Z for Zachariah: Chapters 6–9

“A meteorological enclave. Some kind of an inversion. I suppose that’s a theoretical possibility. But the odds—”

“A meteorological enclave. Some kind of an inversion. I suppose that’s a theoretical possibility. But the odds—”

“A meteorological enclave. Some kind of an inversion. I suppose that’s a theoretical possibility. But the odds—”

Of course the calf kept running off in every direction, but eventually I did get the two cows in with the gate shut. A few minutes later the calf was bawling to get in, too.

He was an organic chemist, doing research on plastics and polymers.

He was an organic chemist, doing research on plastics and polymers.

Mr. Loomis reminded me (I had learned it in school) that it is the earth’s magnetic field that keeps us all from being killed by cosmic rays.

He worked there almost every day for the next three years, and often slept there, too. There were living quarters so that when they got busy on some crucial test they did not need to drive back to Ithaca.

Food rations, even cases of food, they could wrap in the plastic.

But Professor Kylmer had already started working on a variation of the plastic—a thin, slightly porous membrane that you could filter water through.

He stayed in the laboratory for three months, hoping the radiation level in the air outside would go down, but it did not. Then he began a series of expeditions.

He discovered it was ten times as high as it was in the open air: apparently the metal body, reflecting the radioactivity inward from six directions, concentrated the rays more than anyone had anticipated.

He found the Air Force base all right, barricaded, walled, fenced, with keep out signs starting a mile away. It was a shambles.

He found the Air Force base all right, barricaded, walled, fenced, with keep out signs starting a mile away. It was a shambles.

Apparently men stationed in the barracks outside had tried to fight their way into the safe-room; local civilians had joined them, and in the battle grenades had been used.

They had died, Mr. Loomis guessed, of asphyxiation; they would have depended for air on a bottled oxygen-mix, and someone, somewhere in the underground maze, had wrecked the circulation pumps.

Because all of the underground fallout shelters, this one and others around the world, had built-in time limits, enough air and water to last three months, six months, a year, on the assumption that after that it would be safe to go outside again.

Because all of the underground fallout shelters, this one and others around the world, had built-in time limits, enough air and water to last three months, six months, a year, on the assumption that after that it would be safe to go outside again.

I gave him the fever thermometer, and we began keeping track of his temperature. It was about 99.5 degrees in the morning, went up to 101 in the middle of the day, and fell back to 99.5 in the evening. He said that meant he was still in the “interim” period.

There would not be anything fresh except milk and eggs until I could get the garden going again. Since it was already June, that was the most urgent thing.

It was easy spading, since the dirt had already been turned up once; also the manure was still in it, so I did not have to haul that again.

There was plenty of room, but for the new part I had to spade through turf, which was much harder digging.

Since the living room adjoins his—Joseph and David’s—room, I opened the door so the fire would warm it, too.

I felt sorry for him, because I not only can’t play too well, but I don’t have much music. I have the John Thompson Second Year Lesson Book, Thompson’s Easy Pieces, and a recital piece I once learned, Für Elise.

“But we don’t have any generator. Anyway, if we tried to build a dam, we’d get the water on ourselves. It’s too dangerous.”

“Not if I was wearing the safe-suit, and if I was careful. And the generator is easy. You can make one out of any electric motor—with a little tinkering.”

And I had had nothing to eat yet myself, except some milk and a couple of sprigs of field cress.

I had some seed potatoes left; they looked pretty dried up, but I felt so optimistic and energetic I planted them anyway.

“It’s the anemia,” he said. “I should have known. It’s the dependable part of the disease. Five to seven days after exposure. This is the seventh day.”

The set was an annual publication, like the World Almanac, and each is full of diagrams of motors, wiring systems, pumps, silos, balers, and so on.

“I could just cut it.”
“No.” He sounded most emphatic. “V belts are useful, and we have no place to buy any more.”

I got a screwdriver from the store and took out the screw; after prying a bit, the door came open rather squeakily.

First I primed the carburetor as my father had showed me (we all used to drive the tractor, starting at about age eight); then, saying the prayer I had forgotten to say at the gas pump, I cranked hard.

I had decided, if I got the tractor running, to plow that field and plant it in com, with maybe a few rows of soybeans and pea beans. These were all staples that would take up too much room in the small vegetable garden near the house.

But again, although most of the seeds would germinate after one year, after two years the percentage would decline, and after three or four they would not do well at all.

I would have liked to grow wheat for flour to bake with, but I had no way of processing it—no thresher, no mill.

I am very fond of poetry, and this one, one of my favorites, was a sonnet.

It began: Oh earth, unhappy planet born to die,
Might I your scribe or your confessor be…

I had thought of that poem many times since the war, and of myself, by default, as “scribe and confessor.”

I stopped, turned the engine down to idle, and looked up.