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switching off.
        Supporting himself with his good leg, he lifted himself on to the edge of the bed and looked down at the puckered bum scars of his left thigh, then at the neater surgery scars of the knee itself. Without thinking, he flexed the fingers of his left hand, the tendons still stiff after all these months, the flesh from inner wrist to elbow still an angry and wrinkled red. Nothing, he reminded himself. Nothing compared to what the other two survivors had suffered…
        He straightened his slumped shoulders, running both hands down his face to shed the last of the tiredness. Busy day ahead, got to get going. Oh God, he hated these heavy duty, three-day international conferences. What conclusions did they hope to draw? That everything was fine, no problems, it was all an ecological misunderstanding? A bad phase the planet was going through? Things'll be fine in a year or two, the climate would settle down. Then there were the alarmists to cope with, the scientists or conservationists whose vanity or moral outrage, perhaps even their ignorance, caused them to exaggerate the problem, even encourage the most pessimistic view. How to deal with them? Difficult when they were closer to the truth than the moderates. At least the foreign delegations were limited in members and the conference itself was deliberately low-key; nobody wanted a repeat of the previous year's debacle in Geneva, when squabbles had erupted into actual violence and made world headlines. Rivers gave a shudder, then reached for the walking-cane leaning against the end of the bed.
        He limped down the hall to the bathroom and looked longingly at the bath as he hung the cane on a clothes-hook behind the door; he stepped into the shower cubicle. Ironically, before the ban he had preferred to shower rather than wallow in a tub of water dirtied by his own body. Forbidden fruit, he chided himself. But the tell-tale water meter would never let him get away with it. Roll on winter-so long as it brought rain.
        He shaved while he showered, the solraz slow, in need of a recharge, and watched the breakfast news on the two-inch TV dangling from the shower pipe. Water droplets glided over the tiny anti-mist screen as if in mockery of the migrants crossing the parched desert wastes of mid-Africa. When the pictures switched to a snowstorm in Syria, he turned off the set. No doubt the other channels would be showing more of the same and it wasn't his idea of a bright start to the day.
        Rivers was at the kitchen table drinking his second cup of coffee and smoking his first cigarette when the telephone rang. He glanced at his watch: 7.40. He didn't have much time for conversation.
        The sensor was on the sideboard with his keys and he stretched over for it without rising. He pointed it at the phone-vox discreetly mounted in the wall opposite and pressed RECEIVE.
        'Rivers,' he said, resting his cigarette in the Air-Pure ashtray.
        'Mr. James Rivers?' It was a male voice, full and rich, though slightly wheezy, as if the caller might be prone to asthma.
        'Who's calling?' he asked.
        'You don't know me, Mr. Rivers.'
        'Then how did you get my number? It's not listed.'
        'Uh, no. Quite. But we have mutual acquaintances.'
        Rivers retrieved his cigarette and drew on it. 'Name one,' he said.
        The other man took in a small breath before he spoke. 'That isn't important for the moment. I'd very much like to see you, Mr. Rivers.'
        'Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm in a hurry this morning. How about at least telling me your name?'
        'Yes, of course. I'm sorry. It's Poggs.'
        Although it was too early for humour, Rivers managed a smile. The Dickensian name somehow suited the voice.
        'Hugo Poggs?' the other man said hopefully, as though the climatologist might have heard of him.
        It did sound familiar, but Rivers couldn't remember just where