The HAB Theory, page 28
Oscar McMillan sat leaning forward with his forearms on his knees for the whole time that Grant was explaining the essence of the HAB Theory, his interest keen and attention unwavering. Once he closed his eyes for the space of a full minute and Grant noticed that the pink of his scalp had become speckled with a fine sheen of perspiration. Albert Jabonsky, on the other hand, was leaning back, one leg crossed over the other more in the manner that a woman crosses her legs than as a man does — with knee almost atop knee and the overhanging leg held nearly straight down rather than with the ankle atop one knee and the legs reasonably wide apart. The tunneled gray eyes grew harder as Grant spoke, and though he smoked cigarette after cigarette, those eyes never left Grant and the cigarettes were extracted from the pack, lighted, smoked, and butted out in the heavy brass ashtray in a manner completely automatic.
Of greatest concern to Grant was the reaction of Robert Sanders, and he studied the President closely while speaking. Skilled politician and negotiator that he was, Sanders betrayed through facial expressions little of what he may have been thinking. Occasionally he licked his lips, coughed gently, sighed, rubbed his chin, or changed position slightly, but none of these was really a guideline of any sort to what was passing through his mind.
Only one interruption of any consequence occurred during Grant’s initial relation of the essentials of the HAB Theory. This was when a large lunch cart was wheeled into the room and a thoughtful silence enveloped the men as the individual servings were positioned on the low oval table before them. The servers themselves moved with quiet haste, uncomfortable in the knowledge that they were intruding and as anxious to be away as the men in the room were to have them gone. The lunches were light, consisting of delicate finger sandwiches of tuna, boiled ham and roast beef, peach half and cottage cheese on crisp lettuce, and pots of both coffee and tea. As the food was being served, the President invited Grant to break off, if he wished, and eat, but Grant declined, asking the others to please go ahead while he continued talking. This seemed to please the President and, following the departure of the servers, the other men listening to Grant followed the President’s lead of quietly eating as the writer continued his presentation. Grant’s coverage of that initial meeting with Boardman took very close to two hours and he concluded that portion of it with a reemphasis of the three elements that had most intrigued him during the taping session.
“I feel reasonably sure,” he said, “that my reaction at the conclusion of meeting with Mr. Boardman was not far afield from what you gentlemen are probably experiencing now. I was smitten by what he said, definitely intrigued, inclined to believe, and yet still filled with a great many doubts. Three things impinged most pertinently as a reaction on my part. The first was Mr. Boardman’s remarks to my final question in regard to when — assuming, for the sake of argument, the truth of his postulations — such a capsizing of the earth might occur again. It is extremely significant, I think, to recognize the importance of the fact that all known data indicate that the cataclysm, if an actual threat, is already long overdue. Secondly, in regard to the matter of the doubts that were still heavy in my own mind, there was the strong and calm assurance on Mr. Boardman’s part that in our next meeting he would provide proofs which would thoroughly eliminate such doubts.
“Finally,” Grant went on after a bit, “there was the comment made by Mr. Boardman which was rather casually given at the time, and its full significance did not really create any great impact on me until after I’d left him. While Mr. Gordon and I were en route here today, Mr. President, I located this particular comment on the tape and positioned it for immediate replay. With your permission, I’d like to have you hear that brief portion now.”
“Since you obviously consider it of importance, Mr. Grant,” Sanders observed in reply, “then it would probably be well worth our while to listen to it. Please go ahead.”
Grant cleared a space on the table and continued talking as he set up the recorder. “At the point where this particular comment was made by Mr. Boardman, we had been continuously in session for about twelve hours and both of us were tired. I remember marveling at Mr. Boardman’s ability, at his age, to continue for so prolonged a period. Several times I suggested we wrap it up for the night — beginning at about the point where we had been together for seven or eight hours — but Mr. Boardman would not have it. At any rate, the comment in question here was brought out by Mr. Boardman to indicate what his motivation had been for the attack upon you, Mr. President, and it was primarily in that light — the aspect of motivation — that I considered it then most pertinent. And since it was part of a chain of events which led up to the attack, it was passed over quickly and we did not get back to any specific discussion of it at the time. Later on, as I realized its significance, I was determined to make it the first matter of priority in the next meeting I had with Mr. Boardman. That, of course, failed to materialize due to Mr. Boardman’s death. But this is what he said.”
Grant pressed a button on the machine and both reels began slowly revolving in a counterclockwise fashion, with the thin strip of brown tape feeding steadily between the recording heads. Boardman’s voice was clear and loud in the room.
“Mr. Grant, I am an extremely old man. I cannot expect to be around very much longer. I suppose I grew accustomed to having been ignored through all those years and just more or less resigned myself to the idea that my theory wasn’t going to create any kind of a stir in my lifetime. But then recently I began to work on a wholly new aspect of it and became very excited again, because I’ve determined a way in which I believe mankind can avert the tragedy. It is something which would take the combined effort and cooperation of most of the major governments on earth, but it could be done if we acted swiftly enough. It was at that point that—”
Grant’s punching of a button abruptly cut off Boardman’s words. He looked up at the President and was shaking his head regretfully as he continued. “Obviously I should have stopped him at that moment and pursued this matter of what he believed to be a possible way for mankind to save itself. Since I did not, the concern which has been plaguing me most is whether or not anywhere in his papers Mr. Boardman has expressed himself to that end. It was this single item that I was most alert for in my work at the Boardman house throughout late yesterday afternoon and all last night.”
