The book polarized opinion in both the lay and scientific press. It was accused of being "paranoid fantasy." Other critics dismissed it as a piece of trashy sensationalism--panic-mongering at its worst to get onto the best-seller lists--and the author's bid to become the "ecology guru" of the twenty-first century. Chase had expected this. He had been less prepared for the abuse and vilification heaped upon his head by many leading scientists who, in a positive fury (or envy?), leveled the charge that he was "betraying" science.
All the fuss and controversy had the predictable effect of boosting sales and making Chase an internationally known figure. In the eighteen months after publication he was hardly off the television screen. He achieved the respect and notoriety, in pretty well equal measure, that many commentators could only compare to how Ralph Nader had been regarded thirty years before.
The success of the book and his subsequent fame served another useful purpose too--they saved his life.
He had returned from New York with the unshakable conviction that powerful vested interests were determined to silence him. Precisely who these interests were he could only guess at. But the man at JFK (who Chase had belatedly recognized as the same man who had threatened Cheryl in Geneva) was in the pay of a multinational or a government agency or a military group; it was immaterial which, to Chase at least, because the end result was clearly to shut him up at all costs. Dead journalists tell no tales.
For fourteen months Chase worked solidly on the book, living with Dan in a remote croft near the small town of Dornoch on the east coast of Scotland. There they settled down in the tiny two-room dwelling with its whitewashed walls and red corrugated iron roof, with not a neighbor in sight. No electricity, no phone, no TV. Oil lamps, a camping gas stove, and a log fire for when the bleak and bitterly cold northern winter closed in.
In the spring of 2000 he delivered the typescript, and seven months later it was published. Prior to its publication
Chase looked back on those months in the Scottish croft, just the two of them, father and son leading a life that was basic, simple, and wholly satisfying, with a painful nostalgia that brought a stab to the heart. He would never again feel so close to Dan, nor be so absorbed in a piece of work to which he was totally committed and believed in absolutely.
It was a murky yellowy dusk by the time they reached the outskirts of Orlando. Atmospherics down here produced sometimes weird, sometimes beautiful, effects.
After the experience in Miami, Chase wasn't keen to spend the night in a deserted city. It might not turn out to be as deserted as all that--there could be a settlement there, and friendly or hostile it was impossible to know.
So at the National Guard checkpoint where the turnpike intersected the Bee Line Expressway he asked a young guardsman if he could recommend a secure overnight place to stay. The guardsman was dressed like a worker in an atomic reactor--enclosed from head to foot in a black protective cocoon and linked by umbilical airline to the concrete cube of the guardhouse. Through the transparent faceplate they could see he wore a white helmet and had a throat mike taped just below his thyroid cartilage.
He was friendly and helpful. "Take the next exit onto highway twenty-seven. About fifteen miles west of here you'll come to a transit camp for immigrants heading north. I guess you could stay there. Follow the signs to Disney World and you can't miss it."
Dan's face lit up. "Is it near Disney World?" he asked, nose pressed against the cab window.
The guardsman gave a wry grin through the faceplate. "Hell, son, it
"What is this, a survey for Earth Foundation?" he asked with interest.
It would take too long to explain, so Chase merely nodded. "That's right."
"I saw the guy who wrote that
