He searched for familiar faces but saw none and waited in line to make the turn from Market onto 4th Street. At the edge of town the rock quarry had a closed sign and a chain across its access road, and at the turn the mill looked empty and abandoned.
As expected the car dealership was still selling, but even the used car lot was thin with only a few clunkers sagging beneath the bright pennants. The gas company was open but the posted prices at their gasoline pumps made him blink.
He passed the defunct cement plant and saw that the car wash was again closed and for sale. The sights were depressing, and he motored into the cool damp at the start of the long hill toward Bloomfield with the expectation that at least the county seat would be prospering.
It wasn't! Only the bank, pharmacy, and food store were open. There was no restaurant and Clouser's Hardware was tightly locked. Moving the Post Office to new quarters had unexpectedly diverted traffic that often purchased something while mailing or picking up letters.
With county government larger than ever it seemed improbable that an eating place couldn't flourish but none had really made it for a dozen or more years. Maybe the horde of lawyers and their streams of clients were too harried to eat but that too appeared improbable as George's attorney exemplified by his ponderous deliberating and digesting of the last will and testament.
It seemed a simple enough document; the father left everything to his son. The attorney rumbled about appraisals and probate. He mentioned assorted taxes and hinted at possible liens.
Toby finally said, "Look, if it's too tough for you, say so and I'll get someone else."
"What? Why of course it's not too tough, Mr. Shatto, but we must . . . " The man was startled from his comfortable lethargy.
Toby leaned on him. "I've only got a few days. Can you do it or not?"
"Well, we've got to . . ."
"'Yes or no will do."
"I ought to tell you 'No' but your father was my friend so despite your discourtesy, I'll do my best." The lawyer was now angry.
Toby wasn't. "All right. Call Jesse Holman when you need me." Toby left the office expecting he would pay for his urgency, but about the last thing he needed was a lawyer getting around to things at his own convenience. Settling estates could take months, and years were not uncommon. The longer it dragged out the more everyone milked from it.
His sense of urgency wasn't really with the lawyer, however. He just needed to get the duties behind so that his mind could be free to tackle this collapse thing. He felt like a man worrying about locking his front door even as thieves carried everything out the back. He felt saddled with increasingly pointless actions while the end of everything important swirled ever closer.
He let a gaggle of the military school boys tumble by, wondering anew where they came from and to where they disappeared. The old school moldering on the hillside somehow remained solvent, and each year a new cadet crop appeared matching exactly all those previous. Perhaps they had a machine up there that spit them out like cherry pits.
Feeling emotionally weary he wondered what he should do next. He checked his watch and found it late. Jet lag was beating his senses numb, and it was the middle of the night by his Saudi-adjusted biological clock.
A long rest in his old bed would set him straight. He grabbed a quick burger at The Curve and let the rental steer itself back to Pfoutz Valley. His thoughts remained scattered with seemingly a million tasks that demanded performing, but behind them he heard some terminal metronome remorselessly ticking away the easy time still remaining.
+++
Chapter 6
Doctor Roy Kline occupied a small home a few blocks from the campus. He had been retired so long that Penn State's current crop of political science professors knew him only by reputation. Unlike many professors, Kline attended no seminars, made no speeches, and published nothing. His final words on the university campus were alleged to have been, "This place is an intellectual desert!" Many that knew him could believe it.
Toby Shatto remembered Kline as a teacher—blunt and outspoken and a stiff-enough grader to teach only small classes of students more concerned with learning than in racking up 4.0 averages.
He also considered Kline something of a friend, but it had been a long time and it was more than possible the professor would not even remember him.
He took the long sweep of road off the Seven Mountains and eased left at the Spring Mills wye. He drove a little over the speed limit for the final thirteen miles to State College, just putting the distance behind him and recalling how he had always thought that stretch of road boring and interminably long.
Traffic on Atherton Street was light and turning on Beaver Avenue things were so somnolent he thought the university might be between terms. Doctor Kline's home crouched among others equally unnoteworthy and distinguished only by a less kempt lawn and overgrown foliage.
Kline answered Toby's second ring. He glanced sharply at his visitor and motioned him in. He closed the door solidly behind them and led the way down a dim, musty smelling hall to a many-windowed study that opened across a view of roof tops and the closer mountains.
He waved to an empty chair and sank into an obviously favored one. Only then did he level his well remembered gaze and ask, "Now, Shatto, what do you want?"
Despite his wish to be serious Toby had to chuckle.
"You haven't changed, Doctor Kline."
The old man snorted. "No one changes, Shatto. We just get more like we already are. The stupid get stupider, the rich get richer . . . you've heard it before.
"Where have you been since IBM sucked you in? Done anything worth telling about? Discover anything I should know?"
Toby again chuckled. "Put like that I suddenly feel a lot of time wasted, but I've seen a few places and met some unusual people. Anything earthshaking? Nothing comes to mind." He grinned, enjoying the exchange and not minding being put down a little by a good man.
