Warday

“You have Red Zones, Yellow Zones, Blue Zones, and Green Zones. Stick to the Greens. They lead to the intrastate tracks, which will be on your left as you pass through the main waiting room. Yellow Zones are for incoming trains from our sister restricted-immigration states, Washington and Oregon. Red Zones are for trains arriving from abroad, which means the rest of the United States. Don’t even look as if you might be interested in them. Remember that the IPs are just dying to check you out. Need I add that there is also a White Zone in the waiting room? It’s for the outgoing Southwest and Sunset Limiteds, and the Desert Wind. Nobody will bother you in the White Zone.”

We arrived at the Federal Complex and parked. There were plenty of empty spaces. Father Dougherty and I would wait while Jim looked up a few likely parties in the government. He had some contacts he had met during the years he researched and wrote about atomic weapons and the community of men around them.

The federal government takes up only the lower floors of the federal building. Most of the structure is given over to the California State Department of Small-Scale Agricultural Control (Southern Region), an organization devoted to the licensing and regulation of private gardens.

According to Father Dougherty, Jim had at all costs to avoid straying into any part of the complex controlled by the state. “The President and the Governor aren’t friends,” was the way he put it.

“This is a state in name only. Within five years it’s going to be accrediting ambassadors. Already there’s an Embassy Row in Sacramento. But as far as the Feds are concerned, you’ll be subject to their laws on their territory—which means you’ll have full constitutional rights below the eighth floor of the building. If somebody on the federal floors asks for your ID, ask for his warrant. But, for God’s sake, don’t go upstairs.”

As he crossed the parking lot, I could see that Jim was edgy. I did not envy him this duty. We hoped for the chance of an interview with the President, or at least with some senior officials. So little is known nowadays about the federal government, we felt that anything we could get would be of enormous value.

The silence of waiting settled into the car. Father Dougherty turned on the radio, a new Sony. There were about ten stations up and down the dial. Twisting it, I heard the Beach Boys. Their voices, the tone and feel of the music, evoked the past, summer weather. How anybody can bear to listen to the Beach Boys for very long these days, I cannot imagine.

It is interesting that the past has come to seem so beautiful. I wish we could remember it clearly enough to avoid its mistakes.

But I am coming to recall it more for its laughter than its danger. I remember how Anne and I used to enjoy SoHo, and the East Village galleries that were gaining a foothold by about ’84. Extremes in art spoke to us then, though I cannot now remember why. America was sunshine, wasn’t it?

It was also excitement. I remember, for example, space exploration. At the time I took at most mild interest, but now I’m fascinated. What wonders we accomplished: the moon landings and Viking, and the Space Shuttle. Most of all, the confirmation by the Infrared Astronomy Satellite in ’85 of the planetary system around Barnard’s Star, with a fifth planet that might be very like Earth.

Suddenly Father Dougherty started the car. Jim was hurrying toward us, a thick manila envelope under his arm.

“I didn’t manage to see the President,” he said as he got in, “but I got good stuff. Some Presidential papers on radiation, and a report on the state of the upper atmosphere.”

“Meaning you two will finally do the sensible thing and leave Los Angeles?”

Jim nodded. “I still don’t have many California state documents, but maybe I’ll pick some up in San Francisco.”

“So you still intend to remain in California, do you? I can’t bear the thought of people getting arrested for nothing. I wish you’d reconsider. The moment you buy a White Zone ticket, the IPs will leave you alone.”

We had been through this at the rectory. We didn’t need him to convince us of how poor our odds were. But the book could not be complete without a visit to San Francisco.

“We’ve got to try, Father.”

He sighed, then got out of the car and opened the trunk. He brought out a small suitcase, opened it on the front seat. “These are clerics’ suits. Get into the darned things and God go with you.”

I am not sure how convincing we were as priests, but the collars and jackets certainly changed our attitudes. To cops we would now seem a lot more confident, a lot more normal.

My black suit fit well. Jim’s was a bit too short. “Well now, Fathers,” Father Dougherty said, “you look like a couple of rascals if ever I saw them.” He showed us the priestly blessing. “People will ask for it, so be ready to give it. God will forgive you for this little impersonation, since it’s in a good cause,” he said. Then he drove us to Union Station and blessed us himself. “Take my advice and buy your tickets on the White Zone trains.” He laughed. “I sound like a broken record, I know. But please. For your own sakes.”

We thanked him and said good-bye.

There was an atmosphere of subdued intensity in Union Station. Along one wall of the waiting room, a high cyclone fence enclosed a makeshift holding area. In it, the morning’s suspects sat on benches, most of them going through their purses and wallets before they appeared before the examiners to verify their right to be in California. These were people who had gotten through the P.O.E. nets, only to be tripped up just when they must have thought they were free.

It does not take long for such scenes to seem normal.

We bought tickets on the Coast Daylight, which was leaving for Oakland in thirty minutes, and sat ourselves down in the Green Zone waiting area with our tickets showing from our top pockets, like everybody else. The economy sections of the train were already full, so we were forced to buy First Class Ultras, which are four times as expensive as normal coach seats. We consoled ourselves with the thought that a police spot check of two priests in the VIP cars was unlikely.

Documents from the Acting Presidency

I believe we must adjourn this meeting to some other place.

—Last words of Adam Smith, 1790

ON THE ROAD

The federal government has been in transit since Warday.

Though diminished in size, it is still a complex institution. Because the current President has not been legitimized by the ballot, he considers himself more a caretaker than a leader.

For example, he would not grant me an interview on the premise that it would not be in keeping with his “custodial” role, as he described it. Acting President White is in office simply because he was vacationing at Key Largo on Warday, and had the good sense to stay there for a month rather than attempting to return to Washington. He was Undersecretary of the Treasury, and as such was the highest federal official to both survive the war and agree to serve as President.

I have collected here a sampling of the sort of documents that might cross the President’s desk on a given day. They reflect, more than anything, a government trying to grapple with what happened to it, and to identify the direction of the future.

There was resistance to my getting these documents. Even some recently appointed federal officials are nervous that there will eventually be trials. I think not. I suspect that the people are beyond placing the details of blame.

When I found resistance to my requests, I reminded my contacts that the government has a long tradition of disclosure. The present bureaucracy is very concerned with traditions, right down to the painting of the few government cars with the exact L.A. motor-pool designations they would have had before the war, and the meticulous use of the old bureaucratic forms for every functional detail.

These three documents are about the one effect of Warday that is hardest to grapple with—in a way, the most consistently surprising effect: radioactivity.

It is what worries the acting President the most.