Portent by James Herbert Read Free Book Online

reasons of their own (usually commercial), were not party to the agreement to join. The Cray X-MP Mk IV had the capability of identifying weather problems long before they reached crucial stage, and in some cases might even assist in solving those very same problems. This was technology at its most advanced and sophisticated, just one of science's contributions towards the Earth's increasing environmental difficulties. Rivers didn't mention the Massachusetts butterfly.
        After lunch, prearranged working groups wandered off to various departments around the building while the main conference continued, some of them adjourning to the Hadley Centre for Climate Predictions and Research building where discussions, arguments-and even insults-went on into the night.
        Rivers was among one of the latter groups, and it was not until 11.30 p.m. that he managed to steal away to a quiet office and make the phone call.
        He shifted his leg, the ache having begun only twenty minutes out of the city. Twice so far he'd stopped the car to walk around, mindful of the physiotherapist's advice to exercise the injured leg as much as possible, to stretch the muscles and tendons, never allowing them the chance to contract and weaken. He'd cursed her to her face for the pain the exercises caused, and then to her memory over the past few months, but had also sent her a bouquet of flowers-an expensive item these days-from time to time in appreciation of her insistence and persistence. In a year's time, she promised, the cane will be gone and a slight limp and the tendency for the left leg to tire easily would be his only reminder of the accident. She hadn't mentioned the physical scars. And he hadn't mentioned the mental scars.
        The summer drought had left the countryside wearied; the grasslands were seared brown, the tree leaves were brittle dry. Even the cattle in the fields he passed looked listless and thin. The last decent downpour had been fourteen weeks ago, even though the skies were often cloudy, seeming to threaten rain, but never delivering. Today was clear, the sky pallid, offering no respite from the sun whatsoever.
        Passing through a small Dorset town, two hours or so into the journey, a policeman had stepped off the pavement to flag him down so that he could take a closer look at the drive-time sticker on his windscreen. Forgeries were common and the fines for such had recently been increased enough to sting hard. When the officer noticed the Ministry of Defence stamp (the public generally was unaware that the Meteorological Office was an Executive Agency within the MoD) he straightened with a smart salute. Rivers had nodded back gravely, suppressing a grin until he was away again and the policeman was scrutinizing other traffic passing through his quiet little town. Because higher road taxes, punitive on high-performance cars and lorries, had only small effect on fuel consumption and pollution, the government had pushed through a Bill restricting vehicle usage, save for haulage and essential services, to alternate weeks. Blue-licensed vehicles for one seven-day period, orange-licensed for the next. The price of those licences alone (they had to be updated every quarter) was enough to deter the casual driver and together with the extortionate cost of fuel itself, the flow of traffic on Britain's roads eased enormously, and the public transport system at last began to make huge profits. It was a radical approach, but one that worked well enough for other countries-apart from North America, whose civil rights campaigners had easily swayed the Senate vote-to adopt the same system. Ironically, if the policeman who had stopped Rivers' car had not been colour-blind (no longer an obstacle in joining the force) he would have seen that the climatologist's windscreen was sporting a green sticker, which allowed him access to the roads at any time.
        Another forty minutes of driving and he was nearing his