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 shoots
grown by Miss Francis from seeds of the inoculated plant. A genuine
freak, this time, I thought, and promptly forgot the item.
Would have forgotten it, I should say, had I not an hour later received
a telegram, RETURN INSTANTLY CAN USE YOUR IMPRESSIONS OF NEW GRASS
LEFFACASE. I knew from the fact he had only used nine of the ten words
paid for he considered the situation serious.
The answer prompted by impulse would, I knew, not be transmitted by the
telegraph company and on second thought I saw no reason why I should not
take advantage of the editor's need. Business was slack and I was
overworked; a succession of petty annoyances had driven me almost to a
nervous breakdown and a vacation at the expense of the New Los Angeles
_Daily Intelligencer_ sounded pleasantly restful after the serious work
of grappling with industrial affairs. Of course I did not need their
paltry few dollars, but at the moment some of my assets were frozen and
a weekly paycheck would be temporarily convenient, saving me the bother
of liquidating a portion of my smaller investments.
Besides, if, as was barely possible, this new growth was in some
unbelievable way an extension of the old, it would of course ruin our
sales 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 the
runway of the magnificent New Los Angeles airport.
I was in no great hurry to see the editor, but took a taxi instead to
the headquarters of the American Alpinists Incorporated where there was
frank worry over the news and acknowledgment that no further
consignments of pemmican would be accepted until the situation became
more settled. I left their offices in a thoughtful mood. Pausing only to
wire Fles to unload as much stock as he could--for even if this were
only a temporary scare it would undoubtedly affect the market--I finally
drove to the _Intelligencer_.
Knowing Le ffaçasé I hardly expected to be received with either
cordiality or politeness, but I was not quite prepared for the actual
salute. A replica of his original office had been devised, even to the
shabby letters on the door, and he was seated in his chair beneath the
gallery of cartoons. He began calmly enough when I entered, speaking in
a 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 inimitable
way, a bad penny always turns up. I could not say _canis revertit suam
vomitem_, for it would invert a relationship--the puke has returned to
the dog.
"It is a sad thought that the listless exercise which eventuated in your
begetting was indulged in by two whose genes and chromosomes united to
produce a male rather than a female child. For think, Weener, if you had
been born a woman, with what gusto would you have peddled your flaccid
flesh upon the city streets and offered your miserable dogsbody to the
reluctant use of undiscriminating customers. You are the paradigmatic
whore, Weener, and I weep for the physiological accident which condemns
you to sell your servility rather than your vulva. Ah, Weener, it
restores my faith in human depravity to have you around to attempt your
petty confidence tricks on me once more; I rejoice to find I had not
overestimated mankind as long as I can see one aspect of it embodied in
your 'homely face and bad complexion,' as the great Gilbert so mildly
put it. I shall give orders to triplelock the pettycash, to count the
stampmoney diligently, to watch all checks for inept forgery. Welcome
back to the _Intelligencer_ and be grateful for nature's mistakes, since
they afford you employment as well as existence.
"But enough of the friendly garrulousness of an old man whose powers are
failing. Remove your unwholesomelooking person from my sight and convey
the decrepit vehicle of your spirit to San Diego. It is but a gesture; I
expect no coherent words from your clogged and sputtery pen; but while I
am sufficiently like yourself to deceive the public into thinking you
have written what they read, I am not yet great enough scoundrel to do
so without your visiting the scene of your presumed labors. Go--and do
not stop on the way to draw expensemoney from the cashier for she has
strict orders not to pay it."
Jealousy, nothing but jealousy, I thought, first of my literary ability
and now of my independence of his crazy whims. I turned my back
deliberately and walked slowly out, to show my contempt for his
rantings.
In my heart, now, there was little doubt the new grass was an extension
of the old and it didnt take more than a single look at the overrun park
to confirm this. The same creeping runners growing perceptibly from
instant to instant, the same brilliant color, the same towering central
mass gorged with food. I could have described it line by line and blade
by blade in my sleep. I wasted no more time gazing at it, but hurried
away after hardly more than a minute's inspection.
