"That doesn't seem to have much connection with carbon dioxide and seawater," Chase pointed out.
"No, not directly. Though it might have something to do with the climate. Indirectly."
"You mean the greenhouse effect?" Chase said. "I'd already thought about that myself, but I don't see how."
"If you like I'll mention this to Banting next time I see him," said Sir Fred, getting up. He seemed to inhabit the blue suit rather than wear it. "The Americans could have confided in him."
"Are you likely to see Professor Banting?"
"We serve on half-a-dozen committees together." Sir Fred gave Chase a long-suffering look over his meerschaum. "Professor Banting and the committee might have been made for each other."
Chase went ahead and held the door open.
"If you're all that curious you could find out yourself," Sir Fred told him. "See Boris Stanovnik and ask him. He'll be in Geneva and he speaks good English." He chuckled, started to cough, and spat something into his handkerchief. "Better accent than mine," he wheezed.
"Thank you for taking the time to see me, sir. I'll watch for your program. I'm glad we met again."
They shook hands and Sir Fred wandered off down the maze of corridors, apparently knowing where he was bound. The thought in Chase's mind was not Boris Stanovnik or Geneva, but Angie. But after all, he reasoned, it
He had the car radio on, but wasn't really listening. It was a meaningless babble.
Fragments caught and snagged at his mind.
. . . you won't find a better deal this side of the Rockies . . . buy three and get the fourth free! . . . we're offering discounts on the discounts at}. C. Broughton's . . . looking for the little gift to please her? . . . ten-ninety-five and you get a chrome set for the price of . . .
Instead he tuned in to the thoughts inside his head. People everywhere were dying of cancer, others were suffering from nerve and respiratory defects, from liver and kidney disorders, women were miscarrying, children being born with genetic damage. It was a never-ending catalog of the dead and dying, victims of toxic waste and industrial pollution.
The world was manifestly mad; to Brad Zittel it was perfectly clear. In fact it was screaming for attention, for action. The world was mad not only because these things were happening but because nothing was being done to prevent them from happening. Nobody cared. The planet was drowning in its own excrement and nobody gave a damn . . .
Take that car in front. He'd been unseeingly watching it pumping out poisonous fumes for the last ten minutes. What the hell did the driver care? The air was still clear and breathable, wasn't it? Nobody had actually dropped dead on the highway. Not yet.
Without a moment's further consideration Brad pulled over and ran the small red Datsun onto the sloping grass shoulder. The traffic behind honked and swerved. Somebody shook a fist. Brad switched off the engine and slumped back in the seat, all the strength leaking from his fingertips.
His head felt curiously tight and his temples throbbed.
... at the Temple of Divine Worship this coming Sunday . . .
It was too big a mess for one man to sort out. And why should he bother? Let them sink in their own sewage. His stomach tightened in a spasm of virulent rage. It seemed to swell inside him like a growth until he felt that he must burst.
Still the endless stream of cars and trucks blurred past, filling the air with a soft-blue haze.
Brad got out and faced the oncoming surge. Oxygen-breathing monsters spewing out poison. Movable instruments of death, like the Nazi gas ovens on wheels. He stumbled onto the concrete lip of the highway and began to walk toward them. This, it seemed to him, was the only logical thing to do. He felt very calm.
Traffic streamed past on either side, incredulous faces and gaping mouths. He walked diagonally across the highway, angry and yet calm, impotent and yet defiant.
A huge truck bore down, silver exhaust pipe burnished by the sun, the driver wrenching at the wheel and cutting across the path of a car, which braked sharply, setting up a cacophony of horns.
Miraculously the traffic continued to flow all around him, a river of hurtling murderous metal, the warm breeze and pungent fumes wafting against his face and filling his nostrils. A long-haired motorcyclist went by, shouting something that was snatched away, and then a car with a trailer rocking crazily as the driver tried to avoid him.
Brad walked on.
The cars and trucks had malevolent eyes and snarling mouths. He could smell their stinking breath. Another sound insinuated itself above the steady roar, a thin high-pitched braying. He didn't see the patrol car, lights flashing, slue to a stop on swaying springs. Something yanked him and he was being carried and thrust facedown onto dimpled plastic that smelled strongly of stale sweat.
