Yet why the invasion of Rivers' office, the third degree on a member of his staff? And of course, it had been the Research Director himself who had insisted on Rivers taking a week's leave. Concern for his health? Or something more?
Celia was looking unhappier by the moment and he realized his grip on her arm had tightened. He let go, embarrassed. Could be that Sheridan was right: maybe he did need a break. A few months ago he'd have taken such interference in his stride. (Then again, a few months ago-before the crash-the situation probably would never have arisen.)
'Uh, let me have all the information on yesterday's tidal wave, will you? Do we know the extent of the damage?'
'Reports are still coming in, but they're estimating anywhere between 2,000 and 3,000 dead. St. George's took the full impact of the first wave.'
'Yeah, I heard on the radio.' He felt tired and depressed. Such a casual waste of life. No warning, no chance for people to get to high ground. 'Where did the surge begin?'
'Approximately sixty miles south-west of the Wind ward, chain. A seismic disturbance in the oceanic crust.'
That perplexed Rivers. 'Are there fault lines in that area?'
'Not until now. Part of the floor moved upwards and caused the shift in the sea. The third and fourth waves were the worst-over 125 feet by the time they reached Grenada, according to preliminary reports.'
'Christ. What was their length?'
'Between sixty and seventy miles.'
That might explain their height, for such tides could sometimes stretch for more than 200 miles; the more compact the waves, then the higher the elevation-at least in most cases. Of course, the sheer and sudden violence of the break could have accounted for its force.
'Intervals?' he asked.
'Approximately twelve minutes with the earlier ones. They stopped just two hours ago, the last only a few feet above normal sea level.'
He stroked his chin with the comer of the envelope the receptionist had given him, lost in thought.
'Jim?'
'Uh? Sorry-what is it?'
'Mr. Sheridan?'
He let out a small, resigned huff of air. 'Yeah. Mr. Sheridan. Get me all you can on the tidal wave and bring it along to my office.' He handed her the envelope. 'Keep it with this.'
'Jim, you don't look good.'
'I didn't shave today.'
'It's more than that.'
He tapped the envelope. 'Soon as you can, Celia.'
She watched his back as he limped down the corridor. Then, still chewing at her lower lip, she went back into the room marked G23.
'What on earth are you doing here?'
Sheridan was seated behind Rivers' desk, an open file in front of him. Marley was leaning over him as though they had been studying the enclosed documents together.
'Something important you needed to know?' Rivers said coldly from the doorway. He noticed the other buff-coloured files scattered around the desk. Even some of the drawers of the metal cabinets beyond the desk had been left half open, as if hastily raided.
Sheridan closed the file and leaned back in the chair. He seemed irritated rather than abashed. 'You're supposed to be on leave,' he said.
'I wanted information on last night's tidal wave.'
'Just another disaster, Jim. Nothing unusual about that nowadays.'
Marley had moved away from the desk and was now leaning an elbow on one of the grey filing cabinets. 'Are you all right, Rivers? I must say you look as though you need your vacation.' He had an annoying habit of speaking with a perpetual faint smile, so that there always seemed to be a hint of mockery contained in his words.
Rivers ignored him. 'What's the idea, Charles? I brought you up to date with our progress last week.'
'You might call it progress, but unfortunately the Chief Executive has a different view. Remember, it's Sir Spencer who has to take the flak from not only the Defence Minister, but the PM himself.'
'You know the problems
'Of course I do. And I'm also aware that ours is not the only agency dealing with those matters. However, the Met Office does have a reputation to maintain-we are, after all, world leaders in climate prediction and research. Frankly, the Meteorological Committee and the Research Sub-committee were somewhat embarrassed by our presentation at last week's conference.'
'So I'm the whipping boy.'