I could take no credit for my perceptivity since everyone in San Diego
knew as well as I that this was no duplicate freak, but the same, the
identical, the fearsome grass. But a quite understandable conspiracy had
been tacitly entered into; the knowledge was successfully hushed until
property could be disposed of before it became quite worthless. The
conspiracy defeated itself, however, with so many frantic sellers
competing against each other and the news was out by the time the first
of my new columns appeared in the _Intelligencer_.
The first question which occurred to those of us calm enough to escape
panic was, how had the weed jumped the saltband? It was answered
simultaneously by many learned professors whose desire to break into
print and share the front page with the terrible grass overcame their
natural academic reticence. There was no doubt that originally the
peculiar voracity of the inoculated plant had not been inherited; but
it was equally uncontroverted that somehow, during the period it had
been halted by the salt, a mutation had happened and now every wind
blowing over the weed carried seeds no longer innocent but bearing
embryos of the destroyer.
Terror ran before the grass like a herald. The shock felt when Los
Angeles went down was multiplied tenfold. Now there was no predictable
course men could shape their actions to avoid. No longer was it possible
to watch and chart the daily advance of a single body so a partially
accurate picture could be formed of what might be expected tomorrow.
Instead of one mass there were countless ones; at the whim of a chance
wind or bird, seeds might alight in an area apparently safe and
overwhelm a community miles away from the living glacier. No place was
out of range of the attack; no square foot of land kept any value.
The stockmarket crashed, and I congratulated myself on having sent Fles
orders to sell. A day or two later the exchanges were closed and,
shortly after, the banks. Business came to a practical standstill. The
great industries shut down and all normal transactions of daily life
were conducted by means of barter. For the first time in threequarters
of a century the farmer was topdog; his eggs and milk, his wheat and
corn and potatoes he could exchange for whatever he fancied and on his
own terms. Fortunately for starving citydwellers his appetite for
manufactured articles and for luxuries was insatiable; their
automobiles, furcoats, costumejewelry, washingmachines, files of the
_National Geographic_, and their periodfurniture left the city flat for
the farm, to come back in the more acceptable form of steaks, butter,
fowl, and turnips. The whole elaborate structure of money and credit
seemed to disappear overnight like some tenuous dream.
The frenzied actions of the humanbeings had no effect on the grass. The
saltband still stood inviolate, as did smaller counterparts hastily laid
around the earlier of the seedborne growths, but everywhere else the
grass swept ahead like a tidalwave, its speed seemingly increased by the
months of repression behind. It swallowed San Diego in a gulp and
leaped beyond the United States to take in Baja California in one swift
downward lick. It sprang upon the deserts, whose lack of water was no
deterrent, now always sending little groups ahead like paratroopers or
fifthcolumnists; they established positions till the main body came up
and consolidated them. It curled up the high mountains, leaving only the
snow on their peaks unmolested and it jumped over struggling rivers with
the dexterity of a girl playing hopscotch.
It lunged eastward into Arizona and Nevada, it swarmed north up the San
Joaquin Valley through Fresno and spilled over the lip of the High
Sierras toward Lake Tahoe. New Los Angeles, its back protected by the
Salton Sea, was, like the original one, subjected to a pincer movement
which strangled the promising life from it before it was two years old.
Forced to move again, Le ffaçasé characteristically demanded the burden
fall upon the employees of the paper, paying them off in scrip on the
poor excuse that no money was available. I saw no future in staying with
this sinking ship and eager to be back at the center of things--Fles
wrote me that the large stock of pemmican which had been accumulating
without buyers could now be very profitably disposed of--I severed my
connection for the second time with the _Intelligencer_ and returned to
my proper sphere.
This of course did not mean that I failed to follow each step of the
grass; such a course would have been quite impossible since its every
move affected the life and fortune of every citizen. By some strange
freak it spared the entire coast north of Santa Barbara. Whether it had
some disinclination to approach saltwater--it had been notably slow in
its original advance westward--or whether it was sheer accident, San
Luis Obispo, Monterey and San Francisco remained untouched as the cities
to the south and east were buried under grassy avalanches. This odd
mercy raised queer hopes in some: perhaps their town or their state
would be saved.
