Last Gasp (10 page)

“A logical conclusion, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?” Theo met the deputy director’s eye squarely. “Unfortunately that isn’t all.”

“What else?” Winthrop said stonily. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear any more.

“Well”—Theo placed his cup and saucer on the tray—“this part, I admit, is a hypothesis, but it follows on directly from my research findings. We know that the tropical oceans accumulate a net surplus of solar energy over the year, while the subarctic and arctic oceans show a net loss. Through the various poleward currents, such as the Gulf Stream, this excess heat is transferred from the tropics to the higher latitudes, and at the same time there’s a deep return flow of cooler water toward the equator, resulting in upwelling. This is the mechanism that keeps the planet in thermal equilibrium.” Theo tapped the bulky folder. “But if the phytoplankton is declining, as my records show, one possible cause is a temperature increase in the deep return flow to the tropics. It could be gradually getting warmer.”

It took Winthrop several moments to see what the scientist was driving at. Warmer currents from the polar oceans could mean only one thing: that the polar oceans themselves were getting warmer. Which in turn meant that something was warming them. He grimaced as if in pain and shut his eyes.

“We’re back to the C0
₂
problem.”

Theo nodded and poured himself more coffee.

Winthrop opened his eyes. “This is all supposition, though, isn’t it? You’ve no concrete proof.”

“About the warming of the polar oceans caused indirectly by a buildup of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, yes. About the decline in the phytoplankton index leading to oxygen depletion, no.”

“Theo, you can’t be that certain!” Winthrop objected, nervously smoothing his tie with a manicured hand. “We’re not even sure how much oxygen the phytoplankton contributes to the atmosphere. Nobody agrees on a precise figure—”

“But everybody agrees it’s well over fifty percent,” Theo reminded him. “Possibly as high as seventy percent. How long could we survive if over
half
our oxygen supply was cut off?”

Winthrop didn’t know what to say. There was something wrong with Theo’s reasoning; there had to be. But he couldn’t spot the flaw. Like every other ecological process, the manufacture of oxygen by photosynthesis was inextricably bound up with a host of other atmospheric and oceanic factors. Nothing operated independently, as of itself. Therefore if the oxygen level was being disturbed or disrupted in some way it should be apparent elsewhere in the system. Other things— biological processes—would be affected. But what processes? Where to look? Where to begin?

He breathed a long sigh. “This is a helluva lot to ask, Theo.”

“I’m asking only one thing,” Theo maintained stolidly, his rugged face grim, mouth set. “Evaluate the data. Is that asking too much?”

“And if I think you’re wrong?”

Theo sat in silence. Finally he said, “Then I’ll go somewhere else. The World Meterological Organization or the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Somebody somewhere will listen eventually. They’ll have to.”

“Maybe so, but do you honestly believe the president will pay heed to a warning like this? Do you?” There was a thin note of asperity in his voice. Theo was an old friend, a scientist whose selfless dedication he had always admired, even envied. But my God, how naive! A romantic idealist in the murky world of government, with its half-truths and compromises and machinations. Whereas he was well-practiced in such expediency, as of course he had to be, for the sake of his own survival.

He gestured angrily at the heap of paper. Angry because this ragged-trousered innocent out to save the world had walked into his office on a perfectly ordinary morning and threatened to upset the applecart. Winthrop wouldn’t have minded so much if it hadn’t been his damn applecart!

“Supposing he took you seriously. Just what do you think he could do? Have you thought of that? The C0
₂
problem, if it exists, is global. Every developed nation is pouring billions of tons of the stuff into the atmosphere every year from power plants and furnaces and factories. What in hell is he supposed to do, Theo? Stop the fucking world?” Theo gazed unwaveringly at the immaculately groomed man behind the desk. “I’m a marine biologist,” he said, “not a politician. I’ll do everything I can, but then it’s up to others, to people like you, Parris. I don’t know what more I can do.”

Winthrop rose wearily and came around the desk. He didn’t feel like smiling, though he managed to find the ghost of one. “All right, Theo, I’ll have my staff look it over and come up with an evaluation. That’s all I can promise.”

“That’s all I ask,” Theo said, standing up. He looked down at his feet. “Perhaps I should have worn socks.”

Winthrop patted him on the shoulder as they walked to the door. “Are you staying in Washington?”

“For a few days, that’s all. I was thinking of flying out to the West Coast to see my daughter.”

“Okay, call me before you leave. Just one thing ...” Winthrop said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Is there any way we can verify this? If your hypothesis is right about warmer currents from the poles, there must be other signs, other factors we can look for.”

“There ought to be several,” Theo said, staring hard at the swirling walnut veneer on the door. “Unfortunately the ecological changes will be so gradual—almost imperceptible—that it might take years for them to become apparent. But one of the first will be the absorption level of carbon dioxide in polar seawater. If the pC0
₂
has reached saturation point, then we’ll know for sure.”

When the scientist had gone the deputy director of the World Oceanographic Data Center sat at his desk and stared broodingly at twenty years of work between bent and discolored covers, twisting the gold signet ring around and around.

Kenichi Hanamura fought his way to street level, feeling like a minnow among a pack of barracuda. His spectacles were fogged and he experienced blind helplessness as he was carried bodily along, jammed shoulder to shoulder, in the crush of morning commuters.

How many more were they going to cram into Tokyo before the city collapsed under the strain? Even the subway system, supposedly the most advanced and sophisticated in the world, was barely able to cope. So what about next year when it was estimated that the city’s population would exceed 23 million?

