Rings of Ice

by Piers Anthony

  Most of the traffic must have gotten under cover as the deluge had intensified. A number of vehicles were evidently waiting it out; they were pulled to the sides, dark lumps beyond the spray.

  Zena shook her head. In time the water would rise up about them, and it would be too late for the hapless occupants. She wanted to cry the alarm—but even if she were not bound by paramilitary restrictions, it would be a hopeless task. There were hundreds, probably thousands of cars waiting; she could not warn them all. And if she could the people would not believe her. Why play Cassandra, the prophetess of doom?

  Gloria and Gus returned. The blonde did know how to sew, and rapidly, too: she was wearing one of the outsize dresses Zena had passed over, and now it fit her spectacularly.

  “So you don’t believe the rain will stop,” Gloria commented as they sat down in the dinette. She peered forward worriedly. “I do hope you’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not mistaken,” Gus said. “Zena here’s a meteorologist. She was up in orbit watching the whole thing. She’ll tell you.”

  “I have said nothing about it.” Zena protested.

  “You don’t have to. You know I’m right—that’s why you’re coming along, even though you don’t like men.”

  “I didn’t say that, either,” Zena said. If she had had something in her hand she would have thrown it at him, hard.

  Gloria’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Could I talk to you a moment, dear, privately?” she asked Zena.

  And what did she have in her bleach-headed mind, Zena wondered. This group was not shaping up to her liking! But she nodded, reining her temper. “If you wish.”

  They went to the bedroom/lounge and pulled the door across. “Are you a meteorologist?” Gloria asked, her voice low so that it could not be overheard.

  Zena had expected a question on a different topic, but this was just as bad.

  “He’s serious,” the other woman said. “He believes the entire state is going to flood—and you aren’t denying it. I’m not one to place credence in a wild notion like that, but—”

  Zena shrugged.

  “I saw that band in the sky,” Gloria said. “It alarmed me. But I have a special reason to be concerned, so I hope you will tell me the truth.”

  Zena would have been angry at this affront to her integrity, but realized that in this circumstance it was a fair question. “Either the rain will stop—or it won’t. I can’t help you.”

  “Be patient, dear. This is difficult, and I may have to get off soon anyway. Gus wants me to—”

  “To help restore civilization after the flood has wiped out the rest of humanity,” Zena finished. “He thinks we’re part of his post-deluge empire.”

  Gloria looked at her, one brow arched. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. So if the rain is that bad—and at this stage I’m almost ready to accept that!—it will be awkward.”

  “I have already tried to make that plain to them. They think I’m merely being difficult.”

  Gloria began to color. “More than awkward. You see, I am not quite what I appear to be. Ordinarily it doesn’t matter, but if it really floods—”

  “Suddenly I don’t follow you.”

  “I am not a woman. Not physically.”

  Zena cocked her head. “Would you spell that out in monosyllables, please—dear?”

  “I have a male body.”

  Now Zena stared. “You say you are a man?”

  “A transvestite, if you will, though that isn’t quite accurate. Male body in female clothing.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “The matter is subject to verification, if you insist.”

  Zena realized with a growing shock that she meant it “No—I’ll take your word!”

  Gloria looked relieved. “Thank you. So you see. I would not be much help in what Mr. Gunter has in mind. I wish it were otherwise.”

  Zena rather suspected that it was otherwise, but she wasn’t going to gamble. “Why—”

  “Why do I dress like a woman? That would be tedious to explain at the moment. Right now I have to know: is it really going to flood—the way they think?”

  Zena sighed. “Yes, it really will.”

  “So that there may be hundreds of feet of water?”

  “There may be.”

  “Then I suppose I’d better explain things to the others. I cannot remain with this group under false pretenses.”

  Zena studied her/him carefully. There was no sign that this was not a woman. Could this be some elaborate defense mechanism? Still, she remembered those muscular legs as Gloria had first stepped up into the vehicle. Those would be normal, for a man. She stifled what threatened to become a hysterical laugh. “No, I think you should surprise them with it one romantic evening.”