The prostration of the country which had begun with the first wave of
panic could not be allowed to continue. The government moved in and
seized, first the banks and then the railroads. Abandoned realestate was
declared forfeit and opened to homesteading. Prices were pegged and
farmers forced to pay taxes in produce.
Although these measures restored a similitude of life to the nation, it
remained but a feeble imitation of its previous self. Many of the idle
factories failed to reopen, others moved with painful caution. Goods,
already scarce, disappeared almost completely and at the same time a
reckless disregard of formerly sacred symbols seized upon the people.
The grass was coming, so what good was the lot on which they were paying
installments? The grass was coming, so why gather together the dollars
to meet the interest on the mortgage? The grass was coming--what was the
use of depositing money in the bank which would probably go bust
tomorrow?
The inflation would have been worse had it not been for the pegged
prices and other stern measures. The glut on the labor market was
tremendous and wages reached the vanishing point in a currency which
would buy little. Suddenly, the United States, which had so long boasted
of being the richest country in the world, found itself desperately
poor.
Government work projects did little to relieve the suffering of the
proletariat. Deaths from malnutrition mounted and the feeble strikes in
the few operating industries were easily and quickly crushed by starving
strikebreakers ashamed of their deed yet desperately eager to feed their
hungry families. Riots broke out in New York and Detroit, but the police
were fortunately wellfed and the arms wielding the blackjacks which
crushed the skulls of the undernourished rioters were stout.
There was a sweeping revival of organized religion and men too broke to
afford the neighborhood movie flocked to the churches. Brother Paul, now
on a national hookup, repeated his exhortations to all Christians,
urging them to join their Savior in the midst of the grass. There was
great agitation for restraining him; more reserved pastors pointed out
that he was responsible for increasing the national suicide rate, but
the Federal Communications Commission took no action against him,
possibly because, as some said, it was cheaper to let a percentage of
the 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, and
children as before. Not one tenth of the national wealth had been
destroyed by the grass or a sixth of the country given up to it, yet it
had done what seven wars and many vicissitudes had failed to do: it
brought the country to the nadir of its existence, to a hopeless
despondency unknown at Valley Forge.
At this desperate point the federal government decided it could no
longer temporize with the clamor for using atomic power against the
grass. All the arguments so weighty at first became insignificant
against the insolent facts. It was announced in a Washington
pressconference that as soon as arrangements could be made the most
fearful of all weapons would be employed.
_38._ No one doubted the atomicbomb would do the trick, finally and
conclusively. The searing, volcanic heat, irresistible penetration,
efficient destructiveness and the aftermath of apocalyptic radiation
promised the end of the grass.
When I say no one, of course I mean no clearthinking person of vision
with his feet on the ground who didnt go deliberately out of his way to
look for the dark side of things. Naturally there were crackpots, as
there always are, who opposed the use of the bomb for various untenable
reasons, and among them I was not surprised to find Miss Francis.
Though her pessimistic and unpopular opinions had been discredited time
and again, the newspapers, possibly to enliven their now perpetually
gloomy columns with a little humor, gave some space to interviews which,
with variations predicated on editorial policy, ran something like
this:
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 her
at all and didnt treat her views with dignified silence quickly
demonstrated the absurdity of her objections. Chainreactions and
radioactive advanceguard! Sundaysupplement stuff, without the slightest
basis of reasoning; not a mathematical symbol or laboratory experiment
to back up these fictional nightmares. And not use external weapons,
indeed! Was the grass to be hypnotized then? Or made to change its
behaviorpatterns through judicious sessions with psychoanalysts
stationed along its periphery?
Whether because of Miss Francis' prophesies or not, it would be futile
to deny that a certain amount of trepidation accompanied the decision to
use the bomb. Residents of Arizona wanted it dropped in California; San
Franciscans urged the poetic justice and great utility of applying it to
the very spot where the growth originated; all were in favor of the
devastation at the farthest possible distance from themselves.
Partly in response to this pressure and partly in consideration of other
factors, including the possibility of international repercussions, the
Commission to Combat Dangerous Vegetation decided on one of the least
awesome bombs in the catalogue. Just a little bomb--hardly more than a
toy, a plaything, the very smallest practicable--ought to allay all
fears and set everyone's mind at rest. If it were effective, a bigger
one could be employed, or numbers of smaller ones.
