Day of the Bomb (17 page)

“About 12,000 or so.”

“Every town that size has one hobby that all its
folks share, gossiping. You know that. Darryl talks about you when
he’s had one too many over at Joe’s Bar. Wilbur heard it and told
his wife. She told Darlene who told her husband who told me.”

“Oh.”

“Like I said. Watch your back.”

“I’m sorry sir, but without an appointment we can’t
let you in.”

Dave Freight shrugged. “I
understand.”
You bet I do. My boss back at
Los Alamos probably got my name put on some kind of security risk
list. Maybe…Ah, who cares? I’m hungry.
He
exited the office and trudged to the only road leading to and from
the huge telescope.

A scientist going home after his shift at the
observatory stopped to give him a ride down the windy road.

“You work at Mount Palomar?” Dave asked as he settled
into the passenger’s seat.

“Yeah. Where you headed?”

“To the first place with food. I’m starved.”

“The Palomar Gardens isn’t too far down the road. I
can drop you off there.”

To salvage what little remained of his expectations,
Dave asked the driver what it was like to peer through one of the
most powerful telescopes on Earth into the reaches of the universe.
The astronomer’s descriptions made Dave’s soul hungrier than his
body by the time he reached the Palomar Gardens and took a seat at
its counter. He ordered a burger and soda for his empty stomach and
a bit of conversation for his soul, receiving more than he had
imagined possible.

“What’s that thing?” He pointed at a photo pinned to
a wall.

“A mother ship.”

“A what?”

“You know. A big flying saucer.”

“Looks more like a blimp to me.” Dave stood and
leaned closer to the photo. “Nah. More like a cigar than a
blimp.”

“I told you already. It’s a mother ship. Nothing fake
about that photo. I guarantee it.”

“All right, wise guy. What exactly is a mother
ship?”

“You know. It’s the big flying saucer that carries
all of the little flying saucers around. Sort of like an aircraft
carrier up in the sky.”

“Yeah? So who took the photo? You?”

“No, sir. Mr. Adamski did.”

“George Adamski?”

“Yes, sir. You know him?”

“I never met him but I read an article by him about
life on other planets.”

“Mr. Adamski’s an expert on that and flying saucers
too.”

“So is he around?”

“No, sir. He’s up in Long Beach today getting ready
for his talk tonight.” He handed Dave a flyer. “That’s the time and
address. He can answer all your questions for you.”

Dave bummed another ride as far as Temecula, where he
caught the next bus for Los Angeles. The bus depot in Long Beach
crawled with an assortment of humanity that made him wonder if he
had touched down on one of Adamski’s far-off planets that he
claimed hosted life. Those who had recently come ashore or who
waited to go to sea, drunks, prostitutes and their pimps, jazz
musicians on their way to or from one of the city’s clubs, and
ordinary travelers bound for somewhere or nowhere in particular
milled in and around the dingy hub for buses headed every direction
except west. Dave hailed the first available cab.

“Where to?”

“Here’s the address.” Dave handed the cab driver the
leaflet.

“Okay.” The driver lowered the arm of his meter,
cradled a microphone, and told his dispatcher their
destination.

“So, how’s tricks?”

“Huh?”

“You know. What’s cooking?”

The cabbie flashed a smile of teeth so white that
Dave thought they gleamed in the car’s dark interior. “You don’t
have to talk that kind of jive with me, sir. Just because I’m a
Negro does not mean you cannot carry on talking like you usually
do. Besides, I’m no cool cat. If I get cut up or shot I’ll bleed
red blood the same as you.”

“Uh, okay. That bus station back there always
crawling with that many weirdoes?”

“They only come out at night, my friend. They only
come out at night. The way you talk I can tell you’re not from
around here, especially with that accent. Where do you hail
from?”

“The desert out past San Bernardino.”

“I mean originally. Not many folks in and around L.
A. were born here.”

“Philadelphia.”

“Philly? No lie? I grew up around Newark, New
Jersey.”

“You miss it?”

“Not really. Home’s where the heart is like my old
lady says.”

