“Until then, three things are certain:
“One: there can be no delay, no putting it off until a tomorrow that may not come, not in the Southern Refuge. Two: the choices, such as they are, can’t be avoided. And three: action must follow sooner rather than later: if at all possible within the next few days at most, for that’s all the time we have left and nothing to spare.”
And again, holding up a commanding hand against a possible outcry: “Now let me hurry on…
“In certain ways fortune smiles on us…which may seem a most peculiar statement in times such as these! But believe me, all is not lost, not yet, and things could be much, much worse. As for how bad things are: I shall deal with that first, making no bones about it…
“As you all know, our water is drawn from two deep borehole wells; water which has always been plentiful, clean and refreshing…until now!”
That was when it had come if not quite as Big Jon had anticipated: the gasps of dismay, groans of strong men—the stirring of a crowd pressing closer to the loading bay the better to hear every word, not daring to miss anything—the soft sighs, even the sobbing of women clutching their smallest children to them.
Yet even so, it was scarcely the eruption that Big Jon had expected. At which he’d known that at least some intimation of the clan’s uncertain future had spread abroad, if not the situation in its entirety; which could scarcely have surprised him in a community so small and close-knit.
Then as the throng had pressed closer still, once again the leader had thrust a calloused hand high, his rough strong voice demanding: “Now wait, and hear me out!”
And as the swell had settled: “Very well…and now, about the water. As you know, deep in the rock there are two borehole wells. One well serves the animals that provide our food, clothing and fertilizers; the other issues water for drinking, washing, tanning, and the hydroponic vats; water that also freshens the shallow lake from which, with an eye to conservation, we’ve always taken a limited quota of fish…well, for what that has been worth this last year and a quarter; what with all the parasitic infestations and, as a direct result, the poor quality of the catch…”
Frowning, Big Jon had paused to gather his thoughts; until, finally: “Ah yes! Nor must we forget the small measure of clean water used as a coolant by our scavenger teams in the motors of their ancient, thirsty vehicles, venturing out in moon and starlight into the shattered towns and cities, fearless in the face of the fly-by-nights.
“In short the water is—or rather has been—everything to us, without which we could not, and cannot, survive! I make that point not to further alarm you, who must surely be aware of the sickening of the animals, but to prepare you for what has obviously been suspected if not hazarded aloud—
“—Namely that our wells, both of them, are now contaminated! Finally, after all these years, nuclear radiation from the surface has found its way into the depths of the earth and into the water! Many of the animals are poisoned, dying; which means that their flesh, their milk and eggs are likewise poisoned, no longer edible! Which in turn means we must take with us as many strong and healthy creatures as we can, preserving them for the future in order to preserve ourselves…”
There! With the sudden finality of just three words—“take with us”—the unthinkable had been broached: no longer a mere idea or fanciful notion of mass exodus from the Southern Refuge but a definite statement of intention, and far more importantly of imminence! Until which moment it had been barely possible to hope that Big Jon—with his odd talk of “fortune smiling,” and then of dealing with the bad news first, which could have meant there was better news to come—might yet pull a rabbit out of his hat; such hope as was now rapidly evaporating.
And once again anticipating a surge of desperate denials or anxious questions from his people, their leader had paused; but only until he had sensed the burgeoning pressure of their passions, their barely suppressed fear gathering energy to commence shouting and perhaps even screaming! And such was the weight of their terror that Big Jon had feared runaway hysteria!
Then for the last time he had stood tall, thrusting a hand high; and his voice, as strong as ever and even a little angry, had come bouncing back from rearing cavern walls. “Now bear up, and hear me out! For I’m not yet done! Oh, I know, I understand that you may not care to hear my words—that you may even wish to deny them—for by now you surely suspect that the worst are yet to be spoken…which they are! But then again, so are the best, or at least better! In which respect I would not lead you astray, nor have I ever…”
And as an anxious, ominous silence once more descended: “So then,” Big Jon had continued, “the water in the wells is contaminated. But we have always been diligent in keeping the reservoirs full—which they are—all but two: those closest to the source, drawing water directly from the wells. Needless to say, these have now been isolated from the system.
“Now to the point of all this:
“Assisted in my figurings by the techs, I calculate we have clean water for a three-month; that’s if we are to remain here, in the refuge. Three months—the total time allowed—before we begin to go the way of the animals!”
At which, at last from the clan a hoarse cry, an angry male voice shouting: “Jon Lamon, you’re our leader, that’s true. But how are we to accept, even from a leader, the fact that both of our wells are poisoned? And that until now, somehow, a disaster such as this has gone entirely unnot—?”
“—Hear me out!” Big Jon cut the questioner short. “I fully understand your angry tone; also the question you were about to ask, despite that I find it provocative if not odious. But still I’ll answer and have done with it. Let it be clearly understood that while you are correct and the clan faces a great disaster, still I’m able to assure you that no blame attaches, not that I can discover. Yet the problem exists as stated.”
“No blame?” The inquirer, a tall, burly, red-faced man in his mid-twenties, had come forward, pushing through the crowding people. “The animals began to sicken more than a week ago, maybe even longer! So then, what of the techs and their instruments? Have they been scamping the work, sleeping on the job, somehow failing to note these desperate straits that we’re in? Radiation from the surface, you said; but can you be sure it’s not from the pile behind those huge lead doors in the refuge’s furthest reaches, which is yet again the responsibility of the techs? Oh, and did you call the situation ‘a problem?’ What, a mere problem? Hah!” Scowling, throwing wide his arms, he shook great clenched fists to illustrate his fury…and maybe something of his fear. And finally—lowering his arms if not his tone—he finished by saying: “Well, it seems to me that we’re all dead men! So how’s that for a problem?”
“Ned Singer, you’re out of order!” declared Big Jon Lamon. “Your attitude surprises me, leaving much to be desired. Oh, I know you are a brave man and serve as the leader of one of our scavenger teams: a very important position. For which reason I might expect better from you. But dead men, you say? Without a full understanding of the situation? Is it possible you’re trying to condemn, to frighten the entire clan to death, Ned? No, of course not! So now if you’ll leave all your blustering out, maybe I’ll be allowed to finish up?! And, as I’m sure I recall saying, no blame attaches! How could it when no one could have foreseen or forestalled the ‘problem’ in the first place?”