Sure, the Emperor approved, sure the Generals knew delight, sure the kamikazes took off for oblivion, joyously happy. But behind the scenes, we architects, clapping hands, rubbing palms for the moola, shoved them up! Not the politicians, not the military, not the arms merchants, but the sons of Haussmann and the future sons of Frank Lloyd Wright sent them on there way. Glory hallelujah!”
Hank Gibson exhaled a great gust and sat weighted with an ounce of information and a ton
of confusion, at the head of this table. He stared down its length.
“There were meetings here-“
“In 1932, 1936, 1939 to fester Tokyo, poison Washington for war. And at the same time make sure that San Francisco was built in the best way for a new downfall, and that California cities all up and down the cracks and seams nursed at the mother fault, San Andreas, so when the Big One came, it would rain money for forty days.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Hank Gibson.
“Yes, aren’t I? Aren’t we?”
“Son of a bitch,” Hank Gibson repeated in a whisper. “Man’s wars and God’s earthquakes.”
“What a collaboration, eh? All done by the secret government, the government of surprise architects across the world and into the next century.”
The floor shook. The table and the chair and the ceiling did likewise.
“Time?” said Hank Gibson.
Charlie Crowe laughed, glancing at his watch.
”Time. Out!”
They ran for the door, ran down the hall past the doors marked TOKYO and London and Dresden, past the doors marked 1789 and 1870 and 1940 and past the doors marked ARMENIA and MEXICO CITY and SAN Francisco and shot up in the elevator, and along the way, Hank Gibson said:
“Again, why’ve you told me this?”
“I’m retiring. The others are gone. We won’t use this place again. It’ll be gone. Maybe now.
You write the book about all this fabulous stuff, I edit it, we’ll grab the money and run.”
“But who’ll believe it!?”
“No one. But it’s so sensational, everyone will buy. Millions of copies. And no one will investigate, for they’re all guilty, city fathers, Chambers of Commerce, real estate salesmen, Army generals who thought they made up and fought their own wars, or made up and built their own cities! Pompous freaks! Here we are. Out.”
They made it out of the elevator and the shack as the next quake came. Both fell and got up, with nervous laughter.
“Good old California, yes? Is my Rolls still there? Yep. No carjackers. In!”
With his hand on the Rolls doorframe, Gibson stared over at his friend. “Does the San Andreas Fault come through this block?”
“You better believe. Wanna go see your home?”
Gibson shut his eyes. “Christ, I’m afraid.”
“Take courage from the insurance policy in your coat pocket. Shall we go?”
“In a moment.” Gibson swallowed hard “What will we name our book?”
“What time is it and date?”
Gibson looked at the sun about to rise. “Early Six-thirty. And the date on my watch reads February fifth.”
“Nineteen ninety-four?”
‘Six-thirty a.m. February fifth, 1994.”
‘Then that’s the title of our book. Or why not
Zaharoff add Richter for the earthquake Richter scale at Cal-Tech. Zaharoff/Richter Mark V? Okay?”
“Okay.”
The doors slammed. The motor roared.
” Do we go home?” “Go fast. Jesus. Fast.” They went.
Fast.
The end