By the time the driver dropped Dave at the meeting,
cabbie and fare had become friends, strangers in a strange land who
felt more at ease in the familiar territories of their youth than
in what they agreed was the “land of fruits and nuts.”

“Can you pick me back up in a couple hours?”

“Be glad to. See you then, my friend.”

Dave checked his watch and smiled because he was
twenty minutes early, time enough to meet the UFO cult’s leading
proponent. Inside the meeting room, rows of chairs held couples
that seemed oblivious of each other or lone searchers for the
truth. The most avid devotees orbited around a well-dressed man
standing near the lectern. When Dave wandered into their periphery
no one noticed him. All eyes focused on their prophet.

“Mr. Adamski, do you think they will reveal
themselves to us soon?”

“It is only a matter of time. Now that they revealed
one of their mother ships to me, even allowing it to be
photographed, the time draws near for full disclosure.”

“What else have they revealed to you?”

On and on the questions and answers flowed. At times
Dave thought Adamski to be a slick politician, glib with answers.
But on the whole he radiated a spiritual aura that Dave thought
belonged only to priests, rabbis, and ministers. His angular facial
features, perfectly combed silver gray hair, and well-cut suit
qualified him as a leading character in a B motion picture, Dave
concluded. He tried to latch onto the hodge-podge of mysticism,
aliens, and flying saucers that Adamski spouted. Then someone asked
the question most relevant for Dave.

“Mr. Adamski, are the aliens coming to Earth to warn
us of a coming nuclear war?”

Dave teetered on the edge of his metal chair.

“Yes. And unless we heed their warnings, World War
III may destroy the Earth.”

***

Dave met Charles and his cab at the prearranged
time.

“Where to now?”

“Back to the bus station, Charles. I have to be back
to work tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.” He pulled his cab into the traffic. “How
was the talk?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Just okay?”

“I don’t know. He answered every single question.
Nothing seemed to stump him. It seemed too…”

“Phony?” You know, too slick?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Driving a cab you get to see it all. I’ve driven big
shots around and people so broke that they had me take them as far
as the money they carried could and then they had to get out and
walk the rest of the way. I felt sorry for them but I got to pay to
rent this cab so on real slow nights I can lose money.”

“What do you think about his spiel of life on other
planets?”

Charles chuckled. “I don’t have much time to be
wondering about such things, what with a wife and four kids to take
care of and all.”

“You think he might be a con man? He seemed so
sincere.”

Charles laughed. “The best con men are. Like I told
you, I’ve run all kinds of folks around in cabs for the last five
years. I met some fancy dressed dudes who smuggle Chinese girls
right off the boat into cathouses over around Chinatown. One time a
coyote had me haul five Mexicans to some house way out in East L.
A.”

“What’s a coyote?”

“The one that smuggles them over the border.”

“Oh.”

“You know who the biggest talkers are?”

“Who?”

“Those Hollywood people. I picked up
a couple just a few nights back. They were all excited about
working on a movie they said was going to be called
War of the Worlds.
Remember how Orson Welles panicked half of America when he did
it on the radio?”

“Yeah. I thought it was really Martians invading
Earth.”

“You should’ve seen us.” He slapped the steering
wheel. “When we heard them saying the Martians had landed in New
Jersey we ran and hid under our bed. It took Mama an hour to get us
out from under there.”

Two-year-old Dan Rhinehardt and two and a half
year-old Stanley Dalrumple struggled with the building blocks.
After a few minutes they understood that the notched ends were
meant to support the notched end of another log. A miniature cabin
began to take shape. Their parents and Dan’s older brother Karl
were content to digest the Thanksgiving feast they had lingered
over for an hour. The males sat by the radio and listened to a
football game, the women sat with sore feet resting on
recliners.

“One down, one to go.” Thelma said.

“What do you mean? We have to feed them again after
the game ends?” Sally pointed at those hypnotized by the
play-by-play announcer whose voice grew loud with every big
play.

“No. I was thinking of the craziness from now until
Christmas. What’s that I heard about Fred telling Jason that you’re
going to visit your folks then?”