This much being settled, there was still the question of where to
initiate the attack. Edge or heart? Once more there was controversy, but
it lacked the enthusiasm remembered by veterans of the salt argument; a
certain lassitude in debate was evident as though too much excitement
had been dissipated on earlier hopes, leaving none for this one. There
was little grumbling or soreness when the decision was finally confirmed
to let fall the bomb on what had been Long Beach.
When I read of the elaborate preparations being made to cover the great
event, of the special writers, experts, broadcasters, cameramen, I was
thankful indeed I was no longer a newspaperman, arbitrarily to be
ordered aloft or sent aboard some erratic craft offshore on the bare
chance I might catch a comprehensive or distinctive enough glance of the
action to repay an editor for my discomfort. Instead, I sat contentedly
in my apartment and listened to the radio.
Whether our expectations had been too high or whether all the
eyewitnesses became simultaneously inept, I must say the spot broadcast
and 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 precise
order; nothing new, nothing startling, and I imagine the rest of the
country, as I did, turned away from the radio with a distinct feeling of
having been let down.
First observation through telescope and by airplanes keeping a
necessarily cautious distance, showed the bomb had destroyed a patch of
vegetation about as large as had been expected. Though not spectacular,
the bombing had apparently been effective on a comparatively small
segment and it was anticipated that as soon as it was safe to come close
and confirm this, the action would be repeated on a larger scale. While
hundreds more of the baby bombs, as they were now affectionately called,
were ordered and preparations made systematically to blast the grass out
of existence, the aerial observers kept swooping in closer and closer
with cameras trained to catch every aspect of the damage.
There was no doubt an area of approximately four square miles had been
utterly cleaned of the weed and a further zone nine times that size had
been smashed and riven, the grass there torn and mangled--in all
probability deprived of life. Successive reconnoitering showed no
changes in the annihilated center, but on the tenth day after the
explosion a most startling observation of the peripheral region was
made. It had turned a brilliant orange.
Not a brown or yellow, or any of the various shades of decay which
Bermuda in its original form took on at times, but a glowing and
unearthly, jewellike blaze.
The strange color was strictly confined to the devastated edge of the
bombcrater; airmen flying low could see its distinction from the rest of
the mass clear and sharp. In the center, nothing; around it, the weird
orange; and beyond, the usual and accustomed green.
But on second look, not quite usual, not quite accustomed. The
inoculated grass had always been a shade or two more intense than
ordinary _Cynodon dactylon_; this, just beyond the orange, was still
more brilliant. Not only that, but it behaved unaccountably. It writhed
and spumed upward in great clumps, culminating in enormous, overhanging
caps inevitably suggesting the mushroomcloud of the bomb.
The grass had always been cautious of the sea; now the dazzling growth
plunged into the saltwater with frenzy, leaping and building upon
itself. Great masses of vegetation, piers, causeways, isthmuses of grass
offered the illusion of growing out of the ocean bottom, linking
themselves to the land, extending too late the lost coast far out into
the Pacific.
But this was far from the last aftereffect. Though attention had
naturally been diverted from the orange band to the eccentric behavior
of the contiguous grass, it did not go unobserved and about a week after
its first change of color it seemed to be losing its unnatural hue and
turning green again.
Not the green of the great mass, nor of the queer periphery, nor of
uninspired devilgrass. It was a green unknown in living plant before; a
glassy, translucent green, the green of a cathedral window in the
moonlight. By contrast, the widening circle about it seemed subdued and
orderly. The fantastic shapes, the tortured writhings, the unnatural
extensions into the ocean were no longer manifest, instead, for miles
around the ravaged spot where the bomb had been dropped, the grass burst
into bloom. Purple flowers appeared--not the usual muddy brown, faintly
mauve--but a redviolet, brilliant and clear. The period of generation
was abnormally shortened; seed was borne almost instantly--but the seed
was 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 upward
in incredible quantities, so that for hundreds of miles the sky was
obscured by this cloud bearing the germ of the inoculated grass.
