Saturday 17 February 2007

Chapter 3

The dark-suited, bouffanted sales-gent faced the committee. 'Ladies and gentlemen, make no mistake about it,' he warned dramatically. 'This is one of the major environmental and health problems facing the world today.' He had a warm, sincere huckster's voice. 'Just look at the facts, ladies and gentlemen,' he continued. His face looked as if he was straining on the toilet. 'Just here in Inner London alone, we estimate output at over 104.7 tonnes per day, 365 days a year. That works out to 11.4 pounds per year for every person in London.' A slide flashed on the screen, showing brightly coloured exponential graphs. 'By the end of this century, we expect this figure to have quadrupled.' The salesman gazed dolefully at his audience. 'Just how long can we survive this onslaught of ghastly pollution, ladies and gentlemen, how long?' Legislation and licensing alone will not be sufficient to overcome this terrible problem. Direct, concerted action must be taken now.' The members of the committee shifted their buttocks wearily in their chairs.

'Fortunately, ladies and gentlemen, a technological solution is at hand,' boomed the salesman triumphantly. 'The Piloti AK-9 is a specially adapted all-terrain, all-weather, 155-horsepower vehicle with a two-arm capability.' A slide showed a machine which looked like a miniature armoured personnel carrier with feelers. 'Each high-precision telescopic arm is equipped with an ultra-hygienic, computer controlled removal and cleaning facility.' A slide showed a detail of a gleaming robotic arm. A closeup of a neat coil of fresh, bright yellow turds replaced it on the screen.

'A liquid nitrogen spray cools the canine waste to -196.3 degrees Centigrade within 90 milliseconds,' cooed the salesman. The dog shit disappeared in a swirling white cloud of frost. 'An ergonometrically designed manipulator removes the solid frozen waste from the pavement and packages it in bar-code labeled, individual plastic containers for hygienically assured, totally quality controlled disposal,' husked the salesman proudly. 'GPS unambiguously identifies the scene of pollution and real time data are stored in a proprietary object oriented database, giving full management information. Under ideal conditions, each AK-9 can process up to 1.173 tonnes of canine waste per day.' The final slide showed thousands of small plastic packets of dog crap spewing into a land fill. The slide projector snapped off, leaving red suns dancing in my eyes.

Sir Anthony Bonod, Head Government Scientist, jolted himself from a light doze. 'Ah, er, thank you very much, Mr, ah, er,' he chirped brightly. His jowls wobbled under a lofty dome of forehead, half covered by long, slicked-over, salt-and-pepper hair. 'I say, most interesting, indeed. A very serious problem. Jolly good solution.'

'Thank you, Sir Anthony and members of the Cabinet Office Committee on the Environment,' replied the salesman with a slight bow. 'It is a great privilege for Piloti Waste Limited to have been invited to make a presentation to this august body. I have taken the liberty of bringing our brochure and price list. With your permission, Sir Anthony, I will leave these with you.'

'Oh, wonderful, Mr Piloti, absolutely splendid,' said Sir Anthony. 'Thank you so much for your effort,' he smirked. Sir Anthony had an overly subtle mind, doubtless finely adapted for solving crosswords by generations of commuting ancestors. He was the kind of person who, if you said "Good morning" might well take the rest of the day trying to figure out what you had really meant by "Good morning"; absurdly subtle. Sir Anthony turned to the committee's heavily acne-pitted little Permanent Under Secretary, appropriately abbreviated as PUS, who kept the minutes. 'Ah, Arthur, would you please be so kind as to add these items to the evidence.' He slid the papers along the table.

'Yes, of course, Mr Chairman,' replied Arthur seriously in a soft Welsh accent. He took the papers, numbered them carefully and placed them in a box file.

'Any questions from the members to the speaker?' asked Sir Anthony. The extraordinarily long and pointed lobes of his ears jiggled as he spoke. I could hardly keep my eyes off them. They were like upside-down elf ears. A treat to watch.