“But you have found nothing on it?” The President’s words were flat, grim.
“Regrettably, that’s correct, sir. However, bear in mind that I’ve done little more at this point than scratch the surface of Mr. Boardman’s files, and I think there is good reason to hope that somewhere in the material I’ve not yet gone through there may be an explanation of what he was alluding to. Or, if not a full explanation, then at least some clues which would give us a direction in which to concentrate.”
“That’s assuming that one believes all of this.” It was Jabonsky speaking up for the first time, and he was clearly contemptuous and unbelieving. “I find it rather odd, Mr. Grant, that a man of your intelligence and reputation should so easily allow himself to be taken in by the rantings of what was undoubtedly an unhinged mind. Clever, I’ll admit, but then many insane people are remarkably clever in achieving their ends. Throughout history every age has had its legion of Doomsday prophets exhorting the population to repent of its sins because the end of the world was at hand. But we’re still here, and need I say more? While I’ll admit that this Boardman presents his case in a more convincing manner than most, it’s all purely speculative and cannot possibly withstand close scientific analysis.”
Grant had anticipated some sort of reaction like this and was prepared for it. His response was sympathetic. “That is certainly a normal reaction, Mr. Jabonsky, and one I, too, shared at first. Bear in mind, though, that Mr. Boardman predicts not the end of the world, but the end of civilization as we know it. But even at this, the obvious reaction is to consider such a concept to be the outpouring of a deranged mind. I stated that my prime goal in starting through the Boardman papers was to discover what sort of a survival plan he had worked out. However, I was also maintaining a very sharp eye for anything, regardless of how remote, which could dispute — not prove, sir, but dispute — what Mr. Boardman postulates, and I truly hoped to find it. I did not. While I admit that I am not a scientist and as yet I’ve not delved in any great depth through those papers, nothing I’ve turned up disputes Mr. Boardman’s contentions. To the contrary, I’ve already turned up a number of proofs which strongly corroborate his contentions, proofs that undoubtedly he would have discussed with me the next day, had he not died.”
Grant turned his attention back to Robert Sanders. “Mr. President, I am still not unqualifiedly convinced of the validity of what we’re calling the HAB Theory. Competent scientists might well be able to pick apart the alleged proofs gathered by Mr. Boardman. But I do, in all conscience, have to point out that with each and every document I’ve studied, my skepticism has diminished. I very strongly believe at this point that even though there may be a good expectation of disproving the HAB Theory, just the faintest possibility that it might be true should require that it not be rejected out of hand without benefit of the closest possible scrutiny by well-qualified people.”
Robert Morton Sanders stood up and limped away from his chair, his hands clasped behind him and his brow deeply furrowed. He paused in front of the large window overlooking a well-kept courtyard and garden area in which a number of robed patients were strolling and others were being casually pushed along the paved paths by attendants. At this exposure of the President, Alex Gordon became apprehensively alert, but he said nothing. The President remained silent for two or three minutes, his back to the others. When he finally spoke, he did so without turning around.
“Gentlemen, we’ve listened to what Mr. Grant has had to say to this point without much comment. I’m sure he has more to say before we conclude our meeting. However, before moving on, I’d like to hear from each of you your feelings at this point. No elaboration, please. Just your present gut reaction, so to speak. Al?”
Jabonsky touched his moustache with a fingertip and replied with conviction. “I don’t believe one word of it. Clever, I admit, but totally unacceptable.”
“Oscar?”
McMillan was slower in responding. He turned an apologetic little smile on Grant and raised his shoulders in the suggestion of a shrug. “I think I pretty much have to go along with Al’s view of the situation. I’m not a scientist, but I can think of a fair number of reasons just off the cuff why this so-called HAB Theory couldn’t possibly be valid.”
Grant was frowning. He thought that he’d put the explanation over reasonably well to this point, but right now he was obviously batting zero. He was beginning to seriously wonder at his own gullibility.
“How about you, Alex?” Sanders asked, still without turning.
The big agent popped his lips as he opened them. “Before I reply, sir, would you kindly step away from that window?”
The President threw back his head and laughed. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he said, laughing as he moved to lean his back against the wall. “I still haven’t learned, have I? All right, what’s your thought about all this?”
“My primary concern, Mr. President, as is quite obvious, is the issue of security. At this stage I tend to agree with Mr. Grant’s conclusion that we’re not dealing with any sort of conspiracy, foreign or domestic. Beyond that,” his slitted eyes rolled toward Grant, “I really can’t buy a word of the old man’s theory.”
“Steve?”
Lace’s eyes were owlish behind the large-lensed glasses and his reply was a high-pitched piping. “I can picture what Orson Welles could have done with this, but I can’t buy it either, Mr. President. Not for a minute.”
