"I'm all right."
"He couldn't have missed! Not at that distance!"
"Watch the road," Grayle said gently. He put his hand on his side; the heavy prison shirt was ripped; under it, hot blood oozed from his torn hide. Anne's eyes went to his hand. She gasped, and the car veered. "You're hurt!"
"Don't be concerned about me, Anne. We have more immediate problems—"
A voice crackled from the car radio: "Jig one to Jig nine-two-five, where's that report, Clance? Over."
Grayle lifted the microphone dangling from a hook at the center of the dash, pressed the key.
"Jig nine-two-five to Jig one," he said, holding the mike well away from his mouth and roughening his voice. "Busy; call you later."
"Clance? What was that?" The man at the other end called twice more, then switched off abruptly.
"You didn't fool him," Anne said. "They have directional gear; they know where this car is. They're tracking us right now."
They had turned into a prosperous-looking commercial street. Neon and glare signs shone through the driving downpour. A tall Sabal palm was down across the flooded street. The wind blew fallen fronds across the pavement. There were no people in sight, few cars at the curb.
Grayle picked up the map from the seat, opened it out, studied the street map on the reverse.
"There's an airfield shown here, nearby," he said. "The police and taxi copter port."
"Yes?"
"Turn left ahead. It's about a mile."
"You did say 'Police'?"
"We need an aircraft; we have little choice—"
"Grayle, I can't fly a copter."
"Perhaps I can."
"But—you can't drive a car!"
"I'm not familiar with ground vehicles, but I have considerable experience as a pilot. Do as I ask, Anne. As you said, we have no time to waste."
Anne laughed with a touch of hysteria, swung into a cross avenue toward a towering column of lights in the distance, doing a steady forty miles an hour down the center of the wide palm-lined street. A police car passed them, screaming in the opposite direction. As they swung around the periphery of a wide plaza, a second police car passed them without slowing. The avenue ran straight between wide lawns crossed by broad walks, punctuated by illuminated fountains. Ahead, the lake was blackness. Before a low building on the left, there was movement in a courtyard. Another car emerged from a ramp and sped away. There was a lighted gate ahead. A policeman in a yellow slicker stepped from the shed to wave them through. Anne gave a gasp that was half a sob, half-laughter.
"People see what they expect to see," Grayle said. "They don't expect to see us here."
There were a dozen or more small aircraft in sight; three large fifty-passenger crosstown shuttles bearing commercial blazons, several smaller civil craft, a big police riot heli, a number of small, fast two-man machines. At the far end of the line were a pair of squat, winged VTOL craft with army markings. The headlights shone on them in turn as the car swung in a wide curve.
"Pull up there," Grayle said.
Anne pulled the car to a stop beside the first in line.
"Good-bye, Anne," Grayle started.
"You intend to leave me here to face the police alone?" Anne asked with a smile that relieved the words of accusation.
"Very well. Let's go." Grayle jumped out, glanced over the small, short-winged machine, then swung up beside the canopy; he felt over smooth metal, found a lever. The hatch opened with a soft whirring sound. As he slipped into the cockpit, Anne pulled herself up, slid gracefully into the front seat. Grayle closed the hatch, studied the array of luminous dials. He touched a button, and a cockpit light came on.
Anne turned to look back at him. "Are you sure you can fly this?"
"It shouldn't be difficult," he replied absently; he touched another button, and starters chugged; the short, wide-bladed propellers to either side flicked over jerkily. There was a burst of vapor from one engine; it caught, and a moment later the second joined in, whining up to speed. Grayle found the brake release, gave the engines a burst of power; the awkward ship rolled forward on its tricycle gear, rocking in the wind. The nose wheel, Grayle discovered, was steerable by the wheel before him. He turned sharply, passing close to the guard shack and the fence, swinging back out to face the wind howling off the lake. Again he paused to study the controls. One pair of levers ended in blunt cones, not unlike engine nacelles and spinners. He grasped them and moved them up from horizontal to vertical. The nacelles obediently rotated. Now the propellers spun in a plane parallel to the pavement.