Roy Kline had given up his pipe some years ago, but at times like this, when he was comfortable with the probability of good discussion, he missed the rich tobacco bite with the warmth of the smooth pipe bowl to occupy a hand while the thinking progressed.
He'd liked shaking up Toby Shatto by remembering him so quickly. There was no trick to it. Some students—a very few really—stuck in your mind. The rest blended into a half-familiar many-featured porridge until anywhere you went you saw faces that you thought you might have known.
Shatto certainly hadn't been his most brilliant student, but the youth had shown surprising ability at reaching correct conclusions. Where most reasoning is quite properly linearly pursued with facts begetting facts until a final conclusion is proven, Shatto was somehow able to successfully accomplish quantum-reasoning leaps that gave answers before receiving all of the premises. It was an annoying ability, but also one filled with promise. If Shatto had been just a lucky guesser, Kline would have applied the crunch of professorial power and probably booted him forth into a more suitable and more popular assembly-sized class.
Instead, Kline tinkered with Toby Shatto's special perceptions. He attempted to determine how Shatto did it. How could a student repeatedly reach a logically provable solution or judgment without proceeding through a demonstratable scientific method? Roy Kline never found out. It was like asking someone how they saw or spoke. Shatto couldn't explain it; the answers simply came to him.
The ability brought Toby Shatto no special grades or academic distinctions. Universities do not ask enough of those kinds of questions but Kline knew someone who did. Before Shatto's graduation, IBM was looking at him.
Toby Shatto's only job offer was with IBM, but it was a good one, a year or two of IBM schooling and specialization as a systems engineer on one of the company's many monster computers. Then into the field as a good, properly groomed representative of the world's finest computer family.
Good pay, challenging work, advancement opportunity, assured retirement. What better could a Perry County farm boy expec
t? Toby jumped at it.
IBM was demanding. There were no free rides. No one mentioned or attempted to specifically develop his alleged perceptive abilities. They had been a part of his acceptance criteria. Like a high IQ or mathematical talent, they were considered and then became an entry in his personnel file. How he performed would determine his retention, progress, and direction.
Toby studied until his brain numbed. He played the corporate game, dressing properly and appearing bright and eager, but with adequate respect and humility. Good man, that Toby Shatto!
Until recently his assignments had swung between Detroit and Lansing, Michigan. He had planned, programmed, and troubleshot installations of his particular computer system. The work was exacting and challenging.
From Michigan he could reach Perry County in a single day of hard driving, but he came home only occasionally. Vacations tended to be short and there were many places to see. With other junior IBM'ers he escaped to the Florida Keys to fry in the sun and scratch mosquito bites. They tried the Mardi Gras, slapped thighs and stomped feet in Nashville, and pretended to absorb culture in New York, Chicago, and Washington. It was a full life with interesting labors, stimulating friends, and money enough to enjoy the better things.
His first overseas assignment had been to West Germany, and he had been gone a year. Barely returned, he had been shipped to the west coast for an eighteen month stay.
While there he had been requested by name for a task of major proportions. IBM was pleased to oblige, and with little warning Toby Shatto was off, bag and baggage, to Saudi Arabia.
To acquaintances not familiar with the intricacies of the high-tech world he described his Saudi project as just hooking a lot of terminals into a sort of computer center so that most things in that oil-rich country could be regulated from one place. The description was painfully understated. When activated, the Saudi system would centralize all government functions and most of the private sector within a nuclear hardened shelter. All imports and exports, most internal sales and purchases, and all communications would be recorded, cross referenced, and stored. Hospital activities, border defenses, postal deliveries, and newspaper editorials would all find their places within the vast memory banks and become available, to those authorized, through terminals conveniently located throughout the nation.
Toby Shatto assisted in the planning and oversaw the construction. As the units came on line he eliminated the inevitable glitches and polished the system until it hummed with electronic perfection.
The Saudi system had propelled Toby Shatto far up the column of rising engineers. How far it would take him remained to be seen as he was not quite finished, and even then, the mills would grind slowly determining if he truly had the desired attributes for higher levels. IBM rarely became victim of the Peter Principle and few were elevated beyond their capacities. But, the chance was there and Toby Shatto was en route.
Doctor Kline knew none of this. Toby Shatto had graduated and written a time or two in appreciation of being steered to a good company. Kline doubted he had gotten around to answering. He was often guilty of that neglect. He usually regretted his inaction, but continued the discourtesy.
He listened to Shatto's short résumé of his activities, interrupting only rarely while evaluating the youth's growth to competent manhood.
Physically there was little change. Lines around the eyes and mouth of course but the figure was still lean and the dark eyes still crackled with alert intelligence. How old would he be? About thirty-two Kline supposed. Ten years from degree to competent manhood. The older man thought it took about that long, and he liked what he saw.
When the talk had run down a little Kline shifted his body to a more comfortable position and again asked the obvious question.