It drifted easily and the winds blew it beyond the confines of the
creeping parent. It lit on spots far from the threatening advance and
sprouted overnight into great clumps of devilgrass. All the anxiety and
panic 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 a
spot apparently beyond danger might be threatened and attacked.
Immediately men remembered the exotic growth of flowers which came up to
hide some of London's scars after the blitz and the lush plantlife
observed in Hiroshima. Why hadnt the allwise scientists remembered and
taken them into account before the bomb was dropped? Why had they been
blind to this obvious danger? Fortunately the anger and terror were
assuaged. Observers soon discovered the mutants were sterile, incapable
of reproduction. More than that: though the new clumps spread and
flourished and grew rapidly, they lacked the tenacity and stamina of the
parent. Eventually they withered and dwindled and were in the end no
different from the uninoculated grass.
Now a third change was seen in the color band. The green turned
distinctly blue and the sharp line between it and the rest of the weed
vanished as the blueness shaded out imperceptibly over miles into the
green. The barren spot made by the bomb was covered; the whole mass of
vegetation, thousands of square miles of it, was animated by a surging
new vigor, so that eastward and southward the rampant tentacles jumped
to capture and occupy great new swaths of territory.
Triumphantly Brother Paul castigated the bombardiers and urged
repentance for the blasphemy to avert further welldeserved punishment.
Grudgingly, one or two papers recalled Miss Francis' warning. Churches
opened their doors on special days of humiliation and fasting. But for
most of the people there was a general feeling of relief; the ultimate
in weapons had been used; the grass would wear itself out in good time;
meanwhile, they were thankful the effect of the atomicbomb had been no
worse. 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 radio
practically all my waking hours, much to the distress of Button Fles.
Every report, every scrap of news interested me. So it was that I caught
an item in a newscast, probably unheard by most, or smiled aside, if
heard. _Red Egg_, organ of the Russian Poultry Farmers, editorialized,
"a certain imperialist nation, unscrupulously pilfering the technical
advance of Soviet Science, is using atomic power, contrary to
international law. This is intolerable to a peace-loving people
embracing 1/6 of the earth's surface and the poultrymen of the
Collective, _Little Red Father_, have unanimously protested against such
capitalist aggression which can only be directed against the Soviet
Union."
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 Soviet
Republics declared a state of war existed--through no action of its
own--between the United States and the Soviet Union.
_39._ At first the people were incredulous. They could not believe the
radio reports were anything but a ghastly mistake, an accidental
garbling produced by atmospheric conditions. Historians had told them
from their schooldays of traditional Russian-American friendship. The
Russian Fleet came to the Atlantic coast in 1862 to escape revolutionary
infection, but the Americans innocently took it as a gesture of
solidarity in the Civil War. The Communist party had repeated with the
monotony of a popular hymntune at a revival that the Soviet Union asked
only 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 it
ever had been--a socialist country; its imperialism stemming directly
from its rejection of the socialist idea. As a great imperialist power
bursting with natural resources it must inevitably conflict with the
other great imperialist power. In our might we had done what we could to
thwart Russian ambition; now they seized the opportunity to disable a
rival.
Congressmen and senators shredded the air of their respective chambers
with screams of outrage. In every speech, "Stab in the back" found an
honorable if monotonous place. Zhadanov, boss of the Soviet Union since
the death of the sainted Stalin, answered gruffly, "War is no minuet. We
do not wait for the capitalist pigs to bow politely before we rise to
defend the heritage of Czar Ivan and our own dear, glorious, inspiring,
venerated Stalin. Stab in the back! We will stab the fascist lackeys of
Morgan, Rockefeller and Jack and Heinze in whatever portion of the
anatomy they present to us."
As usual, the recurring prophets who hold their seances between
hostilities and invariably predict a quick, decisive war--in 1861 they
gave it six weeks; in 1914 they gave it six weeks; in 1941 they gave it
six weeks--were proved wrong. They had been overweeningly sure this
time: rockets, guided missiles or great fleets of planes would sweep
across the skies and devastate the belligerents within three hours of
the declaration of war--which of course would be dispensed with. Not a
building would remain intact in the great cities nor hardly a civilian
alive.
