The hab theory, p.84
The HAB Theory, page 84
“Piffle! Obviously that would be nothing more than a manifestation of jealousy. Let her find her own man.”
Grant’s grin became a tender smile and now he kissed her softly on the lips. Her braless breast was warm and firm beneath his hand and he could feel the nipple beginning to protrude against his palm.
“Despite all the unhappiness there’s been,” he told her, “and more yet to come, I really can’t remember when I’ve been as happy and relaxed as I am right now. And on that—”
She stopped his words with a kiss and then murmured, “Me, too.”
“And on that subject,” he went on, “there’s something I should tell you. Something that I owe you an apology for.”
She pulled away a little, searching his face and seeing that he was serious. Her voice was small.
“What?”
“You remember when you told me that my final decision should be based on what’s best for me and not for others, and that what would bring me the most happiness would be what counted?
She nodded without speaking and he went on. “I thought a lot about that and I altered it to fit my idea of the situation. At that time I could see no possibility of happiness anywhere, so I decided that what I eventually would do should be based not on what brought me the most happiness, as you suggested, but on what would bring me the unhappiness I could best stand to live with.”
Anne’s grip on his arm tightened, but still she said nothing.
“I was wrong in that, Anne. You were right. There is happiness for me, and it’s with you. I’m sorry I ever thought otherwise. I know the reason I thought that way — at least I do now. I didn’t then. It was a wrong reason. You see, I kept trying to convince you — and, even worse, kept trying to convince myself — that I loved both you and Marie.”
There was a sound of deep inner ache in his words and he knew she detected it; he knew as well that a reflection of that same indescribable ache was in her. He knew there were no words she could speak right now that would be appropriate, and so did not expect her to reply, but the gentle pressure as she squeezed his hand wrung his heart and he continued softly.
“Love is a funny thing, Anne. It comes on in a rush, but when it leaves it takes a long time to go… so long that you really don’t know when it started leaving or even when it’s all gone. You become so accustomed to thinking in terms of loving someone that even when it’s gone, consciously you can’t really recognize that fact for a long while. You reason that things aren’t quite what they once were, but somehow you always end with the thought that the love is still there. Things get worse, but the same conviction remains. Things become impossible, and yet there’s still that block, that inability to stop insisting to one’s self that the love is still there.”
He closed his eyes and expelled a deep breath, his expression somber, then looked at her again and continued.
“Only little by little, if you’re not destroyed in the process, does the actual realization come that the love that once was there is really not there any longer; that in fact it’s been gone for a long time; that in fact it was the silent, unnoticed slipping away of that love which caused things first to be not quite as they once were, and then to get worse, and then to become impossible.”
His eyes were sad as he went on. “I don’t know what it is inside that makes one incapable of realizing this loss of love when he should. Maybe because of the pain it involves. I don’t know. Maybe because it’s an admission of failure over a matter in which no one truly believes he can fail, until it happens. But when at last the conscious mind can see and understand what the subconscious mind has known and understood for so long, then suddenly there’s a great change. A devastating weight is lifted away. It doesn’t end the pain, the sorrow, the regrets. Only time can do that, and maybe not even time. But it places them in their proper perspective. It puts them in their special niches in one’s heart and mind, and maybe that’s exactly where they should be — not shoved out of sight, hidden and ignored, but stored and remembered and now and then referred to in the process of trying to build a better life. They amount to experience, and experience is what we learn from best. Or should.”
Grant stopped talking then, lost in himself, and Anne did not intrude. He could look back now at what had happened last night and yesterday and the night before, and in the months and years before that, with a detachment which let him put the respective joys and sorrows, triumphs and disasters, into the proper niches he spoke of in heart and mind for future reference. And he wished, fervently, sincerely, that in time to come Marie might be able to do the same.
In his mind’s eye he could see again the bitterness in her, the love-turned-to-hate that was filling her, engulfing her. He could hear again the denunciations of the last two evenings, the vicious words, the vindictive promises. And mentally seeing and hearing again, he experienced no echoing surge of bitterness and hatred, no desire to rage and threaten or warn of retribution for vindictiveness, only a sorrowful understanding and a hope for whatever would help her.
He could feel again the pain of sitting with the children, with Carol Ann and Billy, trying to explain that he was leaving and not returning; see again the shattered expressions, the incomprehension; hear again the only words of consolation that could be said — that he loved them and that he would write to them and see them as often as possible, and that all was not ending between them — and knowing at the same time that neither of them, Billy in particular, could fully understand yet, but one day they might. But with all of this, when it was over and when the door had clicked behind him, there was a sureness in him that had long been absent, a deep inner knowledge that a chapter of his life was closing, and a new chapter beginning, and that it was right for him. If ever there was to be the inner peace that the President had spoken of, or the inner happiness that Anne had spoken of, then there was no other way than this.
He felt a gentle touch and came back to present awareness as Anne murmured softly, “The breakfast is coming, John, and your coffee’s getting cold.”
They ate then, enjoying their food and the tingle to the palate of early morning champagne, and they talked lightly and happily about what lay ahead in the forthcoming days.