The fatigue Grant was holding in check abruptly washed through him in a wave and his shoulders slumped perceptibly. Zero all the way.
The President dropped his hands to his sides and strode briskly back to his chair, his limp somewhat more pronounced when he walked faster. He stood in front of the chair facing the writer. “I’ll refrain from comment for the moment. Mr. Grant, you’ve given a good summary of your meeting with Mr. Boardman, but nothing yet about your findings since then. I’m sure you’d like to carry this a bit further.”
Grant wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to carry it any further. It was evident that these down-to-earth men, these realists, were pointing him out to be a fantasist and he was becoming embarrassed and unsure of himself, his earlier convictions haunting him now as having been childish. How could he have let himself become so swayed, so deeply enrapt with what was ever more convincingly looming as the prattlings of a senile old man trying desperately to leave a monument to himself behind him in this world? Deflated to an appreciable degree and feeling a resurgence of the old depression he thought he had whipped, Grant definitely was not very inclined to go on, but he did so anyway, trying his best to mask his disappointment.
“I’ll try to recap briefly what I gleaned from Mr. Boardman’s papers last night, Mr. President.” He reached into his inside breast pocket as the President sat down again and withdrew the soft, leatherbound notebook in which at Boardman’s house and again on the plane to Washington he had made notes to himself. Opening it, he began by addressing himself to the President with an apology.
“There has been no time, President Sanders, for me to place these data in well-organized form, chronologically or otherwise. I made notations as I encountered them and have tried to establish at least some sort of general order. I’ll try not to repeat myself, but there are almost certain to be a few areas here and there where I will have to return to previous data mentioned with other data which is supportive, or at least related, to the earlier material.
“Boardman notes that the geological construction of the earth’s surface provides conclusive physical evidence for past cataclysms.”
Grant flipped a page and went on without looking up. “He says that his estimates of the duration of our present epoch of time since the last capsizing are derived in part from the lengths of the gorges cut by St. Anthony’s Falls on the Mississippi and Niagara Falls. The upstream creepage rates of the falls have been calculated with a fair degree of accuracy by the United States Geological Survey, by the expedient of dividing the gorge length by the creepage rate. The falls were formed at the beginning of our epoch, and utilizing the USGS calculations, simple arithmetic indicates that our present epoch has been in existence for just about seventy-five hundred years.”
Turning a page in his notebook, Grant blinked rapidly a few times against the sandiness in his eyes and spoke for a while without looking at the fresh page. “Mr. Boardman told me during our talk that he had charted the duration of nine other epochs previous to our own, and that they lasted between three thousand and seven thousand years each. He was able to determine the age of our present epoch from the falls, but I was interested in seeing how he was able to find out the length of time that the other epochs had lasted. I found his calculations for all the epochs he charted, but describing just one of them will suffice for now, I think, since essentially they’re all similar.”
He glanced down at the notebook again. “The earth material that we know as clay was formed by the grinding up of rocks under enormous glacial weights. Underglacial currents carry this sediment away and deposit it in the beds of valleys or lakes. Just as the years of a tree’s life can be determined by counting the annual rings, so too the age of one of these clay deposits is determinable by counting the number of layers it contains. Geologists call these layers varves, and each varve represents one year. Now, in a previous epoch when the North Pole was located at Hudson Bay instead of at its present location, these varve beds were forming. They occur over much of the northern portion of North America. Mr. Boardman selected two widely separated varve beds from this glacial period for a test, one of them located at Wrenshall, Minnesota, the other at Hackensack, New Jersey. Core borings at both clearly show the varves, and in both cases they were identical figures of six thousand six hundred. This, Boardman maintains, means that the Hudson Bay Epoch, which he determines as being two epochs previous to ours — or B.P. 2 — had a life span of sixty-six hundred years. Whatever civilization, if any, developed during that span of time, was wiped out with the next rollover of the earth.”
Another page was flipped and Grant stood silently a moment, studying what he had written there. He felt completely drained and wished this were all over and he could just go off by himself somewhere and sleep for a week.
“Mr. Grant,” the President spoke up softly, “I know you have a good bit more to tell us, and I’m sure that none of us here has any desire not to hear the rest. However, you’ve had no chance whatever to touch your lunch, and it might be a good time now to take a break and refresh ourselves.” He added with a small laugh, “I notice your voice becoming just a bit hoarse, so let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”
The group broke up with alacrity, the President disappearing into his room’s bathroom, and the other four men moved quickly out through the door they had entered. Grant wryly thought of their exodus as being similar to the rush for the lobby during intermission in a boring play.
Left alone now, the writer expelled a vast exhalation of relief to be stopping for a while, poured some tepid coffee into his cup, and swiftly wolfed down three of the finger sandwiches. His depression still weighted him down. There had been nothing in the demeanor of his small audience to indicate any change of attitude. Rather morosely he began studying his notes further as he ate his salad and polished off another cup of coffee. He was just lighting a cigarette when Robert Sanders emerged from the little room with the sound of gurgling water behind him.