  Gloria smiled—and did the maleness show in that expression now? “I have surprised men most unpleasantly upon occasion,” she said.

  Now a peep got loose. Zena covered her mouth. “I can imagine!” Actually she did not find it funny so. Much as acutely embarrassing. But what was the proper reaction to a confidence like this? Either an extremely mixed-up woman stood before her—or a man.

  “For a short trip, no confession would be necessary or desirable,” Gloria said. “But in a case like this, with close proximity for many days—”

  Zena finally sobered. “I understand.” God, what complications!

  They went forward. “Got it all worked out, girls?” Gus demanding, smiling.

  “Not exactly,” Gloria said. “About this business of picking up girls—”

  “We’re picking up young, healthy people,” Gus said quickly. Zena noted his defensive reaction. What was he hiding?

  Gloria shook his head. “I would like to join your party. But there is something I have to tell you.”

  “It’s voluntary, of course,” Gus said quickly, becoming accommodating as he saw the plum dropping into his hand. Zena bit her tongue to suppress a nervous giggle.

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” Gloria said, blushing again. Zena had another moment of doubt: if Gloria were not female, a terrific amount of practice must have gone into that blush! Zena herself very seldom colored.

  “Oh-oh,” Gus said. “You married?”

  “No, not married! But I’m not—”

  “Not another wallflower!” Gus groaned. “Zena here doesn’t much like men, either.”

  “Don’t blame Zena,” Gloria said. “The truth is—”

  Thatch slowed the vehicle. “Flooded ahead,” he announced.

  “Splash on through it,” Gus said irritably, not appreciating the distraction.

  “The motor may quit.”

  “Then start it again!” Gus returned to Gloria. “Now look, you can’t be squeamish about—”

  “You can’t start a wet motor,” Thatch said.

  “Then dry it off!” Gus yelled. He had, it seemed, an answer for everything—except what Zena knew was coming. Served him right! “Girls, I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  Meanwhile the flood was close at hand. Obedient to Gus’s directive, Thatch maintained speed and drove into it. The water sprayed high on either side and the bus slowed. Zena heard the wash of liquid against the underside, and it made her nervous. The motor would quit—and there would be no drying it, in this continual rain. Yet delay was intolerable!

  Then the vehicle rose out of it and rolled over solid asphalt again. “See?” Gus said smugly.

  But they were entering a lowlands section of the highway, and there was more flooding ahead. Gloria did not have opportunity to make his statement before they were splashing again.

  The second area was deeper—eighteen inches at least And in the center of it, the motor stalled.

  Chapter 2: Flood

  Zena felt as though a judge had just passed a sentence of life imprisonment on her. Stuck without power, perhaps two hundred miles from the security of the mountains.

  “Start it! Start it!” Gus cried. There was a kind of
whine in his voice, reminiscent of his cry for help when hurt.

  Thatch tried, turning the ignition switch to the starter again and again, but the motor was dead. Now the beat of rain on the roof seemed louder.

  “Let it alone,” Zena said wearily as the battery began to fade. “If we run the current down, we’ll never get it going!”

  “We shall have to push it,” Gloria said.

  “No!” Gus cried. Now the overtone of desperation was unmistakable. How quickly his confidence degenerated during stress! “The water’s up to the floorboards!”

  “Maybe we should leave it here and walk,” Zena said without enthusiasm. One thing she knew: they had to keep moving, or they were all dead.

  “No!” Gus screamed. “Start the motor!”

  Gloria looked at him with an expression Zena understood, for she felt the same. What was wrong with handsome Gus, that he shied away from anything difficult or messy?

  “I hate to get wet again,” Gloria said. “But if you’re right about the flooding, we can’t afford to stay here. One of us will have to steer; the others can get out and—”

  “No!” Gus cried again. “Not the girls!”