Mike Cole's arm shot up. 'Oh, yes, indeed I do, Mr Chairman,' he growled. 'As the representative of the local government services association on this committee,' he explained pompously, 'I would like to ask Mr Morrow exactly how much these AK-9 machines are supposed to cost.'

'The standard AK-9 is £39,950, plus VAT,' replied the salesman, 'The deluxe AK-9/B, with enhanced removal capability, is £54,950.

Cole fixed him with a fiery stare. 'Forty thousand quid each, for the cheap ones?' he cried incredulously.

'Well, yes, that is approximately correct,' answered the salesman apologetically.

'And maintenance?' demanded Cole hotly. 'What about that, eh?'

'Uh, well, sir, that's another 15%,' admitted the man.

'Per annum?' asked Cole.

'Per anum, more like it,' slipped in Sir Anthony. Several of the members, no doubt public school alumni, joined his hearty 'Ho, ho, ho's!'

Cole looked blankly at me. As the token academic on the committee, I was supposed to know everything. 'It's Latin,' I whispered, 'It means "through the anus". Cole looked blankly at me again; thick as a plank, poor fellow. 'Through the arse?' I tried. He got it that time.

'Yes,' replied the salesman, 'Maintenance is 15% each year. Of course, that includes all parts and materials under normal usage. We offer extended warranty programmes, as well.'

Cole started warming up. 'And just who do you think will be paying for these whiz-bang poop-scoopers, hey?' he snapped. 'Hey?'

'Well, I couldn't say, really,' answered the salesman hesitantly. 'Ah, the local authorities, I suppose.'

'Oh yes, the local authorities you suppose,' mocked Cole bitterly. He turned to face the committee. His face was set and pinched. 'This is just another straw on the local camel's back. Well, let me tell you, members of the committee. Let me tell you.' He shook his finger. 'This is a national problem, not a local one. Not one single penny will be spent on these machines by our long-suffering local authorities, unless full grants are forthcoming from Government. I warn you, not a single penny.'

'But surely, Michael,' drawled Sir Anthony, 'The dogs are owned locally are they not?' He pulled off his gold-rimmed, rectangular glasses and aimed the bows at Cole. 'These local dogs do their, ahem, business locally, do they not? Surely this is a local problem.'

'That's entirely beside the point, Mr Chairman,' said Cole. 'Local government simply cannot afford, I repeat, cannot afford to handle this problem on top of all the others it is now expected to take care of under this Government. The environment is a national problem, it is not a local one. This problem needs national funding.'

Jenny Shaw of the World Wildlife Protectorate flipped her hand up and shrilled stridently, 'Fat, over-fed lap-dogs shitting on local pavements is not the problem we should be worrying about here, anyway, Mr Chairman.' At the word "shit", committee members smiled or recoiled, according to their inclinations. 'What this committee should be considering is the wholesale extinction, the genocide of world wildlife. Does this committee know that twenty unique and precious species on this planet become extinct every week? Does this committee care that over one thousand acres of irreplaceable tropical forest are obliterated every fifteen minutes? What exactly is this Government going to do about this problem? That's what I'd like to know, Mr Chairman.'

Basil Irons, chairman of the Council of British Business stood and glared ferociously around the table. 'Now that is just the sort of thing we businessmen have come to expect from our non-profit-making colleagues,' he barked. 'Dog waste is a serious local and national problem, not some bleeding heart Ecofreak pie-in-the-sky green-out. Dog waste is a problem that British business can solve right here and now, today. British business is not looking for government handouts, but it needs active support today to compete in tomorrow's global dog waste markets. The French are overtaking us; the Germans are overtaking us; the Americans are overtaking us; and the Japanese are overtaking us.' He glared scornfully at Shaw and sneered, 'I suppose our esteemed lady colleague will suggest that we simply let everyone else snap up the entire world market in dog dirt disposal? I suppose she will suggest that we lie back and let yet another brilliant British invention languish while the rest of the world reaps massive profits from it? Well, I think not, members of the committee. I think not.' The salesman gazed at Irons with, what else, dog-like devotion.

