We Who Survived. Sterling Noel
don’t think so. I’m still hunting. See you Saturday.”
6
ON TUESDAY I obtained an indefinite leave of absence from Boren. I put in a sell-at-market order at Doble Sons for various stocks and bonds I had accumulated over the years and then went to N.A. National and cashed in my government bonds. I had 37L000 in my hands by 1:00 P.M. and this put me 9L000 over the government limit, so I had to do a lot of fast spending to keep out of trouble. (I suppose everyone knows about the money restrictions that followed the Second Chinese War, so I won’t go into them here.)
I went first to the Cavanaugh Radical and ordered five tons of food concentrates of every flavor invented and arranged for their delivery at Fallon that afternoon by chartered Garbut. That took the pressure off my hoard of louvres by 11L000, so the rest of the day I shopped at leisure. My best buy was one of the new Kincadium Reactors, no larger than a handbag and designed to put out 23,000 Kelley units during the 20-year life of the fuel. In old-fashioned figures, this would be enough to operate a 100,000 kilowatt generator for some 50 years.
I got back to my apartment at Killingworth at 6:30 and put in a call for Marge Couzins. The scope came on prematurely and I saw Marge gesturing to a bald business-tycoon type to leave the room and heard her call him Alfred. That’s one of the bad features of the scope system; it can catch you with your hair down if you don’t keep your circuits closed. Then Marge’s smiling face came on close up, and she gave me a warm enough greeting.
“You get my letter?” I asked her.
“Yes, I got it.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“I take it you’re not interested.”
“Of course I’m interested, Vic. It’s just that—I can’t talk right now.”
“I know,” I said. “The door is open and Alfred is listening.”
She blushed. “Vic! What are you talking about!”
“About Alfred. I guess he’s your type, Marge. Solid, dependable, a good husband who will be home every night to let you wash out his socks and cook his dinner. You’re no longer the Lieut. Marge Couzins of NAAF I knew in India East a couple of years ago.”
She shook her head at me, her face serious. “Don’t say things like that, Vic. We haven’t been together for more than a year now. You’ve been living your own life and there was no place in it for me. Now all of a sudden you decide to change and you expect me to come a-running.”
“Can you come to Kansas tomorrow? I’ll tell you all about it then.”
“I have to be in Portland all this week. Would next week do?”
“Next week will be too late, Marge. You’ve got to come no later than Saturday.”
“After sixteen months, I don’t believe there is such a great hurry. . . . Why didn’t you call me last January? Did you forget that we were to have gone to the Mediterranean together for the Winter Festival?”
“Let’s forget all that,” I said. “You come to Fallon, Kansas tomorrow, and I’ll have a padre waiting and we’ll get married.”
She laughed and it was like the tinkle of silver bells. “A padre,” she exclaimed. “You know I don’t believe in those old-fashioned ceremonies! If I am to be your wife, then we will just announce it on the DW-Three, as all civilized persons do. A marriage ceremony with a padre! Of all things!”
“All right,” I said, “have it your way. But please, Marge, come to Fallon tomorrow.”
“I’ll try to fix things to get away Saturday,” she said. “Tomorrow is out of the question.”
“Fine. Saturday, then. The home of Dr. Gabriel Harrow at Fallon. He’s got his own jetshield and all the taxis know it. The number is KR Forty-eight, in case you get lost. And give my love to Alfred.”
“Lunger!” she exclaimed as she turned off the scope.
7
WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY I stowed the food and other purchases throughout the Harrow house, with the aid of the Arabs and Sam Houston Lawrence, from the adjoining farm. By Thursday the snow had reached five feet, and the wind had increased to half a gale. I talked to Elaine and Gabe Thursday evening and they told me they were getting ready to return Friday instead of Saturday.
“I’m afraid now that everything will be shut down by Saturday,” Gabe said. “I didn’t anticipate the wind coming up as fast as it did, but you can’t predict weather such as this. We’ve got a whole new set of forces to contend with. But I’ll get the hang of it.”
“What’s the answer on the extent and concentration of the cosmic dust?” I asked him.
“It’s all been worked 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.