Initial small stock produced on nifty both-sides-at-once Xerox. (Wonderful machine; some benefits of old civilization must be saved-for Posterity — 10,000 copies, three hours!)
Shall affix to doors of food, hardware, sporting goods, clothing stores, etc., as ride along. Pass hundreds every day; been taking local roads rather than interstates. (Esthetic choice; admittedly not logicaclass="underline" Interstates doubtless better condition, easier driving; but somehow lonelier [said wasn’t logical], more depressing.)
Not terribly original plan, but I forage constantly, almost daily; reasonable inference holds other survivors do likewise. And certainly have generally similar needs, “shop” same places.
Final analysis — becomes question of numbers: Post enough leaflets, bound to catch eye. Somebody’s eye. Someplace. Sometime. Probably.
Tomorrow leave for Boston. Harvard-M.I.T. area, home for five AAs: Herman Smith, Mario Ling, Gayle Kinnart, Theron Parker, Rex Hollister.
Parker, Ling, Smith deeply involved (according to File) in project combining M.I.T.’s space research center, computer center, nuclear reactor, magnetics lab; Harvard’s medical school, biochemical facility, seismographic station. Wouldn’t discuss objective, but spin-off breakthroughs, inventions, products so numerous, administration declined to push it.
Hollister working at Harvard only, but at medical research, anthropology, biophysics, geology, political theory.
Kinnart’s Ph.D.’s in nuclear physics, oceanography, computer science, meteorology, astronautics. Worked when, where, with whom, on what she chose. Taught, researched, invented at will. Delighted in shaking up Establishment’s institutions, the crustier the better; C.L.E.P.ed Juris Doctor in spare time, over organized opposition of Bar (disapproved failure to utilize proper law-school channels). Sued pro se, won, obtained J.D. by Supreme Court decree. Also holds Seventh Degree Black Belt. (If consciously, actively seeking role model, girl could do lots worse — hope-she likes me.)
Enough woolgathering. To bed now. Far to go tomorrow; much to do.
But calmly, coolly; optimistically but with caution, discipline. No more paralytic disappointment, hysteria, tears — no matter what. If trail proves cold, will play hand as dealt: Study facts as materialize; proceed logically, efficiently as indicated.
But can hope…
Silly me. To think, really expected to make Boston in single day (seemed reasonable goal while studying map: only 275 miles, straight-line distance).
But not crow, not flying. Driving. Slowly, cautiously. Through heavily wooded, very hilly (almost mountainous) terrain; numerous small towns, villages; over narrow, winding, bumpity road obviously surveyed, installed by larcenous paving contractor whose sole ambition (well and truly realized) was smothering in concrete most expensive distance between any two points.
Together with previously observed uniform deterioration of highway system, conditions generally less than ideal for rapid transit: Downed trees, abandoned vehicles, landslides, etc., do little to speed progress.
Then final unexpected barrier: Hudson River. Not anticipated as problem; maps show bridges all up-, downstream.
True, are many bridges; however, those encountered thus far quite impassable: Some blocked by horrendous traffic jams; some visibly unsafe, spans sagging, etc.; some actually collapsed, lying in, under water. Several boast combinations of all of above. (Prefer not to think what must have been like when refugee-laden bridges, loaded beyond designers’ worst nightmares, came down.)
Camping tonight on romantic west bank, at lush forest’s edge, under clear star-studded, moonlit sky. Doubtless be more favorably impressed if conducting appraisal from other side.
Tomorrow will head south along river. Bridge frequency increases as approach New York City. Bound to get across sooner, later.
Delete previous pearl of wisdom. Written by idiot, without consideration of facts, human nature. Indeed, bridges more frequent to south. Also bigger, wider, more capacious. However, increased population more than made up difference.
Drove south all the way to Newark, Verrazano Narrows Bridge to Brooklyn. All blocked, damaged, or both.
Jams on surviving spans exceed belief. Example (not worst): Faced with immovable crush of vehicles parked on George Washington Bridge, obsessed beyond reason, control, someone elected to leave Manhattan — in large bulldozer, over top. And so tightly packed together were cars in path that most occupants unable to open doors, squeeze through windows, etc., flee in time. Predictably dreadful results. (But someone coped: Operator, crawler both dead; stopped halfway across, perched like giant carnivore on mashed vehicles beneath.)
Camping again tonight on romantic west bank of Hudson River, same place as night before last — same lush forest, under same clear, star-studded, moonlit sky, etc.
(Bah…!)
Tomorrow will head north along river. Population density decreases considerably that direction. Bound to get across sooner, later. Or drive around damned thing.
Murphy would have snickered, said, …told you so.” And been right: Very first bridge north of where quit exploring, three days before, stood wide open, unobstructed, safe.
Crossed without incident; continued through New York State, into Vermont, east-southeast across Appalachian Mountain spine into Massachusetts — into more bridge trouble: Connecticut River.
Pretty stream. But wide, impassable due to bridge damage. Lots of bridges, lots of damage. Appears to have been heavy flooding earlier: Barges flung about like toys; presence of bridge supports in paths presented little hindrance.
None daunted but wiser now, headed north immediately, upstream. Mere 150 miles sufficed to bring us to intact span.
Across and flushed with confidence, headed again southeast — toward Boston, with no potential geographical obstacles visible ahead on map.
Be there by noon tomorrow, barring untowardnesses. (And not getting excited. Waiting to see what lies ahead. Calmly, coolly, objectively.)
Nothing lies ahead! Or sits, stands, hops, skips, jumps. And getting mighty fed up with whole business.
Once is nothing more than random incident, dice cast, crumbled cookie, flopped mop. Twice probably coincidence, without statistical significance; no doubt concerning to pessimist, but not alarming to rational intellect. Three times could still be coincidence, but scary coincidence; probability laws bent way out of shape.
Four times is trend. No doubt about it; worry is appropriate response.
And six times — conclusive. Utterly so.
Nobody home. Again. All signs point to orderly move-out. Again. No clues suggesting possible destination, whereabouts. Again!
Performed most thorough going-through of homes, offices, labs of all five M.I.T.-Harvard-area AAs. Turned up nothing. Simply vanished. Carefully, efficiently, without loose ends.
AGAIN!
Kinnart’s house first stop; then office. Scene at house duplicated Peter Bell’s; office equally barren: Everything personal, if even faintly portable, gone. Results at Smith’s, Ling’s, Parker’s, Hollister’s similar, equally dismaying. No affirmative data; all evidence negative, inferential, based on what not found.
Returned to Kinnart’s house for night. Lovely place: Even stripped of personal touches, still homey; retains comfortably feminine ambience.