"What brings you here looking so serious and determined, Shatto?"
Toby hesitated only a moment, not fearful of speaking an opinion that some would find silly. Roy Kline would understand his concern. He simply took his time to get it just right.
"Doctor Kline, I would like to have your opinion on something I am undecided about. It's an idea I haven't studied or really worked on, and I've no expertise in any of the areas that might prove or disprove. I've just got a gut feeling, a solid, unswerving conviction without any hard evidence. I can't shake it or rationalize it away. It came on suddenly and spread roots that I can't dig out."
He paused to betray slight embarrassment. "You may recall that sometimes answers come to me like that. I've learned to trust a lot of them, and they've helped me with some difficult problems. But this one . . ." He shook his head, frowning in thought.
"Doctor Kline, I suspect . . . No, I am certain—our national economy is going to collapse, and very, very soon."
Kline's eyes sharpened in concentration, but he said nothing and Toby continued.
"I've been out of touch for a good while on that Saudi thing. On the plane coming home the realization hit me as clearly as I am saying it now.
"Why, I don't know. I'd been looking through some of the news magazines, but I don't recall reading anything especially significant.
"Since then, I see strain lines everywhere I look. Impossible prices, businesses folding, shortages, back orders, and credit, credit, credit. People paying ludicrous interest rates, inflation always in double digits, and incredible national debt, with no one doing anything about any of it.
"The trouble is, those things have always been around. Why should I believe this is the time?"
Now Kline really missed his pipe. He would like to draw deeply and hide awhile behind a thick, rich-smelling smoke cloud—giving himself both savoring and pondering time. Instead he just waited for Shatto to continue.
Toby paused another instant. "Then I've the problem of having been raised by a father who lived and preached survival. Maybe I absorbed too much of his thinking. Maybe being outside things too long makes everything appear worse than it really is. You know, thinking a common cold is really lung cancer." He stopped and appeared to be waiting.
Kline asked "And just what is your question to me, Toby?"
"Well, I guess what I am asking is, could I be right? Do you see anything like this in the near future?"
Kline blew his cheeks out, exhaling in resignation, partly in affirmation. He tossed his hands, palms open. "Toby, I don't know."
He stood up to stalk to the window and gaze unseeingly at the familiar view.
"A year ago—six months ago—I would have said that we would stumble on awhile longer, but lately . . . well, many things have come together.
"Oh, my colleagues would disagree, I suppose. They always find a sliver of optimism, but it may be that your special ability has put together what the rest of us can't yet see."
He turned back to his visitor. "God, I hope you are wrong, and the odds are great that you are. Somehow we keep staggering along despite the grossest of shortsighted opportunism, and who is to say we won't luck out again?"
His voice was painfully serious as he continued, appearing only as a silhouette against the lighter sky.
"But Toby, if you are right and our economy truly fails, do you realize what it will mean?"
Toby began to reply but the Doctor continued, answering his own question. "People will starve; industry will collapse; the cities will die; armies will march; governments will fall. Human misery beyond measuring lies within your simple question.
"Listen, can any western nation survive if the American dollar fails? Not a one, Shatto! Will the Soviet Union not seize her chances then? Surely it will.
"And what can replace our dollar? Who will rise to take charge? Will any farmer ever again trade his crop for paper money? Will he ever find fuel to run his tractor or electricity for his milker? Will he eat his cows or will a horde of a city's starving devour them for him?"
The old man slumped back into his chair as though weary, but there was excitement in his voice.
"Did your father see these things, Toby? Do you see them now? If you do
, do they make you afraid to trust your belief? Do they make your mind turn away and say, 'It is just too awful to happen?'
"Do you ask me in hope that I will disagree and you can feel easier in your mind? Or do you only desire some small agreement to settle your thoughts firmly on a course you have already chosen?"
Kline again did not await answers. "Toby, a wiser man than I would probably scoff a little and send you on your way, but he would not know for certain either.
"Facts I can give you. Our national debt is impossible to repay and its interest is eroding us. Welfare programs and do-gooder work suck the laboring population dry.
"Greedy professionals—and I include professors, doctors, undertakers, lawyers, and realtors along with overpaid electricians, plumbers, union bosses and business tycoons—cannibalize the remains.
"Defense costs endlessly rise but—and this is a vital but—the Soviets believe they can win a nuclear war. Their missiles are sized for a successful first strike to destroy ours unlaunched. Ours are too small and aimed at other targets. Russia can already protect 85% of its people from our answering strikes. We can protect almost no one. Yes, they really can survive a nuclear holocaust and we cannot.
"Did you know that Russian industry is dispersed and much of it nuclear hardened? Most of ours will be gone in a first blast.
"While our citizens march and wave banners calling for peace, theirs practice nuclear defense. Are you aware that . . ."
"Doctor, Doctor!" Toby threw his arms in protest. "Such vehemence! And you are right in every detail, but I still have no answer. Is it all about to come down?"
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