Cold War - Jerome Preisler [84]
“Catastrophes, you spiteful, unappreciative prick,” Bennett said.
Woods fought back a sigh of relief.
“Catastrophes over the horizon,” he resumed, “but are rather just sketching out the problems that should be addressed as our knowledge of flares increases? Giving us some, uh . . .”
“Cautionary advice,” Bennett said.
“Cautionary advice, that is?”
This time it was Ketchum who answered. “Yes and no. We’re certainly not trying to scare anyone watching your program. But it does look as if there’s an impressive event in store for us, and we should all do our best to prepare. That’s why we’ve come on your program to talk about it.”
“I see . . . and, uh, when did you say it’s going to happen?”
“Richard and I think we’re looking at a window of somewhere within the next two to three weeks, but we don’t have enough data to tell you precisely,” Ketchum replied. “That’s another area where my meteorological comparison might be useful. Storm systems stall or pick up speed, change course, collide with other building low-pressure centers . . . as complex as the variables can be when we’re trying to forecast movement in our own atmosphere, it’s important to remember much less is understood about the sun’s.”
Woods noticed his cue blinker. Thirty seconds until the commercial. Thank God. He was still recovering from his momentary bobble of the tongue. And had a sick feeling that Ketchum was about to start in about flying ants and Chinese toads.
“Okay,” Bennett said. “Ask them something personal, then cut to the break.”
Woods paused a tick. Did these flat tires even have personalities?
“Ah, gentlemen, our conversation’s been fascinating, and I’m sure we’ll be hearing much more from you in the days to come,” he said. “We’re running low on time, but in our last few moments, could you, uh, talk a little about how you earned your unusual nicknames at Goddard . . . Ketchup and Fries, is it?”
Both men nodded, smiling.
Ketchum said, “I’ll defer to Richard on that.”
Frye said, “I think somebody just cooked them up because we get along well as a team.”
Woods smiled back at them, wondered again if they were gay.
“Well, that’s it, fellows, thank you for coming together this afternoon,” he said.
“Any time,” Ketchum said.
“Our pleasure,” Frye said.
I bet, Woods thought.
And that was finally a wrap.
Victoria Land, Antarctica
They had made camp in a saddle between two immense glaciers, pitching their dome tents against the eastern slope, camouflaging their snowmobiles with the drop taken from the storage depot.
Perched on a lower ledge, a group of skuas had watched them with black unblinking eyes.
Five hours later the birds still had not moved. The team leader glanced at them as he emerged from his tent, stepping through its door flap into the cold.
They merely stared back.
He zipped the flap shut and strode away from the ledge in his insulated boots, then stopped with his binoculars raised to the southwestern sky.
He did not like what he saw. A fleet of saucer-shaped lenticular clouds had appeared in the distance, climbing over the polar plateau on a turbulent wave of air. Their bases were shaded deep blue, their curved foaming tops a lighter grayish color.
He angled the glasses toward the ground. Far down the narrow cleft through which his men had ridden, the world was vague, without contrast, its outlines melting into hazy softness.
He rubbed the steam from his breath off their lenses, but nothing changed.
Soft, he thought. Too soft.
He didn’t like it at all. Before leaving his tent, he had checked the latest meteorological data on his rugged handheld field computer, accessing it over the terminal’s wireless Internet connection, comparing the information from several portal sites—base forecasts, infrared maps from orbiting hemispheric satellites, NOAA synoptic charts, scattered automatic weather stations. Updated at intervals of between ten and