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
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
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
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 he 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
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, fust as Major Jones was wired--a microcas-sette 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
