Sub-Zero

by Robert W. Walker

  Tim studied the other maps and found the size of the Hudson to be growing enormously. “My God, are these maps for real?”

  “This is a large, healthy ice field, Tom, right at our doorstep.”

  “Tim,” he corrected.

  “Tim, Tom, what’s the difference with what I’m saying?

  This ice field is manufacturing great quantities of ice in the North American highlands. Others are doing the same in Asia, Europe, Siberia! The ground in all areas above 80 degrees north latitude, like Greenland, will soon be perennially frozen, in some places over thousands of feet deep. Each winter is claiming more land, more lakes, and more rivers.”

  “I can’t see how it’s happened,” Tim said almost to himself.

  For Tim the room began to take on a nightmarish quality and the old man seemed somewhere between an evil elf and Lucifer. Tim didn’t want any of it to be true. He felt the weight of this fact wrenching his heart. It was like that nagging, ever recurrent fact that one day he would die, and take to the grave only biological truths and evolutionary principles.

  “I read somewhere,” stammered Tim, “that sixteen percent of the ocean area is covered with ice, part or all of the year. Is that true?”

  “It was twelve percent in 1978,” shrugged the old man, his white beard twitching as if animated. “It was sixteen, ten years ago. Now, I’m afraid, it’s twenty-seven percent. Icebergs are on the rise-s-delaying shipping, causing more hazards than ever. If the cold wants to stop us, it will at its present rate. The cold is in control.”

  “Then it must be stopped!”

  “A nice attitude, a good supposition,” said the little white-headed man. “I begin to like you, Tim. You remind me of someone I was familiar with once. But again, to be brutally honest, the ice will not be stopped. Not if it reaches the middle latitudes. Then, there can be no stopping a full scale ice age descending upon us.”

  “Will it reach the middle latitudes?”

  “I don’t know, except to say that at its present rate of growth, it could not be denied by any sane individual,” sighed the old man. “I will be gone by then, I suppose. Nevertheless, it troubles me. Still, this is calculation based upon available data.”

  “But isn’t there some counter measure? We can’t sit idly by and do nothing,” Tim raised his voice.

  “But that’s just what we have done, thanks to my colleagues who’ve maintained for generations the myth that ice sheet growth can only occur above the snowline. They didn’t reckon on the snow line’s dropping to level ground. They didn’t reckon on climatic catastrophe. Until recently, many people and scientists could not grasp the fact that ice doesn’t need gravitational pull to move-it moves by sheer weight. Ice on a level surface, not having the pull of gravity, must be two hundred feet thick to move, under pressure of its own weight, and then it spreads outward. Well now, the seas weigh a hell of a lot more than the pressure of two hundred feet of ice, and the seas are being caught up in this cold cycle both through evaporation and precipitation, and by being covered by large ice sheets, ledges extending between landforms!”

  “The experts have been saying since the 1980’s that such ice sheets would take hundreds of thousands of years to develop. I remember a speech by the president when I was a kid. He said there was no present danger that wehad centuries to adjust to coming climatic changes.”

  “At the same time he was outfitting his top naval and army officers with millions to find a solution to the ice crisis,” said Ben with a shake of the head. “He didn’t bother to inform the public that greater and greater accumulations of snow and ice had begun as early as 1955. All of our presidents since the 1980’s have known this. But few people, privy to the information, cared to shout about it. The ones who did were castrated, largely because they blamed atomic fallout and waste as a contributing factor.”

  “I don’t understand?” said Tim.

  But Ben Nevis seemed not to hear his question. “What rankles me to this day is the fact that there was so much optimism and lack of concern shown by earlier generations. And, of course, the fact that nuclear energy was continually being used at polar sites for heating, lighting, and even construction purposes, not to mention the subs and other nuclear powered craft. Especially, when all the while the authorities knew!”

  “Knew what? What did they know?”

  “They knew that in principle an ice age could start following summer, or at any rate, the next one hundred years, with a ferocity greater than a mere climatic fluctuation. We’d begun to get those sooty, cold summers with so much rainfall in the 1990’s.”

  “Are you speaking of the Iceman Experiments?” “Yes,” said Nevis a little hesitantly, “that and others. GARO, GATE, and others.”

  “The weather’s normality was eroding and these clowns continued to work on experiments involving nuclear energy in the arctic circle?”

  “Not all of them. Most of the work of these organizations was very beneficial, and as for normality in weather, there’s no such thing. Climatic changes do take place gradually, but not always so imperceptibly as once believed.”

  “That’s the understatement of the day,” said Tim loudly.

  “It used to be taught that our existing climate was a relatively settled condition, sedate=-appearing as properly calm as the ocean’s surface. We know that the atmosphere above our heads is no more settled than the cold depths of the oceans.” Nevis began to pace. “There are wild, raging rivers up there,” Nevis was pointing skyward. “Like the jet stream-rivers of air. But our leading weather experts have always been a safe and conservative bunch. As far as they could see, and as far as you or I could see, everything was calm with only an occasional deviation. Deviations soon right themselves, it was taught, and the climate returns to ‘normal’.”

