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.
They exchanged personal histories briefly. By now, Maitland nodeed, there were so many disaster stories, so many confirmed and unconfirmed episodes of heroism, such a confusion of dramatic and tragic events that those still surviving confined themselves to the barest self-identification. In addition, there was the gradual numbness that had begun to affect everyone, a blunting of the sensibilities, by the filth and privation and sheer buffeting momentum of the wind. The result was an increasing concentration on ensuring one's own personal survival, a reluctance, such as he had just seen in a basically confident man like Halliday, to put any trust in the durability of others.
"Our last trip we carried only three passengers," Halliday explained, "so a medic wasn't needed. It's obvious they'll soon be closing the unit down."
Maitland nodded. "What will happen to us then?"
Halliday glanced up at him briefly, then flung his cigarette butt into the coffee dregs. "I'll leave you to guess. Frankly, we rate a pretty low order of importance. As long as movement above surface is possible, the big tractors have a valuable role, but now-well… Just about all the VIP's have got where they want to be; the perimeter's really being pulled in tight. Have you been up top recently?"
"Not for about a week," Maitland admitted.
"It's hard to describe-pretty rough. Solid roaring wall of black air-except that it's not air any more but a horizontal avalanche of dust and rock, like sitting right behind a jet engine full on with the exhaust straight in your face. Can't see where the hell you're going, landmarks obliterated, roads buried under tons of rubble. We steer by the beam transmitted between here and Portsmouth. When the stations close down our job will be over. Only yesterday we lost one of the big rigs-their radio broke down when they were somewhere south of Leatherhead. They tried to make it back by compass and drove straight into the river."
As they neared the tractor Maitland saw a small group of passengers waiting, two men and a young woman. All the hatches were being secured on the rear section of the vehicle, and it looked as if these three were the full complement and would travel in the forward section, leaving the rear empty. As Halliday had said, it seemed a complete waste of fuel and personnel-the Titan would have been better employed rescuing Andrew Symington and Marshall-and Maitland felt a sudden sensation of resentment toward the three passengers.
One was a small plump-faced man with a brush moustache, the other two a tall American in a navy trench coat and the girl wearing a leather helmet, goggles over her forehead. As he approached she slipped her hand under the American's arm, and he recognized the couple who had passed him in the lounge bar.
Halliday gestured Maitland over, introduced him briefly to the passengers. "Commander Lanyon, this is Dr. Maitland. He'll be riding down to Portsmouth with us. If you want your temperature taken, Miss Olsen, just ask him."
Maitland nodded to the trio and helped the young woman, an NBC television reporter, carrying her tape recorder over to the starboard hatchway. She and Commander Lanyon had just reached England from the Mediterranean, had come up to London with the third member of the group, an Associated Press correspondent called Waring, in the hope of getting material for their networks back in the States. Unfortunately their hopes that the wind would have subsided had not been fulfilled, and they were returning empty-handed, en route for Greenland.
Ten minutes later the seven of them-three passengers, Maitland, Halliday, the driver and radio operator-were sealed down into the forward section of the Titan, a narrow compartment 15 feet long by six feet wide, packed with equipment, stores and miscellaneous baggage. Canvas racks folded down from the sides and Maitland and the passengers sat cramped together on these, the three crew members up forward, Halliday at the periscope immediately behind the driver, the radio operator beside him. A single light behind a grille on the ceiling cast a thin glow over the compartment, fading and brightening as the engines varied in speed.
For half an hour they hardly moved, edging forward or backward a few yards in answer to instructions transmitted over the R/T. The roar of the engines precluded any but the most rudimentary conversation between those at the back, and Maitland let himself sink off into a mindless reverie, interrupted by sudden jolts that woke him back to an uneasy reality.