Here in Manhattan, although the air pressure was normal, the oxygen content was several points down. Ruth had calculated that it was similar to that at twelve thousand feet. Pollutants in the atmosphere reduced the body's ability to assimilate oxygen still further. Carbon monoxide, for example, displaced oxygen in the lungs by combining with the blood's hemoglobin, which normally transported oxygen to the system. Sulfur dioxide had the nasty habit of 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."