  “Then, are you saying, what’s outside is becoming the norm?”

  “There is no normal where weather is concerned, never has been, don’t you see?” answered Nevis. “It was all theory. Look around you. The evidence of the kind you see in this room, of local climatically induced environmental changes-deserts expanding or constricting, slowing of erosion, growing erosion elsewhere, flooding, typhoons, storms accelerated beyond all limits.”

  “And nothing is being done about it?”

  The old man shook his head. “I can’t get Wertman to listen. I can’t get anyone to look at my calculations. At least, I haven’t up until now. He asked me recently to get some information related to my own research to him as quickly as possible. At least he’s begun to listen. I just fear it is too late.”

  “I certainly hope not, Dr. Nevis,” replied Tim.

  “He’s a fool to have done nothing for so long. All of the so-called experts are. Mavericks like me, drummed out of the elite by people like him, unable to get funds, financial support for our research, or jobs in universities and business, don’t stand a chance. Who listens anyway?”

  “I’m listening, and I’m very interested, Dr. Nevis. Can I come back and talk again with you?”

  “You may, if you wish, but I may be in no mood to talk, and I may deny everything I have told you, son.” The old man stared into Tim’s eyes. “They don’t like dissent around here, not even conscientious dissent.”

  “That plagues the newsroom, too, Dr. Nevis,” answered Tim. “But I’ve got an idea that the time’s right for a man like you to be heard and I think you’ll be surprised at the response a story like this will receive today.”

  “I don’t think people change very much,” said Nevis, turning and going back to his work. “People are sheep.”

  Tim got the image of a line of people being herded along by a number of weathermen onto an iceberg docked in an ice-filled lake or bay. Like so many old Eskimos, the people were supposed to float over the water until they died of exposure. He shook his head as he left Nevis’ offices. When he got into the hallway, his thoughts shifted to Marie Stanton once more. He went to the elevator, intending to take it down to the switchboard room where he’d f
ind Marie-little headphone set atop her black hair, smiling over her shoulder at him.

  23

  Tim Crocker stood at the doorway to the small switchboard room. Nothing was the same. All the chairs had been neatly arranged at the board, even tucked in so that a visitor had space to walk. The once-scattered newspapers and magazines were neatly stacked on a corner table, and the ashtray was picked up and placed in its proper spot. There were no ashes or soot on the linoleum floor. The evidence that Marie was still alive and well was overwhelming. Tim’s breath became a little easier.

  Still, as he pulled out a chair at the switchboard, he wondered where she might be. He had the feeling that all along she had been close by-doing something quite basic and simple, like sleeping somewhere as George Walsh had been doing on the couch at the Personnel waiting room. Then she returned and cleaned up the place. Perhaps she was now at the cafeteria rounding up the other switchboard girls, trying to get them to return to their plugs.

  His finger went over the switch of the Master-com, the intercom he’d used earlier. He was certain that using it now would turn out to be foolish. He flicked it on and off several times. He wanted to shout into it, “Where in hell are you, Marie?”

  He thought better of calling an all points bulletin on Marie. She’d be furious with him and he’d look like a fool if she were sipping coffee somewhere.

  He glanced around the small room. His eyes fell on the closet door at the rear left, The door was open ever so slightly. It was the room in which the switchboard girls hung their coats. Tim went toward it. Reaching the door, he yanked it open. The little room was dark but it appeared empty. He found a light switch and turned it on. Except for an assortment of sweaters, hats, scarves, gloves, and coats, it was empty. Investigating further, he pulled back several coats and found the hooded tweed coat that was Marie’s, resting on its hanger.

  He sighed and let go of the coat. He closed the closet door and went back to the chair he’d occupied a moment before. The thought ran through his mind that she’d found another man, and together they’d found a quiet corner of the building and were sleeping somewhere together. The thought was half wishful thinking. It might do Marie good, to take on a new lover, he thought to himself. She’d become jealous to the point of rage several times in their relationship. She needed to loosen up. Sometimes she acted as if they were married.

  He was suddenly tired, his eyes burning. He rubbed them several times, trying to ward off his drowsiness. Maybe, he thought, he should just wait there until Marie returned. He began thinking of the last time he’d seen Marie.

  She’d convinced him to stay with her all night and he awoke to her caress. She was a passionate woman, and Tim found it close to impossible to satisfy her completely. She was the complete opposite of the person she appeared to be at FBE, with her headphone so neatly perched on her velvety, black hair. She was a reckless, wild lover, who allowed her long hair to play over him. She acted the part of a powerful, dominating goddess. She had no inhibitions.

  This contrasted sharply with the strict discipline of her public image, her neat-as-a-pin pose.

  After making love again, they had coffee and smoked cigarettes. Marie went about the apartment in the nude as he sat in bed watching her. They talked and listened to the radio. It had begun to snow the night before. The music was frequently interrupted by over-anxious weather forecasters distressed that no end seemed in sight for the snow during the day.