But three hours after Elmer Davis--heading an immediately revived Office
of War Information--announced the news in his famous monotone, New York
and 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, the
Palmolive Building, the Mark Hopkins--all still intact? Only when
commentators, rummaging nervously among old manuscripts, recalled the
solemn gentlemen's agreement never to use heavierthanaircraft of any
description should the unthinkable war come, did the public give a
heartfelt sigh of relief. Of course! Both the Soviet Union and the
United States were nations of unstained honor and, rather than recall
their pledged word, would have suffered the loss of a dozen wars.
Everyone breathed easier, necks relaxed from the strain of scanning the
skies; there would be neither bombs, rockets, nor guided missiles in
this war.
As soon as the conviction was established that the country was safe from
the memory of Hiroshima, panic gave place to relief and for the first
time some of the old spirit was manifest. There was no rush to
recruitingstations, but selectiveservice, operating smoothly except in
the extreme West, took care of mobilization and the war was accepted, if
not with enthusiasm, at least as an inescapable fate.
The coming of the grass had not depleted nor unbalanced the country's
resources beyond readjustment, but it had upset the sensitive workings
of the national economy. This was tolerable by a sick land--and the
grass had made the nation sick--in peacetime; but "war is the health of
the state" and the President moved quickly.
All large industries were immediately seized, as were the mines and
means of transportation. A basic fiftyfivehour workweek was imposed. A
new chief of staff and of naval operations was appointed and the young
men went off to camp to train either for implementing or repelling
invasion. Then came a period of quiet during which both countries
attacked each other ferociously over the radio.
_40._ In the socialistic orgy of nationalizing business, I was
fortunate; Consolidated Pemmican and Allied Concentrates was left in the
hands of private initiative. Better than that, it had not been tied
down and made helpless by the multiplicity of regulations hampering the
few types of endeavor remaining nominally free of regimenting
bureaucracy. 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 of
most service supplying our armed forces with fieldrations. Such an
unselfish and patriotic desire one would think easy of realization--as I
so innocently did--and I immediately began interviewing numberless
officers of the Quartermaster's Department to further this worthy aim.
I certainly believe every corporation must have its rules, otherwise
executives would be besieged all day by timewasters. The United States
government is surely a corporation, as I always used to say in
advocating election of a business administration, and standard
procedures and regulations are essential. Still, there ought to be a
limit to the number and length of questionnaires to fill out and the
number of underlings to interview before a serious businessman can get
to see a responsible official.
After making three fruitless trips to Washington and getting
exhaustively familiar with countless tantalizing waitingrooms, I became
impatient. The man I needed to see was a Brigadier General Thario, but
after wasting valuable days and hours I was no nearer reaching him than
in the beginning. I had filled out the necessary forms and stated the
nature of my business so often I began to be alarmed lest my hand refuse
to write anything else and I be condemned for the rest of my life to
repeat the idiotic phrases called for in the blank spaces.
I am afraid I must have raised my voice in expressing my exasperation to
the young lady who acted as receptionist and barrier. At any rate she
looked startled, and I think pressed a button on her desk. A pinkfaced,
whitemustached gentleman came hastily through the door behind her. The
jacket of his uniform fitted snugly at the waist and his bald head was
sunburnt and shiny.
"What's this? What's this? ... going on here?"
I saw the single star on his shoulderstraps and ventured, "General
Thario?"
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 and
harassed, his eyes darting back to the refuge of his office, but he was
evidently held to the spot by whatever distress animated his
receptionist.
"General Thario," I persisted firmly, "I quite appreciate your
viewpoint, but I have been trying for days to get such an appointment
with you on a matter of vital concern and I have been put off every time
by what I can only describe as redtape. I am sorry to say so, General
Thario, but I must repeat, redtape."
He looked more worried than before and his eyes ranged over the room for
some escape. "Know just how you feel," he muttered, "Know just how you
feel. Horrible stuff. Swaddled in it here. Simply swaddled in it.
Strangled." He cleared his throat as though to disembarrass it of a
garrote. "But, uh, hang it, Mr--"
"Weener. Albert Weener. President of Consolidated Pemmican and Allied
Concentrates Incorporated."
