by Trevor Hoyle
He said glibly, “Major Jones has the detailed projections if you’d care to see them, gentlemen.” Amused at the alacrity with which Lieuten-ant-Colonel Salazkin leaned across to take the file.
“We shall examine these later,” said Burdovsky, nodding to himself. “No doubt they will be similar to the figures we have obtained.”
“No doubt,” Madden said without a flicker.
“Good. Now we are nearer to the ball, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Which is, Colonel ... ?”
“Which is, Colonel, our mutual problem. Some of our major American cities, especially in the southern states, are already experiencing severe depletion problems. As are other cities around the world in the tropical regions.”
“That is hardly our problem,” Burdovsky contradicted him. “The vast proportion of the Soviet Union lies north of forty degrees latitude.” He spread his hands and grinned fatly. “Our country is not affected.”
“No?” Madden said. “Major Jones.”
“In the region surrounding Lake Balkhash in Kazakhskaya you’ve had to evacuate two million people,” said Major Jones crisply. “In 1995 there were fifty thousand deaths attributed to atmospheric pollution. By 2002 an area of forty-six thousand square miles had been designated as unfit for human habitation and emergency plans were introduced for mass evacuation of the area.”
Burdovsky’s chins were quivering and the other Russians were sitting as if turned to salt.
“Contamination in the Nizmennost region due to the indiscriminate use of chemicals reached crisis point in 2005. Evacuation was carried out over a three-month period beginning in September of that year, and since then all freshwater lakes in the region have remained biologically dead. There has been total decimation of all flora and marine life. The atmospheric oxygen count is four percent below normal and falling.”
“It’s your problem too, Colonel,” Madden said, studying his fingernails. “Even discounting these local and relatively minor effects, which in themselves are unimportant, we know that oxygen depletion in the equatorial belt is widening, spreading north and south. In ten years, fifteen at the most, both our countries will be largely inside the depletion belt.”
Colonel Burdovsky sucked on his cigar and blew smoke down at the blotter. “This rests on the assumption that DELFI is correct, does it not?” He raised his eyes to catch Madden’s nod. “So tell me, what precisely is our ‘mutual’ problem, Colonel Madden?”
“Too many people using up too much oxygen.”
A vee of furrows appeared on Burdovsky’s broad forehead. His consternation transformed itself into a smirk. “So what are you proposing?” he asked with droll humor. “That we exterminate half the world’s population?”
“Not half,” Madden softly corrected him. “Three quarters.” Burdovsky’s hand twitched and a neat cylinder of gray ash fell to the table and disintegrated in a powdery explosion on the glass surface.
“Four and a half billion as a guesstimate,” Madden went on, as if discussing a golf handicap. “We calculate that the biosphere can comfortably support about one and a half billion human beings. The combined populations of the USSR and the United States total three quarters of a billion—which leaves room for a further three-quarters-billion spread around the rest of the globe.” As though stating a fact that was self-evident and hardly needed mentioning, he added, “Of course China will have to go. It already has a population of one and a quarter billion and they’re breeding like lice. In ten years, at current rates of growth, China will constitute one third of the total world population.” Major Ivolgin was staring at Madden with bulging eyes. “Is this meant to be taken as a serious proposal by your government?” he asked.
“Serious, yes. But not from our government. The plan has been formulated by the Coordinated Executive of Advanced Strategic Projects, which is the military/scientific wing of the Pentagon and responsible solely and directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
“The Joint Chiefs know of this proposal?” Burdovsky said incredulously.
“Yes.”
“But not your government?”
“No.”
Burdovsky placed his cigar carefully in an ashtray and looked at it for several moments. “How can you be sure your government will grant approval of such a scheme?” He raised his eyes. “Is it possible?”
“As of now—this minute—the answer is no. Which is why we need your cooperation.” Madden held his left hand, palm uppermost, flat in front of him and pressed back the index finger. “The depletion problem is worsening year by year. Right now both our governments are unwilling to face up to the facts of the situation. But very soon they’ll have no choice.” He pressed back the middle finger. “When they have to face it they’re going to want a solution pretty desperately. One that’s quick and effective.” He pressed back the ring finger. “That’s the moment to put forward our proposal. Speaking for my government I know they’ll react negatively to the idea—I can hear the bleats of the liberals and humanitarians already.” He pressed back the little finger. “Then we play our trump card. We tell our government that the USSR is already in the process of implementing an identical scheme. You tell your government the same thing about us.”
Madden curled his right hand into a fist, which he smacked firmly into his left palm. “That leaves both governments no way out, Colonel. The only feasible course will be to reach an agreement whereby our two nations act in unison to implement the plan. There will be no alternative if they wish to survive.”
“An agreement which already exists. Secretly,” mused Burdovsky. “At the military level. Not politically.”
“I understand now why you insisted that this meeting take place under such ridiculous and uncomfortable circumstances,” said Burdovsky with a faint smile. “The usual diplomatic channels would be out of the question.”
“And extremely stupid,” Madden remarked.
“You realize, of course, that I can make no immediate response. Until I have reported to my superiors and the proposal has been discussed.”
