“Usually the snows are fouled, as well,” Mildred pointed out.
“I know,” Donovan agreed. “Usually has some kind of residue you have to deal with. Some of it around here is tolerable in its own right, but this tributary—and a few others like it—is virgin pure. Problem is if you don’t get it early enough, it peters out during the hot part of the summer. There’s times in July and August that this streambed isn’t more than a foot or two deep.”
Looking at the sixty-foot-wide river, knowing from the depths called out by Morse’s sons that they were presently in twenty to twenty-five feet of water at any given time, Ryan had a hard time believing that.
“Part of this water comes from snowmelt,” Donovan went on. “But some of the researchers at the Foundation think it has something to do with a fluctuating water table in this area, as well. Everything has to be working in accordance to get the water this way.”
“An artesian well system,” Doc suggested. “Underground springs that are fed from the snowmelt, then filter out the impurities through stratum before passing the water on.”
“Mebbe. I’m not much into water. But I do know if we don’t get a full ration of water in the spring, the Foundation struggles for the rest of the year.”
“How do you get it?” Doc asked. “We dam up the stream,” Donovan answered. “Block it up for two, three months, however long it takes, then release it, forcing it to go in the direction we want it to.”
“You reconfigure this stream?” Doc asked. “Have to.”
“Why not just build the Foundation near the stream?” the old man asked.
“Logistics,” Ryan answered. “They build the Foundation on the river, it’s more likely to be found. So they build it somewhere it won’t be as likely to be found and pull the water in.”
“You dammed this stream?” Mildred asked.
“As well as we could,” Donovan said.
“What did you use?”
“Timbers, rock. It’s not watertight, but it allows us to build up the water supply.”
“And there’s still this much water left over?” Doc asked.
“Yeah. Gotta be real careful about dam building. Don’t try to hold back enough and we run short of water. Try to hold back too much, have it break the dam down, run even shorter of water and mebbe get some folks chilled for their trouble. Seen it work out both ways. Trick is to get it just right.”
“THIS IS BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY, lover.”
Ryan held Krysty in his arms as he sat against the railing. He felt her shake in his embrace as though she had a chill. He wrapped the blanket he’d gotten for her more tightly about her.
The terrain had turned definitely more mountainous. He couldn’t remember reading if it had always been that way, or if the present landscape was the direct result of the nukecaust and all the earth pounders. Spruce and fir dotted the mountaintops, spilling into thick forests below.
“Nice to look at,” Ryan agreed.
Krysty took his hand. “Make me a promise, lover.” She turned, looking with both her emerald eyes into his single ice-blue one.
“What?”
“If I die somewhere up in this rough country,” she began.
“You’re not going to die.”
“No arguments. Just something I’ve got to say.”
Ryan swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.
“If I should die up here,” Krysty said, “promise me that if you’re able, you’ll find me a grave site up in those mountains and leave me there to rest.”
Ryan couldn’t speak around the hard knot lodged in his throat.
“If you can’t say it,” Krysty said, knowing him so well, better than anyone ever had or ever would again, “just nod.”
Ryan gave her a single, tight nod. But it was more than an agreement with her; it was an acknowledgment that he might have come this far still only to fail. He cursed himself for ever letting that thought cross his mind.
THE STREAM GOT increasingly narrow, finally getting down to something less than thirty feet across. It held steady at a depth of fifteen feet, plenty of room for the boats to pass.