"--Well, you know, Mr. Weener ... man your position ... appreciate
absolute 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 mouth
lest 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 want
nothing for myself; I am here doing a patriotic duty. Surely enough of
the routine you mention has been complied with to permit me to speak to
you for five or ten minutes. Do for one moment as I say, General, and
put yourself in my place. Think of the discouragement you as a citizen
would feel to be hampered, perhaps more than is necessary."
He took his hand down from his mouth and looked at me out of blue eyes
so pale as to be almost colorless. "But hang it, you know, Mr Weener ...
highly irregular. Sympathize completely, but consider ... don't like
being put in such a position ... why don't you come back in the
morning?"
"General," I urged, flushed with victory, "give me ten minutes now."
He collapsed. "Know just how you feel ... wanted to be out in the field
myself ... 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 secure
and assured him of my ability to fulfill its terms. But I could see his
mind was not intent upon the specifications for fieldrations. Looking up
occasionally from a dejected study of his knees, he kept inquiring, in
elliptical, practically verbless questions, how many men my plant
employed, whether I had a satisfactory manager and if a knowledge of
chemistry was essential to the manufacture of concentrates; evading or
discussing in the vaguest terms the actual business in hand.
However, he seemed very friendly and affable toward me personally once
the chill air of the waitingroom had been left behind and as Button Fles
had advised me insistently to entertain without regard to expense any
officials with whom I came in contact, I thought it politic to invite
him to dinner. He demurred at first, but at length accepted, instructing
his secretary to phone his wife not to expect him home early. I
suggested Mrs Thario join us, but he shook his head, muttering, "No
place for women, Mr Weener, no place for women." Whether this referred
to Washington or the restaurant where we were going or to his life
largely was not clear.
Wartime Washington was in its usual chaotic turmoil and it was
impossible to get a taxi, so we had to walk. But the general did not
seem at all averse to the exercise. It seemed to me he rather enjoyed
returning the salutes with the greatest punctilio and flourish. On our
way we came to one of the capital's most famous taverns and I thought I
detected a hesitancy in his stride.
Now I am not a drinking man myself. I limit my imbibing to an occasional
glass of beer on account of the yeast it contains, which I consider
beneficial. I hope, however, I am no prig or puritan and so I asked
casually if he would care to stop in for an appetizer.
"Well, now you mention it, Mr Weener ... hum ... fact is ... don't mind
if I do."
While I confined myself to my medicinal beverage the general conducted a
most remarkable raid on the bar. As I have hinted, he was in demeanor a
mild appearing, if not indeed a timid man. In the course of an hour's
conversation no word of profanity, such as is affected by many military
men, had crossed his lips. The framed photograph of his wife and
daughters on his desk and his respectful references to women indicated
he was not the type of soldier who lusts for rapine. But seated before
that dull mahogany bar, whatever inhibitions, whatever conventional
shackles, whatever selfdenials and repressions had been inculcated fell
from him swiftly and completely. He barked his orders at the bartender,
who seemed to know him very well, as though he were addressing a parade
formation of badly disciplined troops.
Not only did General Thario drink enormously, but he broke all the rules
I had ever heard laid down about drinking. He began with a small, squat
glass, which I believe is called an Oldfashioned glass, containing half
cognac and half ryewhisky. He followed this with a tall tumbler--"twelve
full ounces ... none of your eightounce thimbles ... not trifled
with"--of champagne into which the bartender, upon his instructions and
under his critical eye, poured two jiggers of tropical rum. Then he
wiped his lips with a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve and began with
a serious air on a combination of benedictine and tequila. The more he
imbibed, the longer, more complete and more coherent his sentences
became. He dropped his harassed air; his abdomen receded, his chest
expanded, bringing to my notice for the first time the rows of ribbons
which confirmed his earlier assertion that he was not a desk soldier.
He was sipping curaçao liberally laced with applejack when he suggested
we have our dinner sent in rather than leave this comfortable spot. "The
fact of the matter is, Mr Weener--I'm going to call you Albert if you
don't mind--"