Sheridan was genuinely startled. 'Of course not. My God, that isn't what this is all about. It doesn't hurt me to tell you that you're one of the most highly regarded scientific officers we have. But the accident, Jim…' He waved a hand helplessly over the desk as though disconcerted by his own insinuation. He dropped his hand despondently on to the file. 'I believe you are not yet fully recovered. The air crash took more out of you than you care to admit.'
'The work hasn't suffered.'
'I'd agree if it were providing more accurate forecasts and perhaps some realistic solutions to our problems.'
'We already know what we should be doing. We've known for half a century.'
'And virtually every country in the world is doing its damnedest to rectify the situation.'
'A little late in the day.'
'Yes, I agree. But at least the will is now there.'
'Yet we're still plundering the world's resources. There's still no real control over that.'
'Energy is something we can't do without, I'm afraid, and no government will allow its country's industries or let its people's well-being suffer due to lack of it.'
'Then there will never be any single solution.'
'I don't believe the Research Director is suggesting there might be,' Marley put in smoothly.
Right on cue, thought Rivers. Marley must be loving this.
'Of course I'm bloody well not.' Sheridan's angry glare was directed towards Marley. He returned his attention to Rivers. 'Look, Jim, I want to play it straight with you, okay? It's fairly obvious to all of us that you haven't yet got over that dreadful experience three months ago. It's not surprising-you were lucky to get out alive.' He held up a hand again, this time to ward off Rivers' protests. 'Look at you now. You're ready to drag me over the desk and yell in my ear that you're fine, there's nothing wrong with you, you've never felt better. You're ragged, Jim, don't you understand? Oh, you've disguised it well, but your nerves are stretched to breaking point. And we know your leg injury is still causing you a great deal of pain. Do you think we don't read our staff's medical reports? Why the hell do you imagine I ordered you to take a week's leave? If we could have spared you longer, I'd have made it a month, perhaps even more than that. The fact is, we didn't allow you enough time to recover. It's the mental scars as well as the physical that have to mend, don't you see?' Rivers forced a calmness upon himself. He leaned on the cane and studied the floor for a moment or two. 'You think I'm heading for a breakdown, is that it?' he asked Sheridan in a tone that held challenge rather than sought affirmation.
The Research Director groaned aloud. 'Certainly not. But I'm aware that you're not functioning as well as you used to. Marley here tells me-'
'Ah.'
'I was about to say that Marley tells me he's prepared to take over some of your projects if you're willing. Nothing devious about that, just a colleague extending a helping hand. You'd offer the same to him, I'm sure.'
'Is that why you're going through those'-he indicated the scatter of files on the desk-'and why you've been questioning my staff?'
Sheridan did not bother to hide his impatience. 'We were bringing ourselves up to date. Yes, yes, I know you spoke to me last week but I thought Marley and I could decide together just what he could take on.'
'Actually, I'm not sure that I agree with some of your conjectures, Rivers.' Marley was sifting through the files with a thin hand, presumably searching for one in particular. 'The influence of sea surface temperature changes on seasonal variations in the tropics, for instance…'
'Shut up, Marley.' Rivers leaned on the desk and spoke quietly to Sheridan. 'My people are good enough to continue our set projects in my absence. One week certainly wouldn't make any difference. So come on, Charles, say what's on your mind.'
Sheridan hesitated for no more than a second or two. 'I've already said it-you're not providing us with any answers, Jim.'
'At the moment there aren't any. We need more time, more examples…'
'More catastrophes? The world can't wait.'
'I didn't realize it was depending on me alone.'
'No need for sarcasm. All I'm saying is that I've decided to ease your burden a little, direct some of your work elsewhere. I think Marley here is more able to cope at this point in time.'
'And if I don't agree to it?'
'I'm not offering you a choice. I don't mean this unkindly, but I want you to leave immediately. Go home and rest. Better still, take yourself off somewhere, somewhere relaxing, where you can forget all this for a while. Give your mind-and your body, for God's sake-a break. We'll talk again on your return next week.' His gaze was unwavering. 'Until then I want to see neither hide nor hair of you. Is that clear enough?'
