What would happen when their supplies of food began to run out?

"Six-fifteen, Donald," Avery cut in. He finished his drink and sat forward, ready to leave. "I'm working at Casualty Intake from now on. The Americans are shipping most of their top brass over to their bases in Greenland -the wind's about fifty miles an hour lower than here. Rumor has it that they're converting some big underground ICBM shelters inside the Arctic Circle, and with luck a few useful Nato personnel may be invited along to do the rough work. From now on I'm going to keep my eyes open for some amenable twostar general with a sprained ankle to whom I can make myself indispensable as back-scratcher and houseboy. I advise you to do the same."

Maitland turned and looked curiously at Avery, was surprised to see that the surgeon was perfectly serious. "I admire your shrewdness," he said quietly. "But I hope we can look after ourselves if we have to."

"Well, we can't," Avery scoffed. "Let's face it, we haven't really done so for a long time. I know it sounds despicable, but adaptability is the only real biological qualification for survival. At the moment a pretty grim form of natural selection is taking place, and frankly I want to be selected. Sneer at me if you wish-I willingly concede you that posthumous right." He paused for a moment, waiting for Maitland to reply, but the latter sat staring bleakly into his glass, and Avery asked: "By the way, heard anything of Andrew Symington?"

"As far as I know be's still with Marshall 's intelligence unit over at Whitehall. Dora's just had her baby; I mean to look in on her before I leave."

As they made their way out of the lounge, they passed a tall American submarine commander who had come in with a slim blonde-haired girl in a brown uniform with Press tabs on its sleeves. Her face and neck were covered with minute abrasions, the typical wind-exposure scars, but she seemed so relaxed, following the American closely with unforced intimacy, that he realized these two, who had obviously come through a period of prolonged exposure together, were the first people he had seen who had managed to preserve their own private world intact.

As be took his seat in the briefing room in the Personnel Reallocation Unit he wondered how far his own character had benefited by the ordeals he had been through, how much it had gained. merit, as the Buddhists would say. Could he really claim any moral superiority over Avery, for example? Despite his near death at knightsbridge he had so far had little choice in determining his own fate. Events had driven him forward at their own pace. How would be behave when he was given a choice?

Maitland was assigned to one of the big Titan supertractors ferrying VIP's and embassy personnel down to the submarine base at Portsmouth. Many of the passengers would be suffering from major injuries sustained before their rescue, and required careful supervision.

Listening to the briefing, Maitland had the impression, as Avery bad suggested, that the Americans were withdrawing in considerable numbers, taking with them even severe surgical cases. When the last convoy had set sail for Greenland, would Brandon Hall have outlived its usefulness? The nearest British base was at Biggin Hill, and if the wins continued to rise for the next week or so it would be difficult to reach. Besides, what sort of welcome would they receive if they did go there?

The captain confirmed his doubts.

"How far is there any effective contact between the bases around London?" Maitland asked as the meeting broke up. "I feel we're all pulling the lids down over our respective holes and sealing them tight."

The captain nodded somberly. "That's just about it. God knows what's going to happen when they decide to close this place. It's cozy down here now, but we're on board a sinking ship. There's only about one week's supply of generator fuel left in the storage tanks, and when that's gone it's going to get damned chilly. And when the pumps stop we'll have to climb into our diving suits. The caissons below the foundations have shifted and water's pouring in from underground wells. At present we're pumping it out at the rate of about a thousand gallons an hour."

Maitland collected his kitbag from the hospital dormitory. On the way out he looked in at the woman's ward, and went over to Dora Symington's cubicle.

"Hullo, Donald," Dora greeted him. She managed a brave smile, made a space for him on the bed among the feeding bottles and milk cans. She raised the baby's head. "I've been telling him he looks like Andrew, but I'm not sure he agrees. What do you think?"

Maitland considered the baby's small wizened face. He would have liked to think it symbolized hope and courage, the new world being reborn unknown to them in the cataclysmic midst of the old, but in fact he felt grimly depressed. Dora's courage, her pathetic little cubicle with its makeshift shelves and clutter of damp clothes, made him realize just how helpless they were, how near the center of the whirlpool.

"Have you heard from Andrew yet?" she asked, bringing the question out carefully.

"No, but don't worry, Dora. He's in the best possible company. Marshall knows how to look after himself."

He talked to her for a few minutes and then excused himself, taking one of the elevators up to the transport pool three levels below the surface.

Even here, some 75 feet below ground, separated by enormous concrete shields ten feet thick, designed to provide protection at ground zero against megaton nuclear weapons, the presence of the storm wind raging above was immediately apparent. Despite the giant airlocks and overlaying ramps the narrow corridors were thick with black sandy grit forced in under tremendous pressure, the air damp and cold as the air stream carried with it enormous quantities of water vapor-in some cases the contents of entire seas, such as the Caspian and the Great Lakes, which had been drained dry, their beds plainly visible.

Drivers and surface personnel, all sealed into heavy plastic suits, thick foam padding puffing up their bodies, hung about between the half-dozen Titan supertractors grouped around the service station.

His own Titan was the fifth in line, a giant six-tracked articu lated crawler with steeply raked sides and profile, over 80 feet long and 20 feet wide, the tracks six feet broad. The gray-painted sides of the vehicle had been slashed and pitted, the heavy three-inch steel plate scarred with deep dents where flying rocks and masonry had struck the vehicle, almost completely obliterating the U.S. Navy insignia painted along the hull.

A lean-faced big-shouldered man in a blue surface suit looked up from a discussion with two mechanics who were sitting inside one of the tracks, adjusting the massive cleats. Royal Canadian Navy tabs were clipped to his collar, a captain's rank bars.

"Dr. Maitland?" he asked in a deep pleasant voice. When Maitland nodded he put out his hand and shook Maitland's warmly in a powerful grip. "Good to have you aboard. My name's Jim Halliday. Welcome to the Toronto Belle." He jerked a thumb at the Titan. "We've got just over half an hour before we take off, so how about some coffee?"

"Good idea," Maitland agreed. Halliday took the canvas grip out of his hand, to his surprise walked around to the front of the tractor and slung it up over the hood onto the driver's hatchway. As Halliday rejoined him, Maitland said: "I was going to leave the grip in the mess in case we have to make a quick getaway."

Halliday shook his head, taking Maitland's arm. "If you want to, Doe, go ahead. Frankly, I recommend that you make yourself at home aboard the ship. Can't say I feel any too confident about this place.

As they collected their coffee in the canteen and sat down at the end of one of the long wooden tables Maitland examined Halliday's face carefully. The Canadian looked solid and resourceful, unlikely to be swayed by rumor.