"They're against weather control?"
Marrett frowned. "It's a long and bloody story. Big- power politics. Basically, the big nations are against letting the UN have any real power. The only way weather control 480 can possibly work is on a worldwide basis. You can't slice off a chunk of the atmosphere and separate it from the rest of the world. No single nation can achieve weather control all by itself. And the big powers won't let the UN have a shot at it, either."
"Orbital police and weather control." Kinsman's mind was churning.
"It'd give the UN some godawful power," Marrett said. "If a nation doesn't behave, we'll just turn off their water."
"You could do that?"
"More or less."
"But that would mean a tremendous upheaval in the UN itself. They're not set up for anything like that. You'd have to revamp the whole structure."
"Damned right." Marrett was grinning hugely now,
In those gloomy shadows, with the twisting metal steps snaking off into darkness above and below them, Kinsman felt suspended between—what? Success and failure? Life and death? Heaven and hell?
"Are there people in the UN who'd be willing to consider this?"
"I know one," Marrett said.
"Who?"
"Emanuel De Paolo."
"The Secretary General?"
"The very same."
Wednesday 15 December 1999:
1700 hrs UT
IT WAS PRECISELY noon in Washington, although from the curtained windows of the Oval Office nothing could be seen but the swirling wind-driven snow of the season's first bliz- zard.
"Big wet flakes," the President said, idly gazing out the windows as he leaned back in his desk chair. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, his hair tousled. "The kind that's heavy to shovel. I remember, back in Roxbury, when I was a kid, we would . . ."
The Defense Secretary looked pale, drawn. "Mr. Presi- dent, there's no time for childhood reminiscences."
