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!"
"I'll do what I can," Chase said stiffly. "I'll get back to you after the update."
"What are conditions like there?" Prothero asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Atmospherically still pretty good." Prothero would be wise to ease up on his smoking, Chase thought, but decided not to preach. "We
haven't got around to selling oxygen on the black market yet. What's the going rate these days?"
"Fifty dollars a tank. Last week they had to turn out the National Guard to control a mob that attacked one of the food distribution centers. Over a hundred killed. You'll get back to me?"
Chase promised he would. The screen faded to gray. Even an intelligent and sympathetic layman like Prothero failed to understand why such a "simple" thing as replenishing the atmosphere should prove so immensely difficult. Hadn't oxygen been produced commercially for a hundred years or more? Surely all that was required was to increase the size of existing plants and mass-produce them. What could be more straightforward?
