Flood by Stephen Baxter

pager. “They’re starting to issue flood warnings in London,” he said to Lily.
    “That North Sea storm?”
    “Yes. The Barrier is already raised, but—Hello? Yes, this is Michaelmas . . .” He wandered away, speaking into the air.
    “So,” Lammockson said expansively. “You’re enjoying the party?”
    Gary, slightly drunk, said, “I always enjoy learning new words.”
    “Such as?”
    “ ‘Hedgie.’ ”
    Lammockson boomed laughter. “A hedge-fund manager. Probably describes twenty percent of the people here.”
    “But not you,” Lily guessed.
    “The Financial Times once called me a ‘private equity magnate.’ I like that word, don’t you? ‘Magnate.’ Sounds like a wealthy Byzantine. Of course there is a whole class of us these days. London, thank God I was born here! It’s so liberal it’s like a tax haven for people like me.”
    Gary asked, “And, ‘hydrometropole’?”
    “Ah. Now that’s more interesting.” Bizarrely, Lammockson jumped up and down, his massive weight thumping into the floor.“We’re afloat,” he said. “The whole of this mansion is. I’m sure you saw that from the air. Afloat, even though I’ve got a swimming pool and a cinema and a gym and kitchens like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve even got a floating greenhouse. I’m the amphibious man! The ultimate floodproofing, yes? You just ride it out.
    “This is a floating city, a Dutch design. Now the Dutch have been fighting the sea for centuries—hell, their ancestors have been at it for two thousand years. Let me tell you something. The levees in New Orleans that failed when Katrina hit, they were designed for a once in thirty years extreme event. The Thames Barrier was designed for once in a thousand years. But in the Netherlands they plan for every ten thousand years. You want to guard against a flood, my friend, hire a Dutchman.”
    “And this is what you spend your money on,” Gary said, flushed. “This raft.”
    Lammockson stared at him. “You’re enjoying the champagne, aren’t you?”
    “We’re none of us used to alcohol,” Lily said hastily.
    Lammockson laughed. “That’s fine, you deserve it, drink what you like, say what you like. Look—what should I spend my money on? My son Hammond attends the best private school in London. Everything I do, I do for him.” He pointed to a plump, sour-looking boy of about ten, wearing a tuxedo, who hovered near a waiter with a tray of wine. Lammockson said, “Father of my grandchildren someday. But there’s only so much money you can spend on a kid. What else? I’ve climbed in rainforests, and flown around the Moon in a Russian Soyuz ship. Look at my watch.” He brandished his arm before Gary and pulled back his sleeve to expose a heavy bit of jewelry. “You know what this is? A Richard Mille RM004-V7. Cost me a cool quarter million. And I don’t just own a watch. I have a watch wardrobe .”
    Gary grinned. “Well, that’s class.”
    “But I can only wear one watch at a time, right?” He glanced around at the shining throng drinking his champagne.“You know, most of these guys don’t get it. Even the ones who’ve actually made far more than me, they just don’t get it. But I have a feeling you people do. You who’ve seen the other side of life.”
    “Get what?” Lily asked.
    “That all this, the way we’ve been living, the way we’ve made our money, is under threat. Everything’s changing.”
    “Climate change,” Gary guessed.
    “Yeah. Especially this fast new sort, the sea-level rise, climate change on speed. But that’s not to say there isn’t still money to be made. A time of change is a time of opportunity. When Rome fell, you know, there were guys who got richer than ever before. They’d already owned half of Europe. You just got to know when to move out, and how. You have to be a realist.”
    “And you’re a realist, are you, Mr. Lammockson?” Lily asked.
    “I try to be. Call me Nathan. Listen to me. The old way, the