  Marie raised the shade next to the bed and peaked at the day. “Darnn it,” she’d cursed. “I’m so sick of this winter. Hell, Tim, it’s April!”

  “I know how you feel,” he’d moaned in response. “Drop the shade. Do you want the neighbors to talk?”

  “They already do,” she replied.

  Marie sat sipping her coffee for some time. Her mind seemed to wander away from Tim. She shivered, until Tim put a blanket over her shoulders. She began talking as if to herself. “We watched the bay turn to ice, eaten by the glacier. First the water turned opaque. It was freezing cold. Then fragile crystals formed, hardening more quickly all around the edges. Next, tiny needles spread together to form giant, cold pie plates shining like tin. More and more ice gathered until the water looked muddy-it was slushy with it. Then the surface froze solid. The waves came in from the Pacific, carrying warmer winds, and tried to fight it all the time. The waves would break it up, buffet it, turn the ice layers intoseparate lily pad shapes again and again.

  “Pretty soon all the separate shapes of ice were fewer and fewer. The ice sheet became thicker and stronger.

  “We watched it begin to climb over its edges, growing from the shores, and reaching outward to the sea.”

  Tim sat upright in bed beside her. “Sounds like a National Geographic caption. Where was this, Glacier Bay, Alaska? What were you doing there?”

  “The more it grew, the more it protected itself by its own mass,” Marie continued in her reverie. “It methodically refrigerated all the area around it with its reservoir of cold.”

  “I didn’t know you knew such large words, grandma,” quipped Tim at the time. “Say, did you live in Alaska once?”

  She shook her head to indicate yes.

  “A chilling tale,” Tim bounced a friendly punch off her shoulder, trying to cheer her. “You know, going into a depression after we make love does not a little bother me!”

  She had no answer for this. She got up and began to dress for work. It surprised Tim that she felt in such a rush to get to work that morning. She left ahead of him.

  Now, in the wire room, as Tim called it, he waited for her to come through the door.

  24

  In the sub-basement of the boiler room, Gary Hornell and George Walsh completed their work, replacing the deadly, incorrectly printed circuit board with the correct one. The little board was circular, the size of a poker chip. Walsh pocketed the chip, intending to give it to Tim Crocker when next he saw him.

  Together, George and Gary walked back toward the office and the ladder-sized steps that would take them to the lower level and out of the boiler room. The room was still noisy. Gary’s ears were beginning to ring from it. He’d be glad to get on the elevator and return to the newsroom upstairs. He wasn’t sure what this trouble had been worth, or if he could salvage anything from the time he’d spent here for Crocker. Sure there was a story in the reactor, but what were the details? Who knew the answers? Who could he talk to? Who would talk? Did it constitute a crime? It seemed to him it must.

  Gary stopped Walsh at the foot of the stairs leading up and asked, “How can you be so calm about this? There’s a self-contained nuclear power pack and turbo-engine running this building, and you aren’t even sweating.”

  “Whoever it is, he’s using regained uranium waste,” answered Walsh with a shrug. “It’s weaker, having been run through a reactor before. I’m more concerned with how they ship it here than its being here. That reactor may look small and fragile to you, but I’ve never seen one quite so well put together. I don’t know that I condone it, but Fieldcrest has a large operation going here. It looks to me as if he sells power to neighboring buildings, too.”

  “I don’t think it’s small,” said Gary.

  “By comparison, it is a miniature. I don’t know how it can be afforded, though,” answered Walsh. “That is, unless they perfected a cheap method of production.”

  “It’d have to be cheaper. Why else have it?”

  “I thought it was a back-up system, like the normal steam generator, or coal generator,” said Walsh. “But no, this is the system.”

  “Isn’t it a crime?”

  “It’s no crime to produce your own electricity, or to generate heat, Gary, but I know the Atomic Energy Commission would take a dim view of all this.”

  “You mean they’d lynch Fieldcrest?”

  “If he’s responsible, and ultimately, he is.”

  Gary stared into the grayness of the subbasement as Walsh began his assent. “You sure that thing won’t bl
ow any minute?”

  “Not a chance, Gary. Quit worrying. It’s quite secure, at least until someone turns on the air conditioning,” joked Walsh.

  Walsh started up the steps that ran along the huge. gray oil drum. Gary followed, head bent, careful not to slip. When George reached the seventh step, he realized that a man, with a large round stomach and black bowler hat, was standing at the top, waiting for them. He was also pointing a gun at them. Walsh did not recognize the man, and the thought flashed through his mind that he was about to die here, amid all the great, gray, belching machines. Dead amid all the phony machinery, he laughed to himself.

  Another thought hit him at the same instant. He’d been a fake, a phony all his life. Why had he never finished medical school? Why did he always put off everything? Time and again he quit, took up meaningless odd jobs. He’d become the proverbial ‘Jack of all Trades, Master of None, least of all medicine. Now, he was going to die.