  “We are not made of sugar and spice,” Zena said. “I’ll push.”

  “But first,” Gloria said firmly, “I have to tell you—”

  Zena had to interrupt. “I don’t think this is the time, after all.” If there were to be a scene, it should be scheduled when all hands weren’t needed for an emergency.

  Gloria ignored her. She/he removed his long blonde hair.

  Gus and Thatch both stared. Under that fair wig was a dark crew cut.

  “She shaved her head!” Gus exclaimed, not catching on.

  Gloria opened his blouse and reached inside, around behind his back. In a moment his full bra was unhooked. It came away solidly, leaving a bare masculine chest.

  Now Gus comprehended—or thought he did. “A fairy!” he exclaimed.

  Gloria turned to him. “Say that again, and I will flatten your nose against your lying face. I am a transvestite, not a homosexual—and I have in the past done police work.”

  “Thatch!” Gus cried, falling back.

  Police work, Zena thought. Policemen dressed like women, walking through parks at night so as to lure unsuspecting thieves and rapists! But why should such an undercover agent be illegally hitchhiking on the interstate?

  Thatch stepped between Gus and Gloria, smaller than either but abruptly possessed of initiative. “What’s the idea, pretending to be a woman?”

  “It is not something you would readily understand,” the man said with a dignity marred only by his lipsticked lips and pendant earrings. “I do not like exposing my identity to you in this fashion. But there is work to be done. Stand aside.”

  Thatch considered, then yielded to the tone of authority and gave way. The transvestite stepped out of the dress and stood only in lacy feminine panties—but there could now be no question about his physical masculinity. His lacquered fingernails and toenails were incongruous.

  “Call me Gordon,” he said, and opened the door. Again the rain blasted in, a terror in its ferocity. “I will push— alone if need be. We’ll talk later.”

  The water was indeed up to the floorboards. The bottom step was below the surface of the tormented lake that extended as far as they could see. There was something fascinating about the way the neat shag rug extended up to the edge—of troubled water.

  Gordon stepped down, almost knee-deep in the pool. Zena followed him, plunging in before she could change her mind. The sluice from the sky struck her head and shoulders as though determined to scour the features from her face, and the shock of chill water jumped up above her knees. She shivered and proceeded.

  A gust of wind caught at her, almost sweeping her into a full immersion. She stumbled, but Gordon’s hand was at her elbow, holding her erect with surprising strength. Now that he was almost naked, she wondered how she ever could have mistaken him for a woman.

  “That took guts,” she said.

  He did not pretend to misunderstand. “I want to join this group, at least until this storm abates,” he said. “But not under false pretenses. And Gloria doesn’t like to get wet.”

  “You talk as if Gloria is a different person!”

  “I’m the different person,” he said.

  “You’re not going to arrest anybody?” She was trying to be facetious, but it didn’t sound right.

  “I did police work, but I really wasn’t a policeman. It was more like a stake-out. Thought I might make myself useful. But it wasn’t my style. I just prefer—being myself.”

  Being Gloria, he meant. To him, the male identity was no more than a necessary evil, a temporary state for emergencies like massive flooding. Well, she thought, it was his life.

  They trod back toward the rear of the vehicle. One more figure descended from the open door: Thatch.

  “We’ll have to time our push together,” Thatch shouted over the beat of the rain. “This bus is heavy, and the water will drag.”

  So it was happening again, Zena thought through her misery of renewed drenching. Thatch was an unimpressive, somewhat shy man—but when a challenge came, his competence expanded. Gus was the opposite.

  The three lined up along the back, partly sheltered from the downpour, and shoved. At first it seemed the vehicle would not budge—but that was because the water made progress difficult to ascertain. From here to the graying fringe of visibility, there was no reference point except the oblong bulk of the motor-home. It was moving, slowly, for their feet gradually fell behind. And it was deepening; the water climbed slowly to her waist.