Sally lowered her voice. “Fred still wants to move
back East. I bet he’s going to try to get my parents on his
side.”

***

In the insurance game for the past three years, Fred
had mastered every selling technique and invented a few along the
way. There was the cold call, in which he introduced himself to
whoever happened to be seated next to him in a diner, in line at a
checkout register, or shuffling out in a crowd from church, the
movies, or sporting event. He always used a variation on a theme:
“Good (food, merchandize, sermon, show, game).” If the stranger’s
response was neutral or favorable, Fred plowed ahead. “You know,
good insurance is important also but you’d be shocked at how many
die and leave loved ones behind who were depending on them. It’s
really sad.” At worst one of Fred’s business cards was passed to
the prospect, at best an appointment was scheduled.

Using his tactics for a move he lusted after, Fred
went deep as he tried to sell Sally on their need to relocate
during the last hundred miles to her childhood home north of
Lexington, Kentucky.

“Wow. This countryside all around your stomping
grounds is beautiful.”

“I know what you’re after. You want to move back this
way.” Sally folded her arms. “Where is it this time? Baltimore or
Boston?”

“Neither. Right here. I figure
living close to one set of grandparents is important to our kids. I
have to admit I was selfish to try and get you to move near my
folks in Boston. Like Jason always says, ‘I saw the light.’
Kentucky is the place for us.” He started to hum
My Old Kentucky Home.

“But we’ve already set down roots in Madisin.”

“Honey, the kids are still young enough that a move
won’t bother them. What do you say boys?” Fred glanced in the
rearview mirror at Karl and Dan. “You want to move here near
Grandma and Grandpa?”

Dan clapped his hands and Karl cheered. During their
visit to Madisin last summer, their grandparents had loved them to
excess, which made the 1275-mile roundtrip to visit them now
worthwhile. “Yes, Dad. When are we moving?” Karl asked.

Fred smiled. Three to one so far, just need to get
the in-laws to talk some sense into Sally. His wife shook her head
and groaned. She knew her husband had already asked her father how
much houses cost in Lexington. Fred’s having tapped out the
prospects along his annual northern and southern runs for new
clients worried her. She knew he needed new territory. The
population centers west of Madisin were few and far between. Those
to the east of Lexington were a gold mine waiting for his sales
pitch. That was what he now said to try and close the deal.

***

Desperate, Fred confided in his father-in-law Hank
as they drove to the store nearest to the 100-acre Richmond farm.
“I haven’t told Sally this because I don’t want to scare her but
I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to folks in Madisin once they
start testing the A-bombs out by Las Vegas.”

“Isn’t that far enough away?”

“Depends on who you talk to. One of the scientists I
met during the tests in the Marshall Islands told me he thought the
radioactive fallout might be able to travel thousands of miles.
Madisin is only about 1,000 miles as the crow flies from Las Vegas.
At least if I could get her to move this far East we’d be further
away from the test sites. He also told me that it looked like
fallout could cause defects in babies born to mothers who are
exposed to it. So far Dan acts normal but his friend Stanley seems
to be slow in the head.”

“Hmm. Tell you what. I know a feller who might be
able to help us out. He lives over in Washington. Good thing you
told me about this now. I can call him from the store’s payphone.
We’re still so far out in the boondocks that we don’t have one yet
at the house.”

Hank smiled as he told of his first meeting with Bill
Sampson. At the time Bill was a U.S. Treasury Agent and Hank a part
time moonshine runner during Prohibition. Being a fair-minded
enforcer of the law, Bill had confiscated the bottles of illegal
alcohol and let Hank go with a warning. During a second encounter
the reformed Hank had bought Bill lunch. Addresses were exchanged
and a long-distance correspondence begun. Both men liked such
friendships, which provided for a relationship with less chance of
it becoming strained than if they had lived nearby. During a recent
visit when Bill had passed through Lexington as Bill “Barnes” on an
assignment, the two had concocted a method for contact by phone. If
Hank were calling for help with a personal problem, he was to say
he was considering a visit to Washington “to see all the
monuments.”