“I didn’t expect one,” Madden said briskly, looking at his watch. Lieutenant-Colonel Salazkin had a question. His voice was nasal and high-pitched. “You predict that climatic conditions will become very bad—much worse—in ten to fifteen years. If that is so, why not let depletion do the work of extermination? People will die in any case.”
“Unfortunately not fast enough or in sufficient numbers,” Madden replied promptly. “And in the meantime they’re using up the available stock of oxygen that the rest of us need in order to survive. The equation is very simple: us or them.”
Colonel Burdovsky was gazing at Madden as if at a rare and dangerous species of jungle animal. He said, “I must tell you, Colonel Madden, that never in my lifetime have I heard of an idea so fantastic. To exterminate three quarters of the human race.” He breathed gustily. “Incredible.”
“But entirely necessary,” said Madden blandly. “As I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“How is this plan to be implemented?” asked Major Ivolgin. “You have a method?”
“Several.” A playfully sly expression came into Madden’s eyes. “One might be to utilize our beam-weapon space platforms on a joint basis and put them to some practical use instead of floating around up there playing catch-as-catch-can. A return on all those billions of dollars and rubles we’ve invested, so far to no purpose.”
“Perhaps,” Burdovsky conceded cautiously.
“However, the final choice will have to be decided at a senior scientific level,” Madden went on briskly. “And with utmost secrecy. Major Jones here has come up with a code name. He suggests ‘Longfellow.’ The major is a student of poetry,” Madden added dryly.
“I know of the poet Longfellow,” Burdovsky said. “But I do not see ...”
“What’s the piece, Major?” Madden prompted.
Major Jones straightened up and recited solemnly:
“Sail on, O Ship of State!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!”
“From a poem entitled ‘The Building of the Ship,’ ” he informed them.
“This will be a tremendous scientific challenge, gentlemen,” Madden said. “Perhaps the greatest since the invention of the atomic bomb!”
Colonel Burdovsky nodded slowly, reminded of something.
“You spoke of getting near the ball, Colonel. But you did not say the ball is a time bomb that might explode in our faces.”
WASHINGTON—CHICAGO—KANSAS CITY
Everywhere they went there were questions. The same questions over and over again.
Why hadn’t Chase spoken out about the U.S. government’s indolence in enforcing environmental legislation?
Was it true that the Russians had abandoned Project Arrow?
What about the Australian big drought situation?
When was Earth Foundation going to move into the political arena?
What were his views on the pyro-assassinations? Who did he think was behind them, and why?
What were conditions really like in the south? As bad as had been reported?
This last question was top of the list and uppermost in most people’s minds. The mounting concern was brought home to them when their cab from the airport to the hotel was held up by a demonstration. A procession of several hundred people bearing placards with the slogans OKIES NOT OK HERE and KEEP KANSAS KLEAN—KILL A TEXAN TODAY.
It was in protest against the migration from the south, the cabdriver told them, which over the past fourteen months had swelled from a trickle to a flood. The Federal Resettlement Program wasn’t able to cope with the problem. Citizens’ militia groups had set up roadblocks along the southern state line to stop the “illegals” spreading north.
ACROSS THE PLAINS TO NEBRASKA
There was a small Earth Foundation community on the shores of Lake McConaughy. Since the shift in climatic patterns the temperature for late September was an appreciable ten degrees F. warmer than usual. Many people were taking a late vacation—boating, fishing, water-skiing, and swimming along the banks of the North Platte.
Dan couldn’t get over it. Never before had he seen people bathing in inland “fresh” water. And the fish being caught were edible!
They sat under a striped awning and watched him splash about, his body flashing in the sunlight. In pleasant contrast to the sultry south and muggy Washington, the climate was mild and the air was clear and refreshing. Chase became wistful, seeing his son’s face losing its soft boyish roundness, his features hardening and becoming more defined as the genetic template molded them into adulthood.
What went through Cheryl’s mind when she looked at the boy? She was now forty-one. Even if the miscarriage five years ago had not made the possibility remote, the likelihood that she might have a child of her own was fast receding. She had been as good as a mother to Dan, he thought, leaning back in his chair and studying her profile against the glittering water. Never mind as good as; rather had been. Yet maybe she still yearned for her own child ...?
Cheryl turned, caught him watching her, and stuck her tongue out.
He loved the woman.
EAST OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
Over Wyoming the twelve-seater turbojet was twirled in the grand-daddy of all thunderstorms and they had to make a forced landing near a spot in the wilderness called Muddy Gap.
They sat on the single runway gazing out as hailstones as big as golf balls clanged and bounced off the wings. The pilot told them that he was quite seriously thinking of quitting. Sure, the pay was good, but three forced landings in two months were one hell of a strain on his nervous system. Besides, he had a wife and kids to consider.
BREAKFAST IN IDAHO
In the hotel coffee shop Cheryl thought Dan looked sickly. “How do you feel? Are you all right?”
He shrugged listlessly, scooping up cereal. “I just wish we could stop somewhere for a few days.”
“I thought you wanted to see America?”
“You call this seeing it? Can’t we stay somewhere?”
