Piers Anthony - Rings of Ice

“Right! So there was one overall cause, worldwide. The canopy.”

“Gus, if man had seen anything like that, he would have recorded it somehow, if only in legends.”

“He did. Ancient pottery shows the canopy, and Stonehenge was built to—”

She laughed. “I don’t know what sort of stuff you read, but that’s crackpot theory! Are you sure it wasn’t a fantasy novel?”

“Nonfiction,” he said seriously. “It was the Annular Theory. I have a book on it packed away, Heavens and Earth of Prehistoric Man. Things like that interest me. I’ll show you, when we have a chance to unload.”

“So that’s why you think this rain will flood the world!” she said derisively. “You read someone’s wild conjecture—”

But Gus was not nettled. Whatever his failings, he had a steady temper. “Do you know otherwise?”

That shut her up. She did not know otherwise. In fact this theory of his bore an uncanny resemblance to the actual situation. It was as if fate had directed her to the very person who could understand and help—a person she would never ordinarily have met. She knew the rain would continue, horrendously, even though she was not free to admit that. Everything she had learned in space was classified, rightly or wrongly. Her flight from the stupidity and confusion that had precipitated this crisis did not release her from the oath of secrecy she had unwillingly taken.

But if Gus came close to the truth, was she bound to lie in defense of that secrecy? Or was it ethical to let him prevail, so long as she never specifically confirmed his accuracy?

“So we figure the whole state will flood out, maybe in a few days, and we’re headed for the mountains,” Gus said, satisfied. “We’ve got the Whole Earth catalogue and extra gasoline, a fifty-gallon reserve tank we won’t touch until we have to. And food.”

“Food?” she said eagerly.

“Hey yeah, you’re hungry! Here.” Gus got up and stepped past her to the kitchenette. He got a loaf of bread and opened the refrigerator. “Mostly jars of stuff—we figured it would keep better, because we won’t always have current for the fridge. And we didn’t have too much money. Bean or marmalade?”

“What?”

“Your sandwich. We have other stuff, but it isn’t open yet. Don’t want to waste anything.”

“Oh.” She got up, feeling her fatigue now that she had had a chance to rest. “I’ll do it.”

Gus shrugged and turned over the makings. She made herself one of each.

“So it’s like this,” Gus said as she munched sandwiches that hunger made delicious and washed them down with a glass of milk. “Maybe the whole nation will flood out, with only a few islands where the mountain tops are. No one will be left, except us. We don’t have an ark, so we’ll have to use this bus. And we’ll save civilization. Like Noah.”

Zena had to laugh, explosively. Fatigue and relief had abated her inhibitions. Precious crumbs of bean sandwich sprayed out of her mouth in most unladylike fashion, embarrassing her. “Noah!”

But Gus was serious. “That’s why we’re picking up people. We don’t need old ones or sick ones—but every young, healthy person is a potential citizen of the new order.”

Suddenly it wasn’t funny—if it had ever been. She had been preoccupied by the problems of the moment, and hadn’t thought it through: people were going to die. Including her own family, if she didn’t get through in time to warn them. Had she herself been picked up because she was a woman of childbearing age?

“Make sense to you?” Gus asked, averting his gaze.

It made sense, all right! These two hoped to build a captive kingdom! Would she have been accepted as a candidate if she had not been pretty? Ha-ha! “I believe I’ll get off at the next mountain,” she said.

Gus made a gesture of laissez-faire. “It has to be voluntary, of course. But you’ll drown, here.”

The awful thing was that it was true. She would drown, if she didn’t get out of Florida in the next few days. And as the nature of the disaster became apparent to the surviving populace, a woman alone would not be safe. From either the weather or the people.

“If you really believe that the world in this vicinity is coming to an end,” she said, “why aren’t you worried about your own folks? You do have folks?”

Gus wasn’t fazed. “My dad farms in the mountains. My brother was captain of his school swimming team. They can take care of themselves.”

“And yours?” she asked Thatch.

Thatch didn’t answer.

“He knows we can’t save anyone else until we save ourselves,” Gus said. “If there’s a break in the rain, then maybe we can look about.”

“A pragmatic philosophy,” she said. “It confirms my opinion of you. How about dropping me off when you hit the Appalachians, then?”

If Gus caught the irony he didn’t show it. “Sure enough. But you’re eating our food and using up our gas. You’ll have to earn your keep.”

She tensed. “Such as?”

“Such as cleaning house, washing socks, sewing buttons—”

“I’m a meteorologist! I never sewed a button in my life!”

“Well, there’s a sewing machine in back. We don’t know how to use it.”

“Neither do I!” she snapped.

Gus looked at her with annoying tolerance. “Being feminine bugs you, doesn’t it.”

Perfect shot! Her first impulse was to hit him again, to make him go down with another wail for his buddy. Her second was to launch a tirade on masculine arrogance. But she was better rested now, and dry, and not so hungry, and her more sober third impulse prevailed. She would not be baited! “All right—I’ll sew buttons!”

Gus shrugged with just one shoulder, knowing he had the upper hand now. “You don’t have to. That was only an example.”

“Yes I do have to,” she said with controlled fury. “Because I have other values, and I’m not joining your kingdom.”

The vehicle slowed. “There’s one,” Thatch said.

Another pickup. “Male or female?” Zena asked.

“Female,” Gus said, swinging around to look. “Young. And single. We don’t even stop for nonsurvival types. I told you.”

“Do you mean you leave them standing, knowing they will drown?” she demanded. But that required no answer: of course they did.

It was female, all right. A tall girl with long blonde hair, her breasts standing out like turrets in the plastered mess that was her dress. Zena was relieved to see her; a statuesque blonde was exactly what was needed to distract the men.

Gus got out of his seat and pushed open the door as the motor-home halted. The sound of the rain became loud, making Zena shiver. “Welcome aboard!” Gus cried, extending his big hand.

“Thank you, sir,” the blonde answered. Her voice was low and husky, as befitted her appearance. A sex bomb, despite what originally had been reasonably decorous apparel. She stepped up lithely, showing muscular legs above the tall heels. She was shorter than Gus, but not by much. “That rain! Will it never stop?”

“It never will!” Gus said cheerfully. “Get it moving, Thatch.”

Thus did another fly walk into the spider’s nest. Wait until Blondie heard about the onerous duties of citizenship!

“What’s your name?” Gus asked. “I’m Gus; this is Thatch, and she’s Zena.”

“Gloria,” she said, smiling properly. “Gloria Black. My car ran out of gas, and no one would stop! I’m soaked!”

“Horrors!” Zena muttered behind her hand.

“There’s dry clothing in back,” Gus said, putting his familiar hand on her damp shoulder. Zena winced. “I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” Gloria said, ultimately feminine even when dripping. She did not seem to find it remarkable to be welcomed in to a traveling bedroom. Zena resented the type but found it expedient to remain silent.