White Christmas indeed! Weather warfare gets out of hand when a Washington admiral, somewhat sappy with sauce, starts up his seabottom nuclear reactors and with a spiral current of warm water produces a circular blizzard that covers the Eastern coast from Maine to D.C. It's a fixed, unmoving (aside from tornadic winds), permanent blizzard of ever-increasing intensity that has assumed surprising characteristics and by novel's end is raging over the Texas Panhandle and just beginning to lick the Eiffel Tower. . . a megastorm ushering in the new Ice Age. The New York skyline is like a few spruce tree tops sticking above the drifts. People below live in snow tunnels and subways; there's looting, and roving rival gangs assault anyone. Emergency relief from outside the storm is useless--there's no way to carry anything into the hurricane-whipped area. The President has at last been reached by a defecting weather scientist (in fact, the very man who first dreamed up this fiasco), who tells him the truth--but the White House itself is under an 85-foot snowdrift. Meanwhile a bathysphere attempts to turn off the undersea reactors--too late, too late! Will this snow never stop No--disaster triumphs this time around, which is reasonably satisfying, since all the quasi-characters here fully deserve to be forever snowbound. Jingle bells, jingle bells. . . .