"Grayle—hurry! They've seen us!" Anne said. He followed the direction of her glance, saw men coming across from the gate at a run.
"Fasten your belt," he called over the shrill of the turbines. "I suspect this machine is highly unstable."
He opened the throttles; instantly the craft leaped upward, nose high, drifting backward. He righted it; the plane hurtled forward, rocking and buffeting in the wind. Lights whipped past, just beyond the stubby wingtip, dropping away. Grayle turned the craft, letting the wind carry it. The altimeter needle moved jerkily around the dial. The compass steadied on a course of 305. At an airspeed of three hundred and fifty and a groundspeed fifty knots higher, the craft raced toward the northwest.
5
"We're dealing," said the chief meteorologist, United States Weather Service, "with a cone of air approximately one mile in height and having a diameter of two miles, in rotation at the rate of one revolution each one hundred and five seconds. The rate is increasing slowly on a decreasing exponential curve and should, for all practical purposes, stabilize in another thirty hours at approximately one RPM, giving a peripheral velocity of about one hundred and ten knots."
"They're already reporting winds in excess of a hundred miles an hour all the way from West Palm Beach to Boston," one of his audience of high-ranking government officials comprising the Special Advisory Group cut in.
The weatherman nodded calmly. "Frictional forces naturally influence a large volume of air outside the nucleus of the disturbance. After stabilization, we should expect winds of over two hundred miles per hour throughout a belt about two hundred miles wide adjacent to the dynamic core, falling off at a rate of some ten knots for every hundred miles. At about one thousand miles from the center, turbulence causes a disintegration of the rotational pattern, creating randomly distributed squalls—"
"Good God, man, you're talking about a superhurricane that will devastate a quarter of the country!"
The meteorologist pursed his lips. "That's a slight exaggeration," he said carefully. "Now, as to rainfall, the estimated precipitation for the eastern portion of the country is on the order of twenty inches per twenty-four hours. I emphasize that this is an average figure—"
"Do you realize what you're saying?" another man burst out. "Twenty inches is more than some of the country gets in a year!"
"True. We can anticipate major flooding over the entire watershed. The problems involved in calculating probable runoff rates are complicated by our lack of experience in dealing with volumes of water of this magnitude, but it seems plain that the entire continental drainage pattern will be overloaded, resulting in some rather interesting erosional dynamics. For example—"
"Just a minute," a congressman interrupted. "Just how long is this rain supposed to continue?"
For the first time the weatherman looked faintly troubled. "Insofar as we've been able to calculate on the basis of limited data," he said, "there's no contraindication for indefinite continuation of the present pattern."
"What does that mean?" someone demanded.
"It means," the congressman interpreted, "that as far as they can tell, it's going to keep on raining forever."
"That's ridiculous," a Cabinet member said. "A storm draws its power from the released heat of evaporation; there's a definite limit to the size any weather disturbance can grow to. I should think it would be a relatively simple matter to calculate the theoretical limit, based on known factors of incident sunlight and so on."
"Normally, that would be true, Mr. Secretary. But the theory doesn't seem to apply in this case. You're aware that there seems to be an anomalous situation as regards displacement of seawater: the flow into the area of the whirlpool appears to be balanced by no corresponding outflow, even at great depth. The same is true of air volumes. It also seems to apply to the energy balance."
"Translation, please?" a peppery man spoke up.
"Easy, Homer," the congressman said. "Water and air are going in, and none is coming out. And the energy being expended by the storm exceeds that available from all known sources. Right, sir?"
The weatherman looked pleased. "Quite correct."
"So—what are we doing about it?"
The meteorologist's expression changed to one of mild surprise.
"Doing?" he echoed. He shook his head. "One doesn't 'do' anything about weather, Congressman. One simply observes it!"
"For God's sake, man!" A well-braided naval man spoke up. "You don't mean to tell us that we're going to just sit here and watch the country blow away—if it doesn't wash away first!"
"It's the function of my department to report the weather, Admiral—not to control it."
For several minutes the room was filled with emotional voices, all talking at once. The congressman rose and pounded the table for order.
