J.G. Ballard - The Wind From Nowhere

"It is a vantage point," Maitland pointed out. "As you've just demonstrated, it makes an excellent observation post."

"To observe what? That window is only sixty feet above ground. What could I hope to see?"

"Nothing, I suppose. Except the wind."

Hardoon bowed his head slightly. "Doctor, you are entirely correct. The wind is, indeed, all I wish to see from here. And at the same time I intend it to see me." He paused, then went on. "As the wind has risen so everyone on the globe has built downward, trying to escape it; has burrowed further and deeper into the shelter of the earth's mantle. With one exception-myself. I alone have built upward, have dared to challenge the wind, asserting Man's courage and determination to master nature. If I were to claim political power-which, most absolutely, I will not-I would do so simply on the basis of my own moral superiority. Only I, in the face of the greatest holocaust ever to strike the earth, have had the moral courage to attempt to outstare nature. That is my sole reason for building this tower. Here on the surface of the globe I meet nature on her own terms, in the arena of her choice. If I fail, Man has no right to assert his innate superiority over the unreason of the natural world."

Maitland nodded, watching Hardoon closely. The millionaire had spoken in a quiet clipped voice, using neither gesture nor emphasis. He realized that Hardoon was almost certainly sincere, and wondered to himself whether this made him less or more dangerous. How much was he prepared to sacrifice to put his philosophy to the test?

"Well, if what you say is true, it's a spectacular gesture. But surely there are equal challenges to one's moral courage in everyday life?"

"For you, perhaps. But my talents and position force me to play my role on a larger stage. You probably think me an insane megalomaniac. How else, though, can I demonstrate my moral courage? As an industrialist, moral courage is less important than judgment and experience. What should I do? Found a university, endow a thousand scholarships, give away my money to the poor? But a single signature on a check will do these for me, and I know that with my talents I will never be destitute. Fly to the moon? I'm too old. Face bravely the prospect of my own death? But my health is still sound. There is nothing, no other way in which I can prove myself."

Maitland found himself smiling. "In that case, I can only wish you luck. As you've said, this is a private duel between yourself and the wind. So you'll have no objections to our collecting Symington and going on our way."

Hardoon raised a hand. "Unfortunately, I do, Doctor. Why do you think I've brought you up here? Now, I think, you understand my real motives, but did you even five minutes ago? I doubt it. In fact, you thought I was avid for political power and taking advantage of my industrial interests to seize a defenseless world. And so will everybody else. Not that it matters particularly, but I would like my stand here to serve as an example to others faced with similar challenges in the future. I claim no credit for any courage I show, and any due to me I gladly pass on to homo sapiens, my brotherat-large." Hardoon gestured with his cigar. "Now, by a stroke of fortune two of your companions are newspaper reporters, both highly placed members of their profession. Given the right frame of mind, the right perspective, they might well prepare an accurate record of what is taking place here."

"Have you asked them?"

"Of course, but like all journalists they are interested, not in the truth, but in news. They were frankly mystified; they probably thought I was trying to pull their legs."

"You want me to change their perspectives?"

"Exactly. Do you think you can?"

"Possibly." Maitland pointed to the walls around them. "Are you sure this pyramid can stand up to the wind indefinitely?"

"Absolutely!" Hardoon scoffed. "The walls are thirty feet thick; they'll carry the impact of a dozen hydrogen bombs. Five hundred miles an hour is a trivial speed. The paper-thin plating of aircraft fuselages withstand it comfortably."

When Maitland seemed doubtful, Hardoon added: "Believe me, Doctor, you need have no fears. This pyramid is completely separate from the old air-raid shelters. That is the whole point. The entire pyramid is above ground; there are no foundation members whatever. The shelters where you and the other personnel stay are two hundred yards away. This pyramid will withstand ten-thousand-mile-an-hour gales, a hundred thousand, if you can imagine such a speed. I am not joking. With the exception of this apartment the pyramid is a solid block of reinforced concrete weighing nearly twenty-five thousand tons, completely immovable, like the deep bunkers in Berlin which even high explosives could not destroy and which have remained where they were to this day."

Hardoon waved to the guards waiting by the door.

"Kroll, Dr. Maitland is ready to be shown to his quarters." As the big guard ambled over to the desk, Hardoon looked up at Maitland. "I think you understand me, Doctor. You are a man of science, accustomed to weighing evidence objectively. I put my case in your hands."

"How long will we have to stay here?" Maitland asked.

"Until the wind subsides. A few weeks perhaps. Is it so important? You will find nowhere safer. Remember, Doctor, a footnote to history is being made here. Think in other categories, in a wider context."

As he walked out with one of the guards, Maitland noticed that the shutters were retracting. Hardoon sat at his chair before the window, staring out as the thousand fragments of a disintegrating world soared past in a ceaseless bombardment. Just before the door closed behind Maitland the sounds of the wind rose up tumultuously.

From Hardoon's suite in the apex they took a small elevator down through the matrix of the pyramid to the communicating tunnel which ran to the bunker system 200 yards away. Maitland walked along the damp concrete uneasily, aware of the massive weight of the structure overhead, counting the dim lights strung along the tunnel.

He wondered whether there was any point in trying to argue with Hardoon. But, as Hardoon had said, for the time being, the issue of personal freedom aside, there would be little point in trying to leave. Besides, Hardoon was probably ruthless. Not only did the behavior of his armed guards indicate this, but unless he compelled their absolute loyalty the entire organization would have long since collapsed.

As they neared the midpoint of the tunnel the floor swayed slightly under their feet. Caught off balance, Maitland stumbled against the wall. The guard steadied him with one hand. Thanking him, Maitland noticed the expression on his face, a faint but nonetheless detectable hint of alarm.

"What's the matter?" Maitland asked him.

The guard, a tall, slim-faced boy with a light stubble under his helmet strap, scowled uneasily. "What do you mean?"

Maitland paused. "You looked worried."

The guard eyed him balefully, watching for any suspicious move, then muttered obscurely. They walked on. The floor underfoot was an inch deep in water. Unmistakably, Maitland noticed, the tunnel walls were shifting.

"How deep down are we?" he asked.

"Fifty feet. Maybe less now."

"You mean the subsoil's going? Good God, the wind will soon be stripping these bunkers down to their roofs." The guard grunted at this. "What's the subsoil here-clay?"

"No idea," the guard said. "Gravel, or something like that."

"Gravel?" Maitland stopped.

"What's the matter with gravel?" the guard asked, his mouth fretting.

"Nothing in particular, except that it's pretty mobile." Maitland pointed to the tunnel walls-they were now midway-and asked: "Why's the tunnel leaking? The walls are shifting around. They must be cracked somewhere."