensable part."
“Then it's worth a try.” She straightened up and took a deep breath. “I feel ten years younger.” She looked younger, now no longer forty but perhaps only in her early thirties. “What about the Russians? How are you going to get them to print happy news about us?"
“It isn't necessary. Their news is managed and so are their people. If the leaders want peace, there will be peace."
Frances Miller stood up, slender and elegant, and walked around her desk. Johnson stood up as she approached. She took his left hand and turned it over as if to look at the lines in his palm, but her eyes, no longer hard and suspicious, were looking at his face. “Before you came in,” she said, “I would have bet a large amount that no one could talk me into anything this crazy."
“Why did you?"
“Maybe because you seem in so much pain. Who are you?"
“My name is Bill Johnson,” he said.
She made a face. “The most common name in the telephone book in most cities. Where can I reach you if I need to?"
“I'm temporarily at the Hilton.” He smiled. He was temporary everywhere.
“Who are you really?"
“I don't know,” he said. “I woke up yesterday morning and didn't even know my name, only that something terrible was going to happen and that I had to stop it. I'm a man with no past and no future, only a compulsion."
“What else are you going to do?"
“I need information about computer experts,” he said. “Can you help me with that?"
“I'll get our science reporter. If he can't help you, you can look through his files."
By noon Johnson had the name of the man he wanted.
* * * *
The only problem was, the man was in jail.
At the penitentiary, the clerk, dark and sullen, said, “Tom Logan? What you want with him?"
“I need help."
“The kinda help he can give will put him back in jail. Maybe you, too."
“Back?"
“He was released a week ago. Served his time. Got a parole."
“You have an address?"
The clerk shook his head. “Against the rules."
“The name of his parole officer?"
“None of your business. The Russians are going to blow us up, or we're going to blow them up, or we're going to blow each other up, so what does it matter?"
“What would you like to have happen?"
“I'd like to see them blown right off this world,” the clerk said, his upper lip raised to expose carnivorous canines.
“That's what I thought,” Johnson said mildly and turned away.
On the rumbling train back to the city with sunlight still upon the hills and darkness in the Hudson River Valley, Johnson watched the green land and the rolling river as if they were something rare and infinitely valuable. The train had been full when it had gone north. Sailors and soldiers had been salted through the cars. Even the men's room had been crammed with people sitting on benches and seabags or on the floor, leaning against the wall and moving their legs out of the way when men wanted to use the lavatory or the toilet.
Now the train was almost empty, and the few people scattered among vacant seats did not want to be there and had no tolerance for idle conversation. They listened to radios through earplugs or read their newspapers, rattling the pages angrily as if somehow to exorcise the news or the enemy. Occasionally two people would be together, speaking in low voices, as if to be overheard was to reveal one's hopes to dark powers.
When Johnson got back to the hotel the night was late, the sky was overcast, and darkness was complete. A note waited for him to call Frances Miller
. When he dialed the number she answered immediately.
“I thought you'd want to know,” she said. “I've alerted our foreign correspondents, and the stories are coming in. I've got my best human-interest writer working on them, and the first of them ought to be out by morning. They think I'm crazy, you know."
“You're quite sane."
Her laughter was uneasy. “Sometimes I wonder."
“Only a crazy person would want to start a war. The people who want to stop one must be sane. You're working too hard. You're going to kill yourself."
She laughed. This time her voice was steadier. “Better me than a stranger. Are you on to anything?"
“I'll know tomorrow."
“If the world doesn't blow up first."
“We've got a few days left."
“How long?"
“You don't want to know."
“You're right. Knowing something like that would be terrible.” There was a moment of silence as if she were recalling that he bore that terrible knowledge. “Your voice sounds different on the telephone."
“Everyone does."
“I know, but your voice sounds more ... personal, as if I could tell you things."
“What do you want to tell me?"
“Oh"—she laughed—nothing. Maybe some other time. Will we be in touch again?"
“I think so."
“Then good-bye for now."
“Good-bye."
She may have said something, but it was too soft to be heard. A moment later the telephone clicked and the dial tone began.
That was the end of the second day.
* * * *
In the morning the world looked brighter. The clouds had parted and blue skies roofed the city's concrete corridors. The tension in the streets had dropped a level as if the barometer determined the likelihood of war.