  Was this the future of the world? A lake of troubled water with no shore? The overall rise of the oceanic level should not be more than two thousand feet—just about enough to submerge the eastern half of the continent. Anyone who made it to a suitable elevation would be all right.

  Pushing the vehicle was tedious, fatiguing work. Zena was gasping after a minute, and the men were not much better off. How much did this box weigh? Six tons? What would they do when it came to an uphill push?

  “Rest!” Thatch cried, and they stopped. The rain was still cold, but now it was refreshing; such expenditures of energy were great for generating body heat.

  “We don’t have enough manpower,” Gordon said. “We’ll never make it this way.”

  Thatch nodded. They slogged on around to the driver’s side. Zena actually found it easier to swim, because of the height of the water on her. “Can’t do it,” Thatch called in.

  Gus rolled down the window a crack. “I didn’t ask for excuses!” he yelled. “Just get this bus out of here!”

  Zena was speechless at this arrogance. Gus, the biggest and probably the strongest among them, physically, relegated to steering duty though he could not drive. Gus, inside because he was afraid to get his feet wet—this man now took it upon himself to order them to do the impossible!

  “The thing’s too heavy,” Thatch explained. Zena was annoyed to note the apologetic tone. “We can’t push it uphill.”

  “Well, I won’t let you in until you do!” Gus said, closing the window.

  Thatch looked at the other two, and they looked at him. “Just got to get it up out of the water,” Thatch said.

  Now Zena exchanged a glance with Gordon. What were they to do? Break in and haul Gus out?

  Thatch walked around to the back, paddling the water with his hands to speed the progress. There was a ladder there, leading up to an external luggage rack on the roof. He climbed up and peeked under the tarpaulin. “Two bikes and some rope!” he called down.

  “Rope?” Zena repeated, seeing a possibility.

  “If you’re thinking of pulling it out,” Gordon said, “remember that the weight’s the same. We need leverage.”

  “Yes. A pulley,” she agreed.

  “Which we don’t have.”

  Thatch climbed down. “We’ll need tools—a wrench at least. There’s one
inside.”

  “We can’t get inside,” Zena pointed out.

  “Ask Gus to throw it out.”

  Zena sloshed around to the front. At least, she mused, this immersion would stretch her tight jeans. Though probably not the way she wanted. “Gus—wrench!” she shouted.

  The window lowered a crack. “What for?”

  “I don’t know. Thatch needs it.”

  “Promise?”

  Zena stamped her foot in exasperation. Deep in water, with the rain attacking the rest of her, it was a wasted effort. “Yes! Do you think we’re going to start breaking windows to get in? If we can’t move it, we’ll just have to wade on and leave you here.”

  He considered. Obviously those outside had the ultimate control of the situation. “All right.” The window closed.

  That might, she thought, actually be the best solution. Leave Gus and bus, go north afoot.

  After about ninety seconds the window reopened. An object flew out, splashing into the water. “Thanks!” Zena called wryly to the closing window as she fished for the wrench. She had to hold her breath and dive down to do it. “I might even find it in a few minutes, if the current doesn’t wash it away!”

  The two men had the rope and bicycles down when she returned. “Screwdriver,” Thatch said.

  Now he told her! Wordlessly, Zena handed over the wrench and went back for the screwdriver.

  They had the wheels off the bikes by the time she got back. Then they went to work on the tires, letting out the air and prying the rubber off the rims.

  “A pulley!” Zena exclaimed, gazing at the first stripped wheel. “Someone has a brain! But will it work?”

  Neither man answered, and she realized the question had been pointless. It had to work, or the bus would be stranded in the rising flood.

  “Survey the rope,” Thatch told her brusquely. “How many feet?”

  For a moment she was annoyed at being addressed as though she were a servant. But she realized that this was the other face of Thatch, the problem-solving side. Far better this than capitulation to the threat of the elements.