by Trevor Hoyle
Every day now, several times a day, she searched her thirty-five-year-old face in the mirror for a hint of the ravages to come. Inevitably they would. Everyone who stayed in the city was affected, sooner or later.
Emphysema. Anoxia. Pollution.
Together they were a lethal combination. But that was only the start of the story. What now seemed to be happening was that a new range of viral infections and diseases was taking over from the age-old diseases such as polio, smallpox, malaria, typhoid, and yellow fever, which medical science had conquered. Medical theory said that environmental changes over the past quarter century had triggered off a new and mysterious strain of illnesses. There was Reye syndrome, which attacked children between the ages of five and eleven, and killed nearly a third of all those who contracted the disease. Cause unknown. There was Lyme disease, in which patients suffered skin lesions and painfully swollen joints caused by bites from the tiny parasite Ixodes dammini, which until recent years had been a harmless pest. There was infant botulism, where a highly toxic bacterium in the form of spores found in the dust on fruit and vegetables produced a nerve poison in the intestines of babies up to a year old. There were hemorrhagic fevers, the generic term for a group of virus-related illnesses from which up to 90 percent of the victims died.
Somehow, in a way not yet properly understood, chemical changes in the environment had created the conditions that were ripe and ready for new plagues to replace the old.
Ruth’s experience with the Diagnostic Research Unit in Denver had hardly been adequate to cope with this. And so far she’d received scant support in setting up a clinical investigative facility here in New York.
Although quite a lot was known about emphysema—the fusing together of the air sacs in the lungs, which reduces the total area of efficient oxygen-carbon dioxide interchange—anoxia had never until now been thought of as a chronic condition. The only people known to suffer from it in the past were airmen, mountaineers and deep-sea divers. Ruth had read up on the subject, combed through textbooks and medical journals, and talked with air force doctors and physiologists in an effort to understand the nature of the condition.
The simplest definition of anoxia was “an insufficient supply of oxygen to the tissues.” In tests on pilots the air force had found that if the oxygen supply was cut off and then turned back on, pilots would black out within seconds and just as quickly regain consciousness without being aware of what had happened. They would have absolutely no knowledge of the incident, not even a blank space in their memories.
More crucial, however, as Ruth realized, was at what point did anoxia begin to have a permanent debilitating effect on the brain and the body?
The average adult takes ten to fourteen breaths a minute, each breath lasting four to six seconds. In one minute this is an intake of about ten pints of air, which can increase to as much as twenty gallons of air a minute with sustained strenuous exercise. In a normal day an adult will breathe in roughly 3,300 gallons of air, or 530 cubic feet, and in a lifetime approximately 13 million cubic feet. This is equivalent to two and a half times the capacity of the airship R.101.
For this vast interchange of gases an efficient machine is required, and the lungs, developed from the buoyancy air bladder of man’s fishy ancestors, serve that purpose admirably.
Each pair of lungs weighs about two and one-half pounds and covers an area of roughly one thousand square feet, largely made up of the honeycombed globule clusters of alveoli, which consist of 300 million tiny chambers where the transfer of oxygen to blood in exchange for carbon dioxide takes place.
The red blood cells pass through tiny capillaries one at a time, pick up their oxygen atoms in three quarters of a second, and are pushed on into the arterial system. When the heart is pumping vigorously, during exercise or states of emotion, the blood cells can pick up their load in one third of a second through the wall of each alveolus, which is twenty-five thousandths of an inch thick.
This is how a healthy system works when breathing in unpolluted air with an oxygen content of 20.94 percent. Emphysema, the fusing of the millions of air sacs to form larger, less efficient clusters, inhibits the exchange of oxygen between the air and the bloodstream. It is a gradual process and the sufferer hardly notices as his lungs become less and less able to meet his body’s oxygen demand until it’s too late. Death follows by slow suffocation.