“I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again,” Anne told him. “Being associated with you, one had better learn to expect the unexpected. History does repeat itself. A month ago, more or less, I suddenly was yanked out of a Michigan Avenue office building to the heart of Africa on not much more than a moment’s notice, and now here we go again.”
“But not for as long this time,” he reminded. “Four or five days there, possibly, or maybe a week. Not three weeks as before. Are you complaining?”
“Lord, no! But it’s sure an exciting way to live. Were you surprised when the President asked you to go there again so soon? Especially since you’d been back in Washington for only an hour or so when he sprang it on you?”
“To a certain extent,” he admitted. “You know I hadn’t expected to get to Chicago at all until the symposium was over, and then only for a day or two. But Sanders is right, the maps and documents must go to Ngaia City without delay. Sure, they could have been taken by someone else besides me, but it isn’t just a messenger job. The President asked me to give a full explanation of Dr. Shepard’s findings to President Ngoromu, and I agreed — not only because of Sanders’s reasons, but because I’m damned eager to spend a few days there at Ngaia City to see what’s happening. One day I will be writing about all this, Anne, and Ngaia City’s an integral part of it.”
“I know, and I’m glad we’re going to see it now. We’re going to be a couple of zombies by the time we get there, though. I can doze on long flights, but I sure don’t get any real rest.” A little laugh rippled from her throat. “I’m so accustomed to setting up itineraries for others, and now here I am taking one that you’ve set up for me. I’m glad we’re going by way of Rio this time. What’s our schedule?”
Grant pulled from his inner pocket the itinerary that Hazel Tierney had given him and studied it. After a moment he gave a grunt. “We are going to be zombies. Twenty and a half hours from the time we leave Washington National until we arrive in Nairobi.”
“Ouch!” She grimaced. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Let’s see, this flight puts us in Washington at nine-fifteen this morning their time. Steve Lace will be meeting us there with the package, and from that moment on we don’t let it out of our sight. We guard that parcel with our lives. We’ll leave D.C. for Kennedy on National Airlines at nine-fifty and arrive there at ten-thirty-eight. That gives us nearly an hour and a half to check through the international gates, and we’ll then leave New York on Pan Am at noon sharp. The flight to Rio de Janeiro’s seven hours, so we’ll get in at seven this evening — that’s nine o’clock Rio Time — and have an hour to make our connection there on Varig Airlines to Nairobi. That’ll be the long flight. Ten hours. Let’s see, we’ll leave Rio at ten o’clock at night and—”
“Oh, darn!” Anne broke in, frowning. ‘That’ll be eight in Washington — just the time when President Sanders will begin his address. I really wanted to hear that, too.”
“No problem,” Grant said airily, studying his fingernails in exaggerated nonchalance. “I knew we were going to miss it, so while I was working with Lace on Thursday afternoon, helping him to block out the speech, I asked if he’d bring a final copy of it when he met us at the airport this morning. He checked with The Man and got a go-ahead, so, as it turns out, we’ll know what he’s going to say almost before anyone else does. We do,” he added more seriously, “have to make sure no one else sees it before the broadcast, though. And then our copy’s to be put into the archives at Ngaia City.”
“John Grant, you are a livin’ doll! All right, I apologize for interrupting.
Go on and finish.”
“Well, that’s just about it. We fly out of Rio on Varig at ten o’clock and ten hours later we land at Nairobi, where it’ll be one in the afternoon when we arrive.”
“And,” she tacked on to his words, “too pooped for anything.”
“Anything?”
“Ah-hah! A sly one you are, Mister. I’ll amend that. Almost anything.”
They looked at each other, grinning, and then touched their glasses together with a tiny clinking sound to toast the exception.
3
Never before in her life had Narai Ngoromu felt such a need for haste. Normally meticulous in her habits, she now raced back and forth in her room at the Plaza, jerking neatly folded lingerie and blouses from the dresser drawers and dumping them in wads in one of the open suitcases on the bed, then pulling clothes off hangers in the closet and similarly throwing them in. Shoes, toilet articles, hosiery, cosmetics, notebooks, everything. When she was finished she had to spread the rumpled contents at least evenly and then finally tug them onto the floor and climb upon the lid in order to snap the latches closed. By then there was a knock on the door and she ran to it and threw it open, knowing it would be the bellman she had requested.
“Please,” she said, handing him a five-dollar bill, “take them down and get me a cab. I have to get to Kennedy International without any delay.”
She took one last quick look around the room for anything she may have missed and then moved out quickly and strode down the hall to the elevators. A moment later at the desk, having explained her urgency to the man at the head of the line of those checking out and gratefully accepting his invitation to go ahead of him, she was paying her bill, practically dancing in place at her need to get it taken care of and be out of there. In less than five minutes she was in the cab, which lurched away from the curb to the angry blaring of a horn from behind.
“Kennedy!” she said. Glancing at her watch, she groaned. “Please hurry. My plane leaves in thirty-five minutes. It’s doubtful we’ll make it, but if you get me there in time for my flight, there’s an extra twenty dollars for you over the fare.”
“Lady,” said the cabby dubiously, “I’ll try… but what if we don’t make it?”
“Then you’ll still get ten dollars extra for the effort. But, please, try!”
