But his concern was real enough. Frank Kollar's program for DELFI had revealed a new and disturbing trend. Based on existing data supplied by WIMP--the World Integrated Monitoring Program--the computer had forecast a specific, discernible decrease in atmospheric oxygen by the year 2006.
At first Binch had been skeptical. The predicted deficiency was only a couple of percentage points, and it was assumed that DELFI wasn't accurate enough to predict minor fluctuations so far in the future-- seven years being a long time in computer weather modeling. So initially he had noted the oxygen decline without becoming too alarmed by it. After all, the computer's forecast of a 2.19 decrease was within the permitted margins of error. No, he couldn't accept it.
Two weeks later Frank came back with more figures. He'd taken the projection beyond 2006 and what he'd found was a nightmare.
The curve rose steeply until by 2016 the oxygen decline was over 4 percent. By 2031 it had decreased a further six points--which meant that the oxygen content of the atmosphere would be only about half of what it was today: 10 percent as against 20.94 percent. Clearly, as Binch realized, this couldn't be interpreted as a statistical error or a freak climatic anomaly. On the basis of the best evidence currently available, DELFI was predicting a significant alteration in the composition of the earth's atmosphere.
Binch pushed the stack of reports to one side and lit a Winston, his ninth that morning. Did any of this support the prediction that the world was running out of oxygen? No; not directly at any rate. Then what would confirm it? That was the nub of the problem. He'd looked closely at the most recent figures on oxygen sampling, all of which had shown the oxygen content of the atmosphere to be perfectly stable at around 20.94 percent. If the effect wasn't apparent now, was it really conceivable that within
Maybe DELFI had fouled up or was being fed with spurious information. But he didn't really believe that, for one very good reason. The change in Frank Kollar, from hardened skeptic to a guy who walked around with a worried look in his eye. Not that he'd turned overnight into a doomsday soothsayer--no, nothing so dramatic. Simply that he'd clammed up, had stopped making his sly cynical jokes, had almost reached the point of noncommunication so that any discussion of the problem consisted of Binch asking questions and Frank not answering them.
"Shall I file these?" Janis asked, gathering the press reports together. When Binch nodded without looking at her, dragging deeply on his cigarette, she said, "Why do you keep reading this stuff, Binch? No wonder you're moody these days. It's enough to depress anybody."
"Because somebody has to. If I didn't bother, who would?" Binch replied, and checked himself. Jesus, he was even starting to sound like Brad. What had happened to Brad? Was he dead? A down-and-out bum somewhere? In a psycho ward? Well now, my friend, he cautioned himself, better take care you don't go the same way. Snap out of it. Think positive. He chuckled gruffly at this piece of shopworn advice, and Janis said: "That's better. Just as long as you don't start talking to yourself." She gave him a meaningful look over her shoulder and went out.
Later in the morning Ty Nolan from the satellite photoreconnais-sance section came up to see him with a file of twenty-by-fifteen-inch glossy prints. These had been taken by the geostationary comsat above the Pacific, transmitted to the receiving station at Temecula near the Mount Palomar Observatory in California, where they'd been computer-enhanced and sent on here. The service was as regular as a milk run and Binch didn't see every batch that came through; just now and then, when the PR section had a problem, which was the case today.
"It shows up here," Ty Nolan said, pointing to an area south of the New Hebrides, "and here, southwest of the Solomon Islands, and also here"--he pulled another glossy print from the sheaf and placed his finger on the spot--"south of the Ellice Islands, longitude one hundred eighty degrees. It isn't cloud shadow or lens distortion. At least we're pretty sure it isn't."
Binch held a photograph in either hand, peering at each in turn. "What am I supposed to be looking at? I don't see anything."
Ty Nolan handed him a magnifying lens. Binch leaned closer.
"Fuzzy dark patches. Do you see them?"
"Yes," Binch said slowly. He reached for another print and examined it through the magnifier. "What do you estimate their size to be?"
"The one near the Solomon Islands is roughly twenty miles by nine. The other two are slightly smaller, though it's hard to be precise because the edges are blurred."
"They're too big for fish shoals."