From her study Ruth had learned that 15,000 feet, or nearly three miles up, was the maximum altitude at which human beings could survive for long periods of time. At that height the pressure was 40 percent lower than at sea level. Mountain climbers had scaled higher peaks without oxygen, but by God-like coincidence it seemed that Everest, at 29,141 feet, was the highest man could reach unaided, even had there been a higher peak to climb.
Here in Manhattan, although the air pressure was normal, the oxygen content was several points down. Ruth had calculated that it was similar to that at twelve thousand feet. Pollutants in the atmosphere reduced the body’s ability to assimilate oxygen still further. Carbon monoxide, for example, displaced oxygen in the lungs by combining with the blood’s hemoglobin, which normally transported oxygen to the system. Sulfur dioxide had the nasty habit of forming sulfuric acid in the lungs, which burned holes in the delicate alveoli tissue. Nitrogen oxides had much the same effect as carbon monoxide, reducing the blood’s oxygen-bearing capacity.
It was from patients suffering these complaints that Ruth had obtained much of her data. And it was the reason why she had decided to come east, to examine the problem at its most acute.
So far she had been able to pinpoint two major effects caused by prolonged exposure to an atmosphere low in oxygen and high in pollutants. One, it accelerated the aging process, bringing on premature senile dementia, as was evident from the physical condition and behavior of the people admitted to Casualty. Two, it attacked the nervous system, giving rise to a number of mental abnormalities, from hallucinatory hysteria to paranoia to violent psychotic disturbance.
As to why—she didn’t know. Thus far in her lone campaign she had concentrated on observing her patients and hadn’t ventured into diagnostic speculation.
One thing she did know for an absolute certainty: These aberrations were the result of living in an atmosphere with a reduced oxygen content and a high pollution factor—and all the signs were that the atmosphere was getting worse.
At 2:17 A.M. on a chill moonless night the class IXL submarine Gagarin, the largest and most powerful nuclear submarine ever built, surfaced in the Bering Sea alongside the missle destroyer U.S.S. Nebraska 375 miles off the coast of Kamchatka, the desolate and most easterly peninsula of the Soviet Union.
For twenty minutes the two vessels precariously held station on the black treacherous swell while breeches-buoy transfer was carried out. Then the darkened destroyer turned to starboard, steering a course due east, leaving the long featureless hull to slide silently into the cold inky depths. On one-third propulsion the Gagarin proceeded north-northwest at a depth of forty-five meters. In the signal room on the middle deck the radio operator tapped out an apparently random sequence of letters and numerals, which were picked up by satellite and beamed to Moscow.
At 3:00 A.M. precisely Com. Lev Yepanchin led the way to the executive stateroom, ushered the two men inside, touched the peak of his cap, and departed.
The stateroom was spacious, thickly carpeted, and lined with illuminated map panels, now conspicuously blank. A long glass-topped table had been centrally positioned, four walnut-and-leather chairs on one side, two on the opposite side. A metal water jug and three plastic-wrapped tumblers had been placed with military exactness, a set of each on plastic trays at either end of the table. A large plain pad and two sharpened pencils were arranged in the center of each leather-trimmed blotter, embossed with the insignia of the Soviet Third Fleet.
In the low-ceilinged room the only sound was the just-audible hum of the humidifier. The Gagarin’s nuclear power plant and progress through th
e water were both utterly silent.
Col. Gavril Burdovsky came forward, stubby hand outstretched, while his three fellow officers waited in a respectful semicircle. What he lacked in height—five feet four in thick-soled shoes—Burdovsky made up for in girth. His dark-blue tunic with its ribbons and goldthread epaulets strained to contain his meaty bulk. His face too was broad and smooth, the pink flesh packed tight so that what should have been wrinkles became folds, and with a thick dark moustache that did nothing to camouflage his prissy belly button of a mouth.
That lie had chosen to wear full-dress uniform seemed to the two Americans more a trait of personal vanity than a matter of military protocol. They were wearing forage caps and plain army greatcoats over zippered quilted blousons, displaying the minimum of rank designation and decoration.
