A woman entered and strode toward the boat in the flickering light of the torches, her long legs quickly eating up the distance. As she made her way across the hall, her close-fitting green coveralls emphasized the athletic body, but it was her height that was most imposing. She was nearly seven feet tall.
The woman’s body and features were unflawed, but she was beautiful in the way an iceberg is beautiful, and equally forbidding. She could have sprung whole from the arctic permafrost. Her flaxen hair was pulled away from her face and tied in a bun, displaying to the fullest the marble skin and large eyes that were a hard glacial blue. She came up the gangway onto the ship and walked around the table. In a voice surprising for its softness she greeted each man by name and thanked him for coming. When she reached the congressman she paused, boring into his craggy face with her remarkable eyes, and shook his hand in a vise grip. Then she took her place in front of the high-backed chair at the bow end of the table. She smiled a smile that was as cold as it was seductive.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, her voice rising to the rich tones of a natural orator. “My name is Brynhild Sigurd. Undoubtedly, you are wondering what sort of a place this is. Valhalla is my home and corporate headquarters, but it is also a celebration of my Scandinavian roots. The main building is an expanded version of a Viking long house. The wings are for specialized use, such as offices, guest quarters, gymnasium, and a museum for my collection of primitive Norse art.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I hope none of you is prone to seasickness.” She waited for the laughter to subside, then went on. “This vessel is a reproduction of the Gogstad Viking ship. It is more than a stage prop; it symbolizes my belief that the impossible is attainable. I had it built because I admire the functional beauty of the design, but also as a constant reminder that the Vikings would never have crossed the sea if they had not been adventurous and daring. Perhaps their spirit will influence the decisions made here.” She paused for a moment, then went on. “You’re probably all wondering why I invited you,” she said.
A saw-edged voice cut her off. “I’d say that your offer to give us fifty thousand dollars or donate it to a charity of our choice may have had something to do with it,” Congressman Kinkaid said. “I’ve donated your offer to a scientific foundation that looks into birth defects.”
“I would have expected nothing less, given your reputation for integrity.”
Kinkaid grunted and sat back in his chair. “Pardon me for interrupting,” he said. “Please get on with your, er, fascinating presentation.”
“Thank you,” Brynhild said. “To continue, you gentlemen come from all parts of the country and represent many different endeavors. Among your number are politicians, bureaucrats, academics, lobbyists, and engineers. But you and I belong to a common fraternity bound together by one thing. Water. A commodity we know to be in very short supply these days. Everyone is aware that we are facing what could possibly be the longest drought in the country’s history. Is that not so, Professor Dearborn? As a climatologist, would you kindly give us your appraisal of the situation?”
“I’d be glad to,” replied a middle-aged man who seemed surprised to be called upon. He ran his fingers through thinning ginger-colored hair and said, “This country is experiencing moderate to severe drought in its midsection and along the southern tier from Arizona to Florida. That’s nearly a quarter of the contiguous forty-eight states. The situation will probably get worse. In addition, water in the Great Lakes is at all-time lows. A prolonged drought of Dust Bowl levels is entirely possible. A megadrought lasting decades is not outside the realm of possibility.”
There was a murmur from around the table.
Brynhild opened a wooden box in front of her, dug her hand inside, and let the sand run through her long fingers.
“The party’s over, gentlemen. This is the bleak, dusty future we face.”
“With all due respect, Ms. Brynhild,” drawled a Nevadan, “you’re not telling us anything new. Vegas is going to be in tough shape. L.A. and Phoenix aren’t much better off.”
She put her hands together in light applause. “Agreed. But what if I told you there is a way to save our cities?”
“I’d like to hear about that,” said the Nevadan.
She slammed the cover down symbolically on the box.
“The first step has already been taken. As most of you know, Congress has authorized private control over the distribution of water from the Colorado River.”
Kinkaid leaned forward onto the table. “And as you must know, Ms. Sigurd, I led the opposition to that bill.”
“Fortunately you did not prevail. Had the legislation gone down, the West would have been doomed. The reservoirs hold only a two-year supply. After that ran out we would have to evacuate most of California and Arizona and a good portion of Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Wyoming.”
“I’ll say the same thing I told those fools in Washington. Putting Hoover Dam in private hands won’t increase the water supply.”
“That was never at issue. The problem was not water supply but distribution. Much of the water was being misused. Ending government subsidies and putting water in the private sector means that it will not be wasted for the simplest of reasons. Waste is not profitable.”
“I stand by my basic argument,” Kinkaid said. “Something as important as water should not be controlled by companies that are unaccountable to the public.”
“The public had its chance and failed. Now the price of water will be set by supply and demand. The marketplace will rule. Only those who can afford the water will get it.”
“That’s exactly what I said during the debate. The rich cities would thrive while the poor communities die of thirst.”
Brynhild was unyielding. “So what of it? Consider the alternatives if the water continued to be distributed under the old publicly owned system and the rivers dried up. The West as we know it would become a dust bowl. As the man from Nevada said, L.A., Phoenix, and Denver would become ghost towns. Picture tumbleweed blowing through the empty casinos of Las Vegas. There would be economic disaster. Bond markets would dry up. Wall Street would turn its back on us. Loss in financial power means lost influence in Washington. Public works money would flow to other parts of the country.”
She let the litany of disasters sink in, then went on. “Westerners would become the new ‘Okies,’ straight out of The Grapes of Wrath. Only instead of moving west to the Promised Land, they would pile their families into their Lexus and Mercedes SUVs and head east.” With irony in her rich voice, she said, “Ask yourself how the crowd
ed eastern seaboard would react to thousands, millions of jobless westerners moving into their neighborhood.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if the people in Oklahoma refused to take us under their wing?”
“I wouldn’t blame them,” said a developer from Southern California. “They’d greet us the same way the Californians did my grandparents, with guns and goon squads and roadblocks.”
A rancher from Arizona grinned ruefully. “If you Californians weren’t so damned greedy, there would be enough water for everybody.”
Within minutes everyone was talking at once. Brynhild let the argument go on before rapping the table with her knuckle.