Читать книгу We Who Survived - Sterling Noel - Страница 9

I SPENT SUNDAY and Monday on telephones around the world talking to some fifty close friends in and out of the N.A. Air Force. I moved about Missouri Center, making no more than two calls from each station. This was one of the basic dodges to avoid monitoring, and it seldom failed to work.

However, I turned up only five reports of clogged Paxton tubes and two DX-Recording Tapes (which registered intake impurities). The DX Recorders were generally obsolete by 2203, along with intake valves. Fewer than 20 missiles of the old design, with Paxton tubes, had remained in service. Of these only five had made any sorties since the first of the year. I couldn’t locate the pilot of the fifth, who was reported to be up a mountainside in Japan with a native female.

I called Gabe at Hood at midnight Monday. His dynamic visage came on the scope like a breath of fresh air. “What have you got, Vic?” he asked, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

“Not much,” I said. “Five clogged Paxton tubes and two DX Recordings.”

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Give me all the altitudes and dates and let me have a look at the recordings. I’ll copy them from the scope so I can study them.”

It took him twenty minutes, and then he brought Elaine on the scope and we had a three-way visit.

“I’ve been reading hydrogen signals,” said Elaine. “We’re coming to a huge cloud of it that extends thirty light years out.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“We’re measuring the area of debris,” said Gabe, “but we’ve still got to determine the dust concentration. Everything depends upon that.”

“Anything more I can do?” I asked.

“Start collecting food concentrates,” said Elaine. “We’re planning a large group—eighteen or twenty persons—so you’ll need tons.”

“Get a couple of years’ supply,” said Gabe. “Get them out to Fallon and we’ll all meet there the end of the week. How deep is the snow there now?”

“Officially, thirty inches,” I said. “Actually, nearer forty and it’s beginning to drift. The wind has come up considerably in the past twenty-four hours.”

“It’ll come up a lot more,” said Gabe. “In a month we’ll have nothing but gales and hurricanes.”

“My God!” I exclaimed, “shouldn’t we get out?” It was purely a reflex question.

Gabe laughed. “Out where? Would you prefer the moon?”

“Not this winter,” I said. “Well, all right. I’ll get food.”

“I’ve got a list of what we’ll want,” said Elaine. “We’ll send you money—or an authorization to use our bank account, if you’d prefer.”

“I’ve got enough money,” I said. “Put your list on the copy circuit. How about reactor fuel? How are you fixed at Fallon?”

“We’re okay on that, but a spare core might be useful” said Gabe.

“I forgot more arctics,” said Elaine. “Get me a couple of suits, size ten—or a big eight. White.”

I was looking at the list as it came through the copy slot. It did look like enough to last us the rest of our lives—all except the food.

“Let’s get back to the food,” I said. “Why only two years’ supply?”

“More than that would be a waste,” said Gabe. “If we don’t figure this out before two years, there won’t be any of us left to figure. In two years’ time the snow will be at least a half a mile deep, and all of the lower strata for a couple of hundred feet will be solid ice due to compression. The ice won’t be standing still. It’ll be moving—the glacial action. We’ll have to be up on the surface long before then and on our way to the warm belt—that is, if the gales and hurricanes permit us any movement.”

“My God!” I exclaimed. “No alternative?”

“I don’t think so. I’m still hunting. See you Saturday.”