Colonel Burdovsky introduced his colleagues, a blizzard of Russian names, and then stood with his hands on the place where his hips should have been and said in good though halting English, “We will drink, yes? To keep out this dreadful Siberian cold. We will have French brandy.”
Brandies were brought forth on a tray. Maj. Jarvis Jones, a tall slim black man with a triangular shoulder flash—an S-shaped green snake twined around and thus joining the letters A and P—glanced circumspectly at his superior as if worried that this might constitute a breach of regulations. But Colonel Madden unhesitatingly took two glasses from the side of the tray—not the ones nearest him—handed one to Major Jones, and after a curt salute with his glass drank it down. Everyone did likewise. No one proposed a toast.
At Burdovsky’s invitation the two Americans removed their greatcoats, and all six seated themselves at the table. Madden raised his finger to the Russian captain with a pad on his knee, pen poised above it.
“There will be no official transcript of these proceedings.”
He was pointing to the captain but speaking to the colonel. After a slight shrug Burdovsky nodded and waved his flabby pink hand. The captain closed the pad and placed it on the blotter.
Madden smiled inwardly. It probably made little difference. The stateroom would be wired. Just as Major Jones was wired—a microcassette taped underneath his armpit with a metallic-thread audio pickup woven into the green-and-gold cravat at his throat. The Russians certainly knew that Madden knew the room was bugged. They also knew that he knew that they knew that one of the Americans had a recording device concealed about his person.
The Soviets had their masters to report to, just as he had his.
“We appreciate your act of good faith,” said Burdovsky, “in permitting us to see your computer predictions. They are from your facility in Colorado, yes?”
“That’s right. DELFI. As we were at pains to point out, Colonel, this material has hitherto been on the Pentagon’s classified list.” Madden’s pale blue eyes were fixed on Burdovsky’s fat round moon of a face. He might have been observing an inanimate object. “The material remains highly confidential, to be divulged only to senior staff officers of our respective defense departments. I trust that is clearly understood.”
Colonel Burdovsky raised his sparse eyebrows. “Of course, of course,” he said jovially, though there was a harder glint in the tiny slitted eyes. “You Americans. You imagine the rest of the world is backward. We have very advanced computers also, capable of similar calculations. The information was not entirely new to us, Colonel Madden. It is not the information we appreciate, you must understand, as much as the act of releasing it.”
“Is that why you decided to cancel Project Arrow?”
“Not cancel,” Burdovsky amended gently, holding his hand up. “Postpone. Our policy is much like your own—I am speaking of DEPARTMENT STORE, of course. Your missiles and tankers with their bacteriological payloads are still operational, are they not?”
Madden smiled thinly. He had learned it was the best way to counter a thrust that had struck home. Also it gave him time to think. “Do you wish to review our respective defense strategies, Colonel, or shall we get closer to the ball?”
“Closer to the ball?” Burdovsky repeated with a frown. He glanced right and left at the stolid faces on either side, and then at Madden across the table. “What is that?”
“It means shall we get down to business.” Madden turned his wrist to look at his watch. “We have two hours and forty-one minutes to rendezvous. I’d like to accomplish something in the time left to us.” Colonel Burdovsky said something in Russian and clicked his blunt fingers. The captain got up and brought a japanned box of Davidoff No. 1 cigars to the table. He then found four large glass ashtrays and felt mats, which he went to some pains to space equidistantly.
When Madden refused a cigar Burdovsky selected one for himself and accepted a light from the captain. He smoked the fat cigar through pursed lips, as a schoolboy might puff at his first cigarette. “Please,” he waved, expansive now. “Let us get closer to the ball.”
Madden said, “Major Jones is scientific liaison officer attached to ASP. He has a doctorate in climatology. I take it you have a scientific officer present.”
Burdovsky gestured with the cigar to the two men on his left. “Major Ivolgin and Lieutenant-Colonel Salazkin. Both are members of the Academy of Sciences. I think that between us”—he drew on the cigar and released a curling blue ball of smoke—“we shall understand whatever you have to say.”