"This is getting us nowhere, gentlemen," he said. "What about it, sir?" he addressed the meteorologist and his aides. "Is there any action—any measure at all—which you gentlemen can recommend? Seeding? Nuclear dissipation? Anything at all?"
The weathermen were shaking their heads before the question was out. There was a moment of silence.
"I heard something," an Interior Department spokesman said hesitantly. "Probably just a crank notion."
"Well?"
"One of our engineers—Hunnicut is his name, I believe—has suggested that the storm is tied in with the APU power broadcast. He claims that he's pinpointed a massive power drain right on top of the storm center. As a matter of fact, he submitted a proposal direct to the White House that the system be shut down."
"Well!" the congressman barked. "Maybe he's on to something. Let's check it out. God knows the time has come to grasp at straws."
"Well, an idea like that . . ."—the Interior man spread his hands—"can hardly be taken seriously."
"There's only one way to check it out," a White House spokesman said. "That's to shut down the system. And we can't do that." He outlined the situation as it affected the Caine Island prison.
"So—the prisoners riot in the dark. I think we can survive that."
"There's more to it than that—"
"I know—the reputations of the visionaries who poured ten billions of federal funds into the power-from-the-air scheme. But they'll just have to suffer, as I see it. I say shut down and observe the results."
"Congressman, that will take an executive order."
"Then let's get it."
There was a general mutter of agreement. The Interior man left hastily, shaking his head. The Cabinet member buttonholed the congressman.
"This is all very well, Herb," he said in a low tone. "But what if the idea's as silly as it sounds? What do we do then?"
The congressman patted the air. "Let's worry about that when we get to it, eh, Homer? Right now we'd better go see the President."
Lokrien comes up across the rocks, halts before the fire-blackened entry of the ship, from which a wisp of smoke drifts past his head.
"Xix—what happened here?"
"Sabotage by a Fleet officer," the ship's voice says. It sounds weak and thin.
"Fleet officer?" Lokrien looks out across the dark jumble of rock. "Thor—are you out there?" he calls.
There is no answer.
"I went out to look for you," Lokrien shouts into the darkness. "When I returned, your people attacked me like a pack of wild
krill
. Without the Y-field I'd have been killed."
A vague shape moves in the darkness. It is Gralgrathor, almost unrecognizable with half the hair burned from his head, his face blistered, his garments hanging in charred rags.
"Thor! What in the name of the Nine Gods—"
Gralgrathor leaps, swinging his hammer. Lokrien jumps back, avoiding the clumsy blow.
"Thor—have you gone mad?"
Gralgrathor snarls and moves to the attack. Lokrien avoids his rush, watches him fall.
The voice of the ship, faint and unnoticed, speaks across the darkness: ". . . fire damage to lift-coil chamber. Assault capability: negative. Defensive capability: minimal. Power reserve level: critical. Category-one emergency measures now in effect. Captain-Lieutenant Gralgrathor is identified as the saboteur . . ."
"You've wrecked my ship!" Lokrien cries. "Why? For the love of Ysar, why? Did you have to drag me down into your exile too?"
But Gralgrathor makes no answer. He struggles to rise, falls back.
"Attention, Commander!" the voice of the ship echoes across the tumbled granite, among the trees. "I will execute the traitor for his crime against the White Fleet—"
"No!" Lokrien approaches Gralgrathor. "There has to be a reason, an explanation," he pleads. "Tell me, Thor!"
Gralgrathor sways, on hands and knees. Red hate looks out of his eyes.
"I'll kill you," he snarls. "Before I die, I'll kill you."
"Commander," the ship calls. "Men approach!"
"Your mob," Lokrien says to Gralgrathor. "The same crew you set on me before—"
"I will deal with them, Commander," says the ship.
"Thor, go down to meet them, stop them, if you want to save their lives. Xix will kill anyone who comes close."
In silence, Gralgrathor climbs to his feet. Lokrien watches as he moves off like a crushed insect to disappear among the trees. Then he turns to the ship.
"Xix," he says in a broken voice. "What will we do?"