Cheryl looked at Chase over her waffles and syrup. Then she said to Dan, “We do have a lot of people to meet. Gavin has meetings and interviews lined up all the way to California. It’s a vacation for you, Dan, work for us.”
“Some vacation.”
Chase sympathized. To an active sixteen-year-old this continual moving from one hotel to another must have seemed like changing prison cells. But the itinerary was fixed and he couldn’t alter or cancel it.
He said, “We’ll stop for a few days when we reach the coast, fair enough?”
“The Pacific?” Dan said, brightening.
Chase nodded, avoiding Cheryl’s eye. The great and glorious Pacific. He prayed that the waves still moved.
As he pressed the lever on the wrought-iron gate and stepped out of the elevator Claude Alain Lautner had only one thing on his mind. Ash-blond, five feet seven, twenty-two years of age, and her name was Marie-Rose Duvall.
They had met by chance at an embassy cocktail party—but then weren’t all such providential meetings by chance? Lautner considered himself extremely lucky, at forty-four, divorced, rather lonely, to have won such a luscious young prize. He was even beginning to believe that he might be in love with her. She certainly seemed infatuated with him.
Humming under his breath, he turned into the short corridor leading to his third-floor apartment on the rue Fontaine and startled the plainclothes policeman sitting outside the door, who dropped his Agatha Christie paperback.
“Good evening, Maurice,” Lautner greeted him genially.
Maurice stood up hastily, clutching the mangled paperback in his huge fist. “Evening, Monsieur Lautner.”
“I shall be going out at eight o’clock,” Lautner said, letting himself into the apartment. “Tell the overnight man—who is it? Charles?—I shan’t be back till around two.”
“Very good, sir.” Maurice hesitated. His thick eyebrows lifted a mere questioning millimeter. “Ministry transport, sir?”
In other circumstances Lautner would have been annoyed, but right now he felt a warm glow at the promise of the evening ahead. He nodded, gave a brief smile, and closed the door.
Churlish of him to be irritable with the guards. They were simply obeying instructions from the minister of the interior. There had been too many incidents recently involving high-ranking government officials, and it was only common sense to take precautions against terrorist groups, cranks, and media vamps—deranged people who sought ephemeral glory by some act of atrocity that got them into the headlines and on TV.
Still, it was tiresome to be shadowed day and night by hulking members of the prefecture. No doubt they’d even have somebody posted in the restaurant while he and Marie-Rose dined by candlelight. Next, he thought resignedly, going into the bedroom, they’d have a man at the bedside reading a thriller while they made love....
Lautner undressed and put on his silk dressing gown. Catching sight of himself in the full-length mirror of the open wardrobe door, he sucked in his stomach and pressed it flat with both hands. That would have to go, no two ways about it. Too much rich food and liquor and not enough exercise.
Otherwise not bad, he decided. Tanned face, deeply lined but the jawline was still firm; dark hair with silver wings brushed back elegantly over his ears; strong shoulders and an erect bearing. God, he’d seen men his age who looked ten, fifteen years older. Positively geriatric.
His little jaunty whistle was cut short when he found that the bathroom light wasn’t working. He detested inefficiency, especially when it was to do with anything mechanical, and he jerked the switch uselessly and spitefully several times. Then he tried the fluorescent strip above the mirror, which, thankfully, was still functional. By its light he hung up his dressing gown, opened the shower door with its nymphs and cherubs
, and hopped into the tiled cubicle.
He set the controls at seventy-two degrees, medium jet and pushed the stainless-steel lever to the right.
The fourth note of “La Vie en Rose” became a startled gasp as the needle spray stung his scalp and streamed down his goosefleshed body. His eyes smarted terribly. The taste on his lips was bitter, the smell making his nostrils pinch and wrinkle it was so vile.
What the hell was this? Sewer water? Had the bastards gone on strike again?
Cursing, Lautner fumbled blindly for the handle of the door. The dense gasoline vapor now filling the bathroom ignited on the exposed live wires in the overhead light fixture, from which the pearled glass globe and plastic cover had been removed. A blue-edged sheet of flame streaked into the cubicle just as Lautner was emerging and transformed him into a human torch. His mouth yawned to its fullest extent in a scream of agony that never came out because the fierce heat instantly consumed the air in his lungs, suffocating him, and he fell clawing the air with fiery fingers, his own funeral pyre.
Lautner was dead before he landed on the tiled floor of the bathroom. In a few minutes nothing was left except a blackened, smoking, shrunken heap, unrecognizable as something once human, lying in a spreading pool of fat shimmering with little dancing orange and blue flames.
PORTLAND, OREGON
The chairman of the reception committee handed Chase an urgent message the moment they met in the arrivals hall at the airport. It had been cabled ahead by Chase’s New York publisher and contained a telephone number and a request to call it immediately.
He did so from the public phone and found himself talking to somebody (he didn’t catch her name) from the executive office of the secretary-general of the United Nations. Would he be on the first available flight to New York? No, she was sorry, she couldn’t give reasons. She would like him to know that the matter was very important and highly confidential. Please call this number again the instant he landed in New York. Thank you so much.