Madden leaned forward, his nicely shaped hands clasped together on the blotter. He began to speak in a flat, clipped voice, knowing precisely what he had to say and how it should be expressed. He had rehearsed until word-perfect.
Both their countries had attained the status of potential global overkill by means of their respective environmental war strategies. In many respects this was identical to the nuclear stalemate during the latter half of the twentieth century. Then as now neither power dared inflict its own particular method on the other, not only for fear of retaliation but because the aggressor faced the same risk as the recipient. No one stood to win. Both would ultimately lose.
In the last ten years a new factor had emerged. The evidence was no longer in dispute that the earth’s environment was undergoing a radical change. Even the most cautious scientists were agreed that man’s activities had altered the natural dynamic forces that powered the biosphere.
Although the cause of this was a complex interaction of many diverse factors, it was clear that the principal effect was a substantial reduction in the amount of oxygen produced by photosynthesis in the oceans. The most up-to-date estimates showed that between 60 and 75 percent of phytoplankton growth had been killed off. Taking the most conservative figure, this meant that the oceans were at present supplying only 40 percent of their previous oxygen yield. Added to that, the equatorial forests, which had once supplied one quarter of the earth’s oxygen requirement, were now virtually defunct. Their total contribution could be measured in fractions of a percent.
The conclusions were inescapable. The remaining 40 percent supplied by the oceans was insufficient to meet current rates of consumption. Mankind was existing on the stock of oxygen presently in the atmosphere, which wasn’t being replenished quickly enough.
“Our studies have shown that there isn’t an adequate supply to continue to support the present world population of six billion people,” Madden concluded, his voice quiet and unemotional in the softly purring stateroom. “Someday the oxygen will run out. That day is soon.”
Colonel Burdovsky had been leaning back in the chair and smoking his cigar like an aristocrat. Now he turned his head sideways so that the two Americans could see the fleshy pouch that sagged from his chin to where it was trapped by the high collar of his tunic. The fleshy pouch shook as he spoke for some time with the scientists. Madden’s Russian was scant and he only managed to pick out the odd word—climate, oxygen, threat.
The rest passed him by; not that it mattered.
“Can I get you a glass of water, sir?” Major Jones asked him, reaching out. Madden shook his head. Major Jones took one of t
he tumblers and began to peel off the plastic wrapper.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting myself some water, sir.”
A muscle rippled in Madden’s lean cheek. “Not unless they drink first,” he said through clenched teeth.
Major Jones blinked and swallowed and replaced the partly unwrapped tumbler on the tray.
Colonel Burdovsky turned back. “Our findings are in accordance with yours,” he said complacently.
Like hell they are, thought Madden.
“But there is a question I should like to ask. You say in your study that DELFI predicts twenty to twenty-five years before this effect takes place—before the oxygen is finished. Yes?”
“The most accurate forecast we’ve been able to obtain with existing data is 2028 to 2033. That’s assuming the deterioration in the climate doesn’t get any worse than what we’ve allowed for.” Madden added deliberately, “If it does, the prediction could be ten years out—on the wrong side.”
“Ten years!” Colonel Burdovsky removed his cigar and stared. “You say a possible miscalculation of ten years?”
“We’ve had to make certain assumptions as to the rate of decline, but there’s no guarantee that the rate will stay as plotted. It could become more acute—in other words speed up—or it could level out.” Madden was enjoying the expressions on the faces of the Russians. They had to put on the paltry show of being abreast, or even one step ahead, of their great rival. Yet he doubted whether they had an inkling of the real situation. It was rather pathetic. Take Burdovsky, for instance. No matter how much he tried to hide his feelings, acting out the charade of the man of authority and decision, the tiny eyes under the puffy lids were restless, shifting, furtive. Human beings were so predictable—more so than the climate. They could be manipulated with ease because they were at the mercy of the supreme traitor: emotion. Madden had proved it time and time again, to his own intense satisfaction.