No offence, but it's a challenge to get most real estate agents to shut up. At least that's been my experience. After all, it's their job to gush endlessly about the magnificent homes they've got on the market and detail every last one of the fabulous amenities they offer. But strangely, when I began making inquiries about the unique aspects of the Toronto mansion originally built by Canada's once high-flying developer, Robert Campeau, even the most loquacious realtors clammed up. Sure, they'd happily go on about stuff you'd expect from any half-decent Bridle Path spread: manicured lot, built-in recording studio and chemical free pool. But something as indispensable as a custom-built bomb shelter seemed to give everyone the heebie-jeebies. "I don't even want to talk about that sort of thing," shuddered one agent, pooh-poohing my request for a tour. "It's just so unpleasant to think about. I prefer to focus on the rose rather than the thorns." Well, OK. But given that the current owners haven't yet sold the ritzy manse after six months of lying, maybe it's time to stop accentuating the positive— and start peddling that bunker.

After all, whoever buys the $8.9-million estate may one day come to appreciate it more than any of the above ground gaudery. They may even find they can't live without it. In 2002, the nuclear threat is more thinkable than it's been for some time. Sure, the thought of preparing for Armageddon may be unpleasant, but it's no longer strictly for doom merchants. After barely a decade of obsolescence, bomb shelters, unfortunately, are in again; erstwhile carefree westerners have realized there are still nasty people out there who yearn to see them all dead—and will use weapons of mass destruction to do it. Terrorist groups have demonstrated such diabolical cravings for nuclear weapons that some experts think it's a question of when, not if, America will suffer nuclear calamity. And don't forget the "axis of evil" states and their own fiendish nuclear hatchings. Threats have become so menacing, in fact, that President George W. Bush now has a shadow government holed up somewhere along America's East Coast. Think he's being alarmist? In February, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists adjusted its Doomsday Clock—that neglected symbol representing the imminence of nuclear danger—advancing the minute hand by two minutes. It's now at seven minutes before midnight, the nearest to midnight we've been since the fall of the Soviet empire.

Suddenly (and perhaps for the first time), Campeau is to be commended for his pragmatism. Since Sept. 11, bomb shelter manufacturers in the US say sales have spiked by as much as 500%. But those accustomed to living in aboveground resplendency would scarcely tolerate any old utilitarian subterranean abode. The average factory-made bunker is a decidedly ghastly affair, usually resembling a buried cistern. Dark, dank and hardly large enough to squat, one crawls in and out like a vole. With fallout requiring a minimum of 30 days to safely degrade, discriminating folks may well prefer to take their chances with the mushroom cloud rather than reduce themselves to a rodent-like existence.

Thankfully, such drastic measures aren't necessary. Now, cultivated survivalists can opt for bomb shelters befitting their station. "Most people don't want to survive if it means having their lifestyles compromised," says Bill Eckhoff, president of Kleen Air Technologies Inc. of Frisco, Colo. "They want to make the least amount of concessions possible." He should know. For six years, Eckhoff has been designing custom-built shelters for those privileged enough to afford all the requisite post-apocalyptic appointments. Many of the 18 shelters he's built have been graced with hardwood floors, eat-in kitchens and even laundry facilities. But next to the 24-inch-thick concrete walls, says Eckhoff, the most important consideration is the suffocating quarantine of months below the earth. "The main concern is to have as much dimension as possible, so that it doesn't appear to be confined and underground," he says. For him, 1,200 square feet is an absolute minimum, though he has designed much bigger shelters. (Naturally, digging a hole of that size, 20 feet deep, rules out your typical sub urban backyard.) Eckhoff uses mirrors to lend the illusion of space and fake window boxes with illuminated scenery to simulate a sunny day outside. He even includes a meditation library with full spectrum lighting to combat depression.

Of course, preserving your mental health and personal hygiene in the midst of nuclear holocaust won't come cheap. Eckhoff's shelters usually start at about US $600,000—but it might be the best investment you could make. "We refer to it as the ultimate insurance policy," says Eckhoff. "For most of our clients, there's a transformation process. At first there's an eeriness, but then they realize that they are part of a very small percentage of the population in the world that has this kind of protection." Prefabricated shelters which usually run about US $30,000, might buy you piece of mind, but there are plenty of reasons to splurge. The bathrooms Eckhoff installs—with the standard three pieces—are extravagant compared to typical plebeian shelters, which use chemical toilets. A stored water reservoir not only will guarantee you the occasional flush and shower; it will also help with cooking. One of Eckhoff's fully decked-out kitchens will ensure your delicate palate won't be compromised by the vile dehydrated biscuits that are the usual bunker fare.

There are plenty of more practical features, too: decontamination rooms, multiple exits and a state-of-the-art control center. "The communication system is really the heart of it," boasts Eckhoff. Powered when necessary by solar- and wind-powered generators, there's closed circuit television and radiological metering to monitor the perimeter, air filter controls, ham radio, shortwave, UHF, a police scanner and, naturally, CD and DVD players to while away those long hours while you wait to rebuild civilization.

That's assuming there's something left worth rebuilding, which, if you ask me, is not necessarily a given. If what's waiting upstairs after the smoke clears is Osama's wild-eyed zealots, a lifetime of facial hair and no more TV, then I'd just as soon stay put. That is why, instead of a shelter, I've got my eye on the sprawling underground missile bases sold by Ed Peden, owner of 20th Century Castles LLC in Dover, Kan. Now decommissioned by the US military, the massive bunkers are old nuclear missile silos that were scattered across the US in the '50s and '60s. Thanks to rapidly improved technology, says Peden, the Titan I and Atlas missile sites" were almost obsolete before they were finished." Once home to dozens of personnel, they not only offer the full-fledged Dr. No experience, but also make ideal shelters. Many need work, admits Peden, who makes his own home in a renovated silo. "Most of them are pretty much bare concrete and metal structure, but they are the best built structures on the planet." If you're not out for a fixer-upper, he's also got bunkers ready to move into right away. In New York state's Adirondack Park, there's the US $1.7-million Atlas-F missile site tun luxury mountain reheat. Aboveground, the 2000 square-foot home boasts a private airstrip, fresh mountain air and a stunning vista of the peaks to go with it. Once all that's been vaporized, the former control center underneath has been converted to a luxury three-bedroom home. If it's something larger you're after, there's an Atlas-E site in Wamego, Kan., that is truly, well, the bomb. The current owner sunk roughly US $2 million in upgrades into the fortress, rigging it out with red cedar and marble. The 15,000 square-foot vault boasts a 10person hot tub, sauna, media room, gourmet kitchen and a massive, 47-ton garage door. "You can park two semis side by side in there," says Peden, perhaps anticipating some sort of Mad Max postbellum dystopia. At US $1.2 million, he assures me it's a bargain, though he concedes "a lot of people just aren't interested in moving to Kansas."

Hey, why not? There are no missile silos in Canada. And the federal government stopped selling '60s-era "Diefenbunkers" when biker gangs and white supremacists expressed interest in buying one in Alberta. And now they're thinking they just might need them after all. Besides, if it's survival you're after, hiding 100 feet below an imperceptible lump of dirt in the middle of nowhere is about as safe as it gets. It may not show off as well as a Queen Anne by the coast. But then, it's not conspicuous consumption you're after here: more like inconspicuous, comfortable and secure. Plus, once the big one hits, who will be around to impress anyway?

KEVIN LIBIN