Nuclear proliferation had accelerated at a terrifying rate. Almost every single nation in the world, industrial or not, had their hands on some kind of nuclear bomb. All that was needed was one mad terrorist in some remote section of the world to set off a bomb, for the most ridiculous and narrow-minded of reasons—and an inevitable and irreversible chain reaction would be triggered, each nation trying to bomb the others into oblivion before it was bombed.

New York wasn't the only city to suffer a blackout that year. London, Paris, Moscow, and Tokyo all underwent mysterious power failures. Sabotage was suspected in every case, but no evidence to support that suspicion was ever found. And in every case, the looting and the pillage and the rape and the killing that went on was worse than anyone had ever believed imaginable. And no city was better or worse than another. They were all equally horrifying.

Human beings seemed to be turning into machines, reacting without sensitivity, without compassion. They were all on a treadmill, moving too fast and too furiously to think, subjected to so many disappointments and such frequent and random violence that they were all turning inward, isolating themselves from those around them and from the rest of the world at large.

And the weather patterns had become odd and inexplicable. There was snow where there had never been snow before, droughts where there had always been rain, floods in terrain that had always been bone-dry. Hurricanes, tornadoes, and earthquakes seemed to be ravaging the earth more frequently than ever before. It was hard to tell whether there were really more disasters, or whether the world was just made more aware of them through increased communication technology. But the effect was the same. It seemed like more.

Thorn could not concentrate any longer. His eyelids fluttered with exhaustion and soon closed completely, and he fell into a shallow and still troubled sleep.

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was light when the smallest of the Thorn Industries jets taxied onto a distant runway at La Guardia airport. Inside the jet, Thorn stretched and yawned and checked his watch. Seven forty-five A.M.

He suddenly felt like a fool. He couldn't believe he had flown a thousand miles because of a phone call in the middle of the night from some strange sounding priest who said that Warren needed him. The last time he had seen Warren, they had bitterly quarrelled and Warren had left in a huff. Thorn had been sure they would never be civil to one another again.

But the information that Warren had tried to share with him that night, and which Thorn had then so adamantly refused to accept, had become a serious possibility for him. Now he, too, felt utterly compelled to see things through to the end.

He was sure that Warren had seen the Wall, that this was what he meant that Thorn must see for himself.