“You pay the fine if I get nailed?”
“Yes, just get moving!”
“Okay. Hold on. We’re gonna fly low.”
He took a corner sharply, throwing her against the inside of the door. She snatched at the hand grip and held tightly. Breathing heavily, she leaned back and closed her eyes. After a moment a little smile began spreading her lips.
The call from Alex at 7:30 this morning had been the cause for all this. She was up and dressed and just about ready to go downstairs for breakfast when the phone had rung. At first when the operator had told her to please stand by for an overseas call coming in from Africa, she was sure it would be Anita calling from home to let her know of a safe arrival in Nairobi last evening. But then the operator came back and said the call was originating from Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, and that’s when her heart had begun to pound. His voice had come on a moment later.
“Hello? Narai? Hello?”
“I’m here! I’m here, Alex. What a marvelous surprise!”
“Narai, listen to me. I have only a few minutes, but I had to call.”
“Alex, what’s wrong?”
“I want to know something right now. Do you love me?”
“Do I… do I love you?” She put a slim dark hand to her throat and felt a pulse throbbing.
“Yes, that’s what I said!” He was almost shouting. “Because I love you! Because I’ve been missing you so much I’m in a daze. Because I want us to be together. Answer me, do you love me?”
“I… I… Yes! Oh Alex, you crazy wonderful silly idiot. Yes, I do love you, and I’ve felt the same way.”
“Are you free to leave there whenever you want?”
“Yes. Sure. Of course.”
“Then come home. Now. Right away. To Nairobi. I’m heading there this evening. Can you come? Right away?”
“The very next flight out. I’ll be on it no matter which route it’s taking, so long as it ends up in Nairobi.”
“Great. I’ll be waiting. I love you. Why the hell didn’t we say that to each other before? I love you.”
He was gone and for a moment she continued holding the receiver stupidly. Then she dropped it back onto the cradle, snatched up the phone book, and swiftly flipped through it until she found the airline listings. She called TWA. Yes, they had a flight with connections to Nairobi, leaving at 8:30 a.m., connecting to BOAC in London and, after one stop in Khartoum, arriving in Nairobi at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow, Kenya time. Yes, first class had space open. Yes, she was confirmed for the flight. Please arrive at least thirty minutes before takeoff time. Thank you. Have a nice flight. Good-bye.
She’d hung up and looked at her watch, then rolled her eyes: 7:43. That left only forty-seven minutes to pack, get downstairs, check out, get a cab, to Kennedy — normally about a half hour’s drive — check in and get the tickets at the TWA counter, and then get out to the gate and board. She wouldn’t get there thirty minutes before flight time, but, if she was lucky, she might make it before takeoff.
Another call then, to the desk downstairs, asking that her bill be made up at once and that a bellboy be sent up. Hurry, please. Her own movements felt as if they were in slow motion while, simultaneously, time galloped.
The cabby was a skilled driver and the Sunday morning traffic was blessedly light, with no police in evidence. They screeched to a stop in front of the terminal doors for TWA exactly twenty-three minutes later. She was paying him his fare, plus the bonus, as they halted.
“By God, lady,” the driver wheezed, “that’s a record for me! By God, that’s really a record for me. I need a drink!”
Already she was out of the cab, handing two dollars to a skycap and telling him to bring her bags in to the counter. Fortunately, there was an agent who was free and he took care of her at once.
“You’ll have to hurry, miss,” he told her, handing her the tickets. “Your flight’s already boarding. I’ve checked the baggage right through to Nairobi. Have a pleasant flight.”
The concourse leading to her gate seemed endless, but she arrived in time, out of breath and with the calves of her legs aching and a stitch in her side from half-running, half-walking fast all the way. The rampway door had been kept open for her, as the counter agent had called the gate and alerted them of the late-arriving passenger. Then she was on the plane, in her seat and buckled in. Less than a minute later, the plane began to taxi toward the flight line.
Still breathing heavily, she leaned back in her seat and half-closed her eyes. Alexander Gordon, she thought, you’ve damned nearly given me a heart attack… but I love you!
4
At exactly 8:00 p.m. the President of the United States appeared on an estimated 145 million television sets in America and other countries. He was seated behind his desk in the Oval Office of the White House and an instant after he appeared he began to speak.
“My fellow Americans… my fellow citizens of the entire world… I speak to you tonight on a matter of the utmost concern to every human being on earth. What I will say may cause fear among many, but there is no way to blunt that fear, for the very existence of man on earth is in jeopardy. But that very fear, controlled and directed, may be the inspiration we will need to prepare for and face the greatest threat to our survival in recorded history.
“Just two hours ago, the HAB Theory Symposium concluded its final meetings in New York City. Slightly over thirty-two hours ago, that body of distinguished scientists accepted the postulations of what has come to be known as the HAB Theory. I need not take the time here to describe what that theory involves. Few people on earth now cannot be aware of the devastating cataclysm it predicts. We have learned a great deal about the mechanics involved as this cataclysm occurs, but we do not yet know when it will happen — only that it is long overdue. Perhaps, if there is time, science may be able to determine when it will happen, but we cannot count on that; we cannot sit and wait.
