out by Bill Wernecke and his computer. We’ll be through the cloud in about one hundred and twenty-two years—not seventy-two years as he first figured. There’s enough dust up there to form a dozen Earths, and when we get in the center of the cloud it will be thick enough to dim out the sun—if any sunlight could get through our storms. That will be the worst period, but it shouldn’t last more than six or seven years. What will save us from complete obliteration is the speed at which this cloud is traveling, plus our own speed through it.”
“So, what do we do, Gabe?”
“We sit tight, for the time being. In less than a year the storm should settle down into a definite pattern with well-defined temperature boundaries. It won’t be nearly as bad as in the initial stage. There will be varying wind forces and varying precipitation in the different latitudes, and around the Equator there will form a belt of relatively mild weather that will be habitable.”
“Then, for God’s sake, let’s head for the Equator!” I exclaimed.
“No, it’ll be just as bad or worse there in the early stages as it will be here,” he said. “If we went there now we’d surely perish. We’ve just got to sit tight here. When the time comes we’ll move.”
“If we can,” I said.
“I’m working on something for that,” he said. “I’ve got Rance Goodrich designing a vehicle for us . . . If he can’t do it, nobody can.”
“Okay, Gabe. I’ll stop worrying.”
Elaine came on the scope and I told her of my purchases and the stowage throughout the house. Both she and Gabe were quite depressed and there were few pleasantries exchanged. As soon as they disconnected, I called Marge.
“I wanted to talk to you about the weather,” I said. Dr. Harrow believes this storm will last our lifetimes. We’re going to have to take drastic steps to survive.”
“You tell Gabe Harrow to go soak his head. I’m not going to join the weather panic.”
“I don’t want you to,” I said. “I just want you to listen to some sense. The storm is increasing in intensity every day and by Saturday most of the world will be snowed in and immobile. So don’t wait until Saturday. Come to Fallon tomorrow, and the earlier the better.”
Her face got serious, and she looked at me intently out of her gray eyes. “Vic, you’re not just trying to scare me?”
“No, Marge. It’s merely that if we are to be together, you’ll have to make up your mind that it’ll be tomorrow. If you stay in Portland, you’ll be safe enough. There are millions of people in the Complex who will fight the snow and fight to survive, and you will benefit by the efforts of all. Also, you’re just a few miles from the Atlantic, and when all the land becomes snowbound, the sea will be the only means of travel—that is, if there is any place to which people should travel.”
“Why don’t you come to Portland, then?” she asked, reasonably enough.
“Our plans for Fallon have gone too far ahead,” I replied. “We know that sooner or later we are going to have to leave. Gabe says it will be in about a year. We will go to the Equator, probably, but no one yet has suggested how we will get there. If this wind continues along with the snow, it’s certain we’re not going to get out by air. However, we’re making pretty elaborate arrangements here and we’ll be safe enough. Come tomorrow, Marge, please.”
She thought for a moment, her eyes cast down. Then she smiled up at me. “All right,” she said. “I’ll be there in the morning.”
“One other thing,” I said. “The taxis have been grounded so I’ll have to charter something fairly large for you to get from M.C. out to the farm. I’ll phone in and make the arrangements. Go to the Henderson Office at the airport and they’ll take care of you.”
8
FRIDAY I was awakened some time before 4:00 A.M. in one of the Fallon guest rooms by a roar of wind that was the voice of doom itself. The whole house shook despite its steel and masonry construction. I would guess that the wind reached velocities of 150 miles per hour in gusts, and it blew at least a steady 100 M.P.H.
I got dressed and went to the kitchen, where I found Ali and Sarah sitting, huddled in worried consultation. I reassured them as best I could and sat at their table and had coffee with them. I turned on the VM receiver and found the air filled with disaster.
The hurricane winds had swept the oceans over all of the low coastal lands along the Atlantic and the Western Gulf of Mexico and had inundated at least a score of cities. York Area 1 was under five feet of water and it was feared that at least 200,000 persons had lost their lives. Most of Boston Complex was flooded and the dead there were expected to reach at least 50,000. All of the low areas of Long Island were under water, with nearly 100,000 missing and believed lost. The Jersey Complex was likewise hard-hit, with another 100,000 missing, and half of Delaware Complex (the old city of Philadelphia) was wiped out, with at least 100,000 dead. The destruction went all the way down the coast to Florida, although in the far South the damage was less and the winds of lower velocity.
As the reports of the disaster mounted the feeling of panic grew. The voices on the VM reflected it so that very soon one felt himself to be in a madhouse. Ali and Sarah both were moaning and crying; then they jumped up from their seats and began to rush about aimlessly, screaming out their fear. I restrained my own impulse to join their demonstration and finally collected my wits sufficiently to turn off the VM. I calmed them somewhat after half an hour and convinced them, partially at least, that they were in no danger at Fallon.
At 5:30 A.M. I went into the library and called Mt. Hood. I got a sleepy, short-tempered Gabe Harrow on the scope. It was 2:30 A.M. out there, and he told me morosely that he’d been in bed little more than an hour.
I told him of the hurricane winds and the disasters on the Atlantic and Gulf coast—that there would probably be more than a million dead and that a major panic apparently had set in, judging from the VM.
“Don’t let it upset you,” he said, “The wind will last only a few hours, so it’ll be forgotten soon enough. I knew about the wind. It’s due out here in an hour or so, but its force should be greatly reduced by the mountains.”
“How about the flooding?” I asked him.
“It’s some sort of unique disturbance that started around Earth from East to West at noon yesterday. Our first reports came from Central Asia and we think it originated in the vicinity of the China coast. Now go back to bed, Vic, and let me get some sleep.”
He clicked off the connection and I went back up to the guest room. My mind was whirling like a turbine. I sat down at a desk and began to make drawings of various installations we would need if we were to exist under several hundred feet of snow.
My first thought was of ventilation, if our oxygen generators should conk out. Every home in 2203 still had its own oxygen generator, a hangover from the air contamination of the insane Fourth World War, when men had pretty nearly succeeded in exterminating each other and making the Earth uninhabitable with radioactivity.
However, the use of the generators had greatly declined in the past 25 years as the air cleared. I stopped my drawing long enough to go to the reactor room and check on the Harrow farm generator. I gave it a whirl to check on the output, then went back to my room satisfied.
The