Sir Anthony yawned covertly behind his puffy hand and peered ostentatiously at his watch. 'Well, this is all jolly riveting, I must say. But we simply must press on with our agenda. On behalf of the committee, thank you very much, Mr Waste. May I wish you all the best of British luck with your very splendid enterprise.' He rolled his pouchy, red eyes toward Arthur.

Arthur gazed sternly at the salesman over his thick half-moon glasses. 'I would like to take the opportunity to remind Mr Morrow,' he said, 'that all proceedings of this committee are covered under provisions of the current Official Secrets and Prevention of Terrorism Acts. You may not reveal any details of this morning's presentation or discussion unless duly authorised by a representative of Her Majesty's Government.'

The salesman looked suitably awed and bobbed his head in agreement. 'Well yes,' he said, 'Of course not, sir, certainly not.' He turned to Sir Anthony and smiled nervously. 'Thank you again, Mr Chairman.' He collected his slides hastily and backed out of the walnut-paneled committee room. The door closed with a gentle click.

I couldn't hold back any more. I won't say that valour took over, but my mouth certainly did; my discretion collapsed completely. 'Surely, ladies and gentlemen,' I snapped, 'Footpath fouling, global or local, and wildlife extinction could prove to be relatively trivial matters, in a global context.' Frowning heads turned towards me.

'You think that the wholesale destruction of the world's wildlife is a trivial matter? Trivial?' gasped Shaw. She looked around the room in apparent shock. 'Well, I never ...'

'What I mean,' I said quickly, 'Is that we could be facing total ecological disaster, not just soiled Guiccis or a permanent shortage of lizard skin out of which to make them.'

'Mr Chairman!' bellowed Shaw, 'I must protest ... '

I continued speaking over her roars and yelps. 'These are relatively minor problems, from a truly global viewpoint. Quite simply, these things are unlikely to precipitate a total environmental disaster.' Unfortunately, I said this with rather more warmth than was wise when sitting on committees of this sort.

Sir Anthony turned to me, smiling maliciously. 'Oh, I must say, Dick,' he fluted, 'You really do demonstrate a dramatic turn of phrase on the oddest of occasions.'

'I have said nothing dramatic, Sir Anthony,' I protested calmly.

'Well, I really must say that I have heard no evidence in this committee to suggest anything like,' he looked over at Arthur's notes, 'Ahem, "total environmental disaster". Whatever can you mean, Dick?'

I steeled myself to tell the truth. 'I am growing rather concerned, Mr Chairman, about what COCE haven't heard here,' I said. I pronounced COCE as "cocky".

'My dear chap,' said Sir Anthony with apparent surprise, 'Whatever can you mean by that?'

'I mean that I think we're not addressing the real problems,' I snapped.

Sir Anthony gazed with mock bewilderment at the committee and spread his hands. 'The very best brains in the country and the very best evidence available have been assembled before COCE.' He pronounced COCE as "cokey". 'Why only this morning, Dick,' he said, 'We have heard the most encouraging testimony from British Chemicals and Oils plc that they are deeply committed to reducing their pollution levels significantly by the turn of this century.' Sir Anthony nodded amiably toward John Hall, one of the more active members of the committee. He also happened to be Director of Research and Development for British Chemicals. Talk about foxes put in charge of hen houses.

Hall nodded back to him and burbled, 'Oh, that's absolutely correct, Sir Anthony. We have already achieved a 5.2% reduction in pollution over last year's seasonally adjusted levels. That's well ahead of target, too. All visible particles were eliminated early last year and tree planting is up 17.3%. That's 18.1 months ahead of schedule, Mr Chairman.'

'Oh, indeed, those are just utterly fantastic cosmetics, Mr Chairman,' I replied ironically. 'But what about British Chemicals' 300 mile long thermal plumes into the North Sea? What about the thousands of tonnes of invisible carbon and nitrogen oxides that they're still spewing into the atmosphere? Have you ever seen the countryside around one of their plants?' I asked.

'I can't say I really get around that part of the country terribly often,' replied Sir Anthony serenely.

Hall flushed deeply and interrupted. 'Just what exactly are you trying to imply, Professor?' he demanded.