Rivers straightened from the desk; there was a tightness in his chest that begged release. He fought against his anger again, but Marley's half smile almost tipped the balance.
Sheridan's tone was conciliatory. 'Jim, you're not yet ready to continue your work. I made a mistake, I thought getting you back into the stream of things would be the best therapy for you. But I was wrong, and I think it's time you realized it yourself. Never mind the physical pain you're still in, it's your mental state that we're'-he hastily corrected himself, not wishing to give the impression that Rivers' soundness of mind had been a topic of general discussion-'I'm concerned about. The trauma of seeing those men die like that…' He was stopped by the sudden panic in the other man's eyes, a skittish wildness that quickly passed, yet left Rivers distant and emotionless.
Disturbed, Sheridan cleared his throat and began to say something more.
Rivers' smile cut him short; it contained no warmth at all.
'Okay,' Rivers said. 'I'll stay away. But events are escalating rapidly, Charles, and the world might not be quite the same at the end of the week.'
He left the two men staring uncertainly at the empty doorway.
10
Now why in the hell had he said that? Christ, Sheridan already thought he was in the throes of a nervous breakdown and now he'd provided him with further evidence.
Rivers yanked open the car door and slumped into the driver's seat.
Shit!
What had possessed him…?
'Jim?'
Celia peered through the glass. Wearily he switched on the electrics and pressed the window button.
She wiped a wisp of hair from her forehead and leaned closer to him. 'What happened with Sheridan and Marley?'
'Nothing much,' he replied more laconically than he felt. 'They seem to think some of our projects might proceed faster without me, that's all.'
She shook her head, a mixture of denial and indignation. 'That's-'
'Forget it. They could be right.' His fingers massaged the area above the bridge of his nose. 'Things have been slipping by me for a while now.'
'You haven't given yourself time to recover.'
'I'm not an invalid, Celia.'
She didn't respond.
Rivers gunned the engine, then looked back up at her. 'Play along with Marley and don't let him get to you. He knows his stuff. Tell Jonesy the same.'
'Can I come and see you at home?'
'I'm not sure I'll be there. I might just take off for a few days.'
'If you do, I'm owed some leave…'
He paused before shifting into reverse. 'The agency can't afford two of us to be away. There's too much going on. It's a nice offer though, Celia.'
She avoided his gaze. 'It's a serious one.'
Her hand was resting on the door panel and he briefly put his own hand over it. Then he reversed away, swinging the car round to face the long drive.
'Let me know if anything exciting happens,' he called out to her. Dust rose from the ground as the car shot forward. Within minutes he was part of the steady flow of traffic pressing into the capital.
He shivered as he turned down the car's air-conditioning from HIGH to LOW. And again he asked himself the question: Why had he said such a ridiculous thing to Sheridan? And why had it been said with such conviction? The feeling-the certainty of his doomsday warning-had left him the moment he set foot outside the research centre. Yet the thought lingered…
Because of its eerie yellowish cast, the bright sunshine somehow added little cheer to the shop-lined streets. Pedestrians, many of them in T-shirts and shorts, with faces, arms and legs shiny with sun-blocks, several of them wearing Sun Alert badges, moved indolently along the litter-strewn pavements; a group of teenagers squatted against a brick wall, drinking from cans, their separate cordless headphones tuned into one miniature cassette-player, their limbs twitching listlessly in time to the private beat; a woman with bare fleshy arms wheeled a solitary child in a twin pushchair, the empty space beside the sleeping toddler perhaps the cause of her melancholy. Some shop windows were grimed with dust, while others, like the one displaying thin, wall-mounted 3-D television screens, were darkened by slender iron bars, warning signs that the current through these was switched on twenty-four hours a day prominently displayed on the glass. A giant billboard was so cluttered with pirate posters for new bands and underground magazines that the original glossy advertisement was disguised beyond legibility.