On the street it was less congested, but now Hanamura had the fumes to contend with. He debated whether or not to wear his mask. He ought to, of course, because the doctor had advised it after he’d complained of chest pains six months ago. But he hated the damn thing and was reluctant to take it from his briefcase.

Stupid, really, because as an insurance claims investigator he was well aware of the risks. He’d seen the statistics for himself, the bland gray columns of figures, which to the trained eye made horrifying reading. People suffering from bronchitis and emphysema up one third in the past five years. Death toll increased by 9 percent in the last year alone, directly attributed to toxic pollution in Japan’s major cities and industrial areas. Premiums would have to go up again to cover the escalating risk.

The thought of those figures nagged him as he passed the sheer glass-and-aluminum facade of the Mitsukoshi department store. Numbers, graphs, charts always seemed more real to him, made a sharper impact somehow, than the evidence of his own eyes. Especially because at forty-four years old, a city-dweller with a sedentary occupation, he was right there in the danger zone. It was small comfort to know that his American wife, Lilian, and their thirteen-year-old son, Frank, were adequately covered in the event of his death by the company’s Blue Star plan, one of the perks of the job.

From habit Hanamura glanced across the busy street at the huge illuminated sign on the corner of the Kyoto Banking Corporation building. The sign looked anemic in the bright sunlight, yet even so he could clearly read the daily pollution index spelled out in electronic digits in parts per million. 

The warning was stark enough even for Kenichi Hanamura.

Moving out of the throng of hurrying people he fumbled in his briefcase for his mask. The straps were entangled with something and he tugged impatiently, losing his temper. And now his glasses were misting over again and he couldn’t see!

It wasn’t his glasses, he realized, it was his vision. Whenever he tried to focus on a particular object there was a round white blob in the way. His heart jumped in panic. He swayed and thrust out his hand to steady himself against the polished granite base of the building. Even though he knew what was happening to him he couldn’t understand why there wasn’t any pain. He tried to draw breath and couldn’t. His chest was locked tight.

Where was the nearest oxygen-dispenser point? Somewhere nearby was a row of plastic cowls with masks attached to oxygen lines. For a few yen you could suck in several pure lungfuls to brace yourself against the city-center smog.

But where? How near? Could he get there?

A pounding steam engine started up inside his head and whined to a shrill crescendo, blocking out the sound of traffic and scurrying feet. The shimmering white blob swelled like a monstrous balloon, cutting off his vision completely.

In the instant that he slithered down the granite wall to the pavement, Hanamura’s last conscious thought was tinged with regret that he would never have the opportunity to tell the doctor he was wrong.

For there was no pain. None at all. It was just like going to sleep in a blizzard next to a steam engine.

The banks of lights dimmed one by one until the studio became a shadowy twilit cavern. From the angled window of the control gallery Chase looked down, fascinated. He’d caught the last few minutes of the production on the floor and it reminded him of a religious ritual, cameramen, technicians, and stage crew moving silently to commands from above, following a mysterious ceremony with its own inscrutable logic.

“That wraps it up,” said the director at the console behind him in the narrow booth. He spoke into the microphone. “Thank you, studio.”

Through the adjacent glass walls Chase could see people stirring and stretching. Jill beckoned to him and he followed her into the brightly lit, carpeted corridor. She was wearing a baggy, vivid pink T-shirt with UCLA across her loose breasts and tight, green cord trousers that showed off her rump. And in place of the ubiquitous training shoes, brown brogue shoes, he was surprised to see.

“Have you told him I’m here?”

Jill nodded as they went down the stairs. “He remembered you straight off.” She gave him a sneaky sideways grin. “Told me you once tried to hoax him with a fake specimen and he nearly fell for it.”

Chase stopped dead on the bottom step and cringed. He’d completely forgotten about the spoof. Three of them had soaked some blue-green algae in a beaker of Guinness and taken it along to Sir Fred, with carefully arranged and rehearsed expressions of bafflement. Could he identify this mutant bloom? How come it had such a peculiar smell? The professor had carried out a series of tests with his usual thoroughness before catching on, and then issued a formal lab report with “Brown Ale Algae” under the species classification.

The professor had had the last laugh too. He’d taken his revenge on the three culprits by setting them the long and laborious task of identifying the percentage carbon yields of the marine food chain, all the way from phytoplankton to third-stage carnivores. They didn’t pull any more tricks.

“You seem nervous.”

“Does it show?”

“You don’t hide your feelings too well, or don’t bother to. Why were you so belligerent the other night?”

“Was I?” He was quite genuinely surprised; he thought he’d been successful at the party in putting up a front of meek, mild-mannered marine biologist. Either he was a poor actor or Jill was particularly astute. He guessed it was the former.

After bringing coffee she left them to chat in one of the small reception rooms used to entertain VIP guests. Chase had been wondering how to broach the subject (what the hell was the subject?), but his trepidation melted away in the warmth of Sir Frederick Cole’s welcome.

Chase remembered him as a sloppy dresser. Though today, wearing the suit Jill had mentioned, he was positively smart—even though the material was stiff, enclosing his chest in a kind of blue shell, and there was an excess of it in the sleeves and trouser legs. He had an untidy thatch of mousy-colored hair, graying at the temples, and lively brown eyes peering out from beneath bushy gray eyebrows.

“Enjoy yourself in the Antarctic?” he asked in his flat Yorkshire voice when they’d shaken hands.

“You know about that?”

“Oh, I keep in touch. I saw your name mentioned in
Geographical
magazine, in a list of personnel at Hailey Bay.” Sir Fred’s eyes twinkled. “And I could hardly forget one of the perpetrators of the Brown Ale incident. Nearly ruined my reputation.”