Piers Anthony - Rings of Ice

“In the equatorial orbit the rings match the spin of the planet,” Zena said. “The canopy matches, too. But with this polar orbit, the breakup should be much less uniform. Worst at the equator, probably. Just one more consequence of the original blunder.”

“When the military mind blunders,” Gus said, “it doesn’t do it small!”

Zena thought of the raid on the gasoline tanks that Gus himself had planned. The type of mind was much the same.

“But at least the rain is over,” Floy said.

Zena shook her head. “It is not over. This was only the first ring, of four—and not the largest”

“Oh, no!” Floy wailed.

“How do you know?” Gus asked.

“I studied the figures. They planned on four rings, each in a different orbit. The first and smallest in the center, as it were; the others outside, protecting it and contributing their own reflectivity. The second one out was to have about six times the mass of the first, for example. Of course all that came to naught when they set up the polar orbit, because the energy of the sun struck broadside—”

“They didn’t send all the rings at once?”

“No. One at a time. Spaced about two months apart.”

“They couldn’t!” Gus exclaimed. “The first one has broken down all civilization. No way to mount the technology two months after this!”

Zena shook her head. “Would it were so! They sent the batches of J-2 out at 48 hour intervals. They arranged it so that the first contributed less mass and more velocity, so it arrived faster. The others are larger and slower—but inevitable. They are all on their way right now.”

“Maybe they goofed it up,” Floy said hopefully.

“I doubt it,” Zena said. “The military mind is much sharper on detail than consequence. They won’t have many little mistakes to interfere with their big mistake.”

“Four deluges!” Gus said, pushing his fists into the sides of his head. “That’s like the four parts of the last ice age.”

“Gunz, Mindel, Riss and Wurm,” Zena agreed morosely. “We’ve had Gunz,” Floy said. “The others will be worse?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How much worse?” Gus asked. “You said six times as much—”

“I can’t give an exact figure, because I don’t know how much will be lost in space or remain in the atmosphere. I’d guess we’ve had no more than a twentieth of the total rainfall—perhaps less.”

“One twentieth!” Gus cried.

“There won’t be anything left!” Floy said.

“It’s not that bad,” Zena said. “There’s lots of land above two thousand feet elevation. The western plains—”

“But who can live on scoured bedrock?”

“We’ll worry about that when we get to it,” Gus said. “Right now, we have to gear for survival of the next deluge.”

“Mindel,” Floy said.

“And the ones after that,” Gus continued. “We have to grow food, trap meat, build shelter. High enough to be safe from rising water.”

“The bus will do,” Gordon said. “We can add to it, once we get it parked. But we’ll need enough gas to drive it up into the mountains.”

“Right. We’ll have to survey for parked cars anywhere within miles, and siphon out their gas. If we find enough, we can use the bus to haul in other equipment before we camp. We can make it all right, if we just consider the problems and get organized. Now I’ll appoint teams—”

Dust Devil, who had been exploring among the trees, hissed. “He’s found something!” Floy said, running toward the cat. Zena shook her head. That grotesque awkwardness still embarrassed her. Floy was a good night guard— but what else could she do?

“Hey!” Floy cried. “It’s a dog!”

“Kill it,” Gus said. “We need the meat.”

Zena wanted to protest, but knew he was right again. They could not afford to take in stray animals, and they did need the meat.

“A puppy,” Floy said. “His folks must have ditched him. Somebody come pick him up.”

Thatch went over. “Careful,” he said. “He may be wild—or rabid.”

Gloria looked thoughtful. “A puppy should be train-able.”

Gus paused. “You’re right. We have to anticipate trouble. A good guard dog could make the difference.”

“Why are you always looking for trouble?” Zena demanded, irritated. “All survivors will have to work together.”

“Maybe they will. But until they forget about that gas-tank raid of ours, we’d better work alone.”

Zena hadn’t thought of that, but now she realized that this was what had given her misgivings about the raid from the outset. The survivors of that raid would be out to kill. Contact of any kind would be hazardous.

“Would you rather kill the dog?” Gus demanded, misunderstanding her silence.

Zena nodded “no.”

They found gasoline, in small amounts. They set up a ten-gallon reserve to get up the mountain, and used the rest to drive about, picking up whatever supplies they could find. Karen checked over a deserted drug store for insulin, and Thatch found several hundred pounds of seed grains in a farm shed, already sprouting. They got gardening tools and hauled dirt and fertilizer to a forest glade in the mountains, and Zena became chief farmer. She had no prior experience, but she was unlikely to hurt herself in the course of this activity.

“Party night!” Gus cried. “Look what I liberated!” He held up a bottle of Scotch whiskey.

“Throw it away,” Zena said. “We have a world of problems without aggravating them.”

“All work and no play,” Gus retorted. “I say, eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow is another day.”

“Gus, you cheated!” Karen chided him. “You’re already stewed.”

“Have some yourself.” He brought out a bottle of sweet brandy.

“I have to watch it,” Karen said dubiously. “If I take too many calories, or forget my insulin—”

“We’ll remind you,” Gus said. “And here’s some for you, Glory.”

Gloria accepted the bottle. “White cooking wine!” she exclaimed, delighted. She put it away in a cupboard for future use.

“This is ridiculous!” Zena cried. “With so many things we need, to waste effort on this—”

Gloria looked at her. “Gus is right. We’re a group, we have serious problems ahead. We’ll be better off if we learn to get along together, to understand each other well. We need to get sloshed together—one time, at least.”

“Yeah,” Floy agreed, eagerly inspecting the wares.

Zena threw up her hands. “I’m outvoted, as usual.”

“Here,” Gus said, handing her crème de menthe.

Zena shook her head in wonder. She had always been partial to that particular liqueur. Gus had uncanny perception about this sort of thing.

They drank. Zena’s fears proved to be unfounded; no one imbibed to excess. Karen was quite careful, Floy took only sips of each type, Thatch made one small glass of brandy last an hour, and Gloria evidently had a connoisseur’s taste in alcohol. “Gordon gets drunk on hard liquor; I’m more discriminating,” she explained.

Gus himself drank heartily, but only grew more affable. It was contagious, and Zena soon found herself pleasantly high. The awfulness of past events became bearable. She realized that some of this would have helped her with Thatch. Well, before long she would brace him again, and this time try to hang on to her consciousness. Sex was not an evil.

It wasn’t? She caught herself in that mental dialogue and marveled. Were her fundamental values changing? What was the distinction between a Necessary Evil and a Means to an End?

“Whatcha thinking of, brown eyes?” Gus asked her.

“Green eyes,” she said. “It’s my hair that’s brown.”