From the faces of those who managed to survive it was apparent that they were suffering from the early stages of anoxia. Pinched, their lips blue-black, they slumped in total exhaustion, mouths sucking in the depleted air. Oxygen content was nearly forty percent lower than normal, equivalent to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet.
Chase recalled the profound shock felt by the scientific community. It had always been assumed that such a decline would take decades, yet Mexico City had slid into ecological nightmare in just a few years. It became a poisonous and decaying wasteland, a memorial as well as a dreadful warning of things to come.
At the entrance to the Tomb he was met by one of the guard corps, a tall loose-limbed boy with a drawling southern accent whose breast patch identified him as "Buchan." Although Chase had been loath to employ armed guards, the threat of attack left little choice.
"Morning, sir." Buchan touched the steel rim of his camouflaged helmet. "How's it look topside?"
His concrete cubbyhole contained a chair, table, a few tattered magazines, and on the crude walls an even cruder patchwork of naked women in bizarre contortions. From the ceiling extended the polished tube of a periscope, through which Buchan surveyed the surrounding terrain. Aboveground had been left completely undisturbed, so that the site, even from fifty yards away, was virtually undetectable. This was their greatest defense.
"All quiet on the western front," Chase reported. He nodded toward the periscope. "Don't you get eye strain peering through that all day?"
"Naw, ain't too bad." Buchan gave him a gap-toothed grin. "Standing orders say you gotta do a sweep every fifteen minutes. Reckon nothing could get near inside of that without being spotted."
"Except a helicopter."
"Yeah, I guess so," Buchan conceded with a shrug. "But we'd pick 'em up on radar, wouldn't we? I think we're pretty safe from a sneak attack," he said confidently.
Chase went down in one of the freight elevators to the mess hall. Seventy feet underground he passed the large board listing the various departments on the different levels.
Marine Geology. Marine Chemistry. Geochemistry. Meteorology. Physical Oceanography. Botany. Biology. Atmospheric Physics. Microbiology. Biological Oceanography. Physiological Research. Marine Ecology. Geophysics and Planetary Physics. Neurobiology. Physiological Psychology.
Altogether, counting technical and laboratory staff, there were about two thousand people. There was space in the Tomb to accommodate many more--twenty miles of tunnels in this section alone. The complex actually stretched much farther, two hundred miles of tunnels in all, though the rest of it had been sealed off from the Tomb itself.
As he ate his scrambled eggs and toast and sipped his coffee, Chase found himself hoping fervently that Buchan's confidence was justified. There were nine access points, each one closely guarded, but even so, the fear of discovery was never far from his mind.
Over his second cup he read the teletext editions of the New York Times and Washington Post. All the leading national newspapers were printed here at Desert Range from a computer-coded transmission via satellite microwave link. At this early hour it was possible to have read the newspapers before they went on sale back east. The complex also had its own twice-weekly news-sheet, The Tomb, which consisted of relevant items from the major news bureau and internal gossip.
By eight o'clock he was at his desk. As director he had to coordinate the efforts of the multi-disciplined research groups. Keeping the clima-tologists informed about what the marine biologists were up to, the oceanographers in the picture about any progress made by the atmospheric physicists, the microbiologists up to date on what the meteorologists were doing was a daunting and time-consuming responsibility. He also had to arbitrate between them: There was still an element of rivalry that in the early days he had tried unsuccessfully to eradicate. Then he had come to the conclusion that perhaps it was necessary, this competitive spirit, to keep everyone keen and on his intellectual toes. Later in the day there was to be a monthly update meeting, when Chase's patience and diplomacy met their sternest test.
Shortly after eleven Prothero called him from New York. The news was more of the same--another rash of emergency committees to deal with the social consequences of the deteriorating climate. It was common knowledge that the government apparatus had been set up in Des Moines, Iowa, well away from the steadily creeping Devastated Areas. Official pronouncements continued to insist that this was a temporary measure "in the interests of administrative convenience," which naturally fooled no one. The rats were always the first to abandon a sinking ship.
"What's the weather like?" Chase asked facetiously.
"If I could see out the window I'd tell you." Prothero's face was more lined these days, pouchier, his eyes hollow and haunted. "I thought I'd better speak to you before you had your update. It is today, isn't it?"
Chase nodded warily. Something was up.
"It's about Gelstrom," Prothero said. "He's got a matter of days."
Chase gazed at the vidscreen. He felt nothing. "So what happens now?"
"It all depends on whether he's made provision for the financial support after his death. I'm checking out the legalities."
"I never expected him to last this long," Chase said. To give him his due, Gelstrom hadn't quibbled over a single penny of the cost of setting up and maintaining the project--in total a figure that must now be approaching the quarter billion.
"How near are you to carrying out field trials?" Prothero wanted to know.
"On which process?"
"Dammit, how do I know? Which is the best bet? You're the scientist."
"If I could answer that there'd be no need to be working on twenty different solutions to the problem. Maybe there isn't any one single answer."
"What's your best shot?" Prothero demanded. "Come on, Gavin, you must have an idea. A hunch even."
"The microbiologists are trying to develop a new algae strain with a high oxygen yield that is superresistant to chemical pollution. Over the long term I think that's the one. But at the moment it's still at the lab stage."
"How long is long term?"
"Optimistically, ten years."
"Jesus Christ," Prothero said faintly.
"And then there's Hanamura's approach, splitting seawater by electrolysis and releasing the stored oxygen into the atmosphere. He's got a pilot plant in operation that is producing good results."
"You'll have to push him. Time's running out. You've seen the reports in the papers recently?"
"You mean the northern latitudes?" Over past months it had been found that 02 levels were decreasing as far north as latitude 50 degrees, which placed most of Europe within the threatened zone. Even more alarming were the stories from Africa and the Indian subcontinent that millions of people were dying from a mysterious sickness. Here at Desert Range debate had raged fiercely, some believing that it was due to oxygen deficiency, while others blamed another, unknown factor. Whatever the cause, it was wiping out and laying waste to entire populations and whole regions.
"I've got some figures you won't have seen," Prothero said gravely. "The NOAA estimates that within two years New York will be another Mexico City. We need some answers, Gavin, and we need them now!"