My tongue was really in control now. 'I'm saying, without implication, that your company is a major polluter,' I snapped.

Hall had wisely let me stick my neck out further. 'Our emissions are well below both government and European Community levels. We're inspected yearly, as you very well know.' Hall spread his hands in supplication. 'Yes, I'll agree that our plants aren't necessarily scenic. But the people living around them seem happy enough with the money they make working for us in those plants. Nobody forces them to work there, you know. Our shareholders are happy with our efforts and our returns. The country benefits economically.'

I sighed unhappily. I liked John Hall. He was an amusing man over a pint or two. We had a lot of common interests. I backed down - too late. 'Look, John, I'm not singling out British Chemicals,' I waffled hastily. 'Everyone else is at it, too, I know. Your plumes are nothing compared with the ones that cross the Pacific from China. I just can't believe that we, meaning the world, can keep on pumping out all this waste heat and gas without something coming unstuck on a global scale, sooner or later.'

'Well, perhaps we will have to recommend cutting the Universities back a good deal more to prevent gaseous emissions, in that case,' chipped in Sir Anthony. There was a general joining in with his inevitable meaty, "Ho, ho, ho's"!' I could see that I'd made a lot of good friends on the committee.

Hall still was not placated. 'There's simply no evidence, Professor, that there is any global effect from our type of emissions or from any other industrial emissions,' he snapped. 'The earth's a very big place and it's been going perfectly well for a long, long time. I'm sure it's got mechanisms for cleaning itself.'

'Yes,' I said gloomily, 'That's precisely what worries me, John. Maybe the earth will correct us.'

Hall looked unhappily back at me. 'All right,' he admitted, 'There's been a few mistakes made in the past, but we've corrected most of those. We're doing everything we can.'

'It's not happening quickly enough, John,' I insisted.

'Look, Dick, Rome wasn't built in a day,' said Hall doggedly.

'No, but it probably burnt down in one or two,' I said wearily. The room was totally silent for about fifteen seconds.

Sir Anthony made a cryptic signal to Arthur. Arthur coughed, 'Uh, gentlemen,' he said, 'I'm afraid we really must interrupt your discussion at this point. Lunch is ready.' Several of the committee members rose immediately.

'No, no,' objected Hall, 'Our learned colleague has brought up an issue which I think must be answered.'

'Oh, pack it in, John!' cried Cole, 'That software committee's going to get their feet in the trough before us if we don't hurry up. They'll take all the prawn cocktails again.'

'Look, Mike, this is a good deal more important than a few prawn cocktails,' snapped Hall. 'Come on, Dick,' he insisted. 'Let's hear about your worries. Sir Anthony made another gesture. The members groaned and sagged down into their chairs reluctantly.

'All right,' I said, 'I'll make it as quick as I can. I looked around the room. Bored faces looked back at me. I ploughed on, regardless. 'I'm seriously concerned about what we don't know. What about all these storms we've been having? What do they mean, if anything? The Head Meteorologist may really have felt quite comfortable with the notion that all these storms have been within the theoretical range of statistical variation, but I'm not.' I slapped my hand on the table. 'The simple fact is that there haven't been winds in the South of England like there have been in the last few years. Or at least for two hundred years or so. Now, what does that mean, if anything? The mildest set of winters in recorded history. What do those mean? Why has there been near drought in Britain for decades now? Is it going to get worse? Is it true that the Gulf Stream might be changing its course? Are sea levels really rising abnormally or not? If they are, what will be the effect? Questions, questions, questions; all unanswered. We just don't seem to know the answers to any of these.'

'And you're saying this is all the fault of British Chemicals?' jibed Hall.

'Of course that's not what I'm saying, John, don't be silly,' I sighed. 'What I'm trying to say is that I'm getting pretty worried about some of the things I've heard in this committee. I'm worried because the best heads in the country don't seem to have a clue what's going on or even if anything is going on at all.'

'So what's the answer, Dick?' demanded Hall.

'I haven't got an answer, John,' I replied quietly. 'That's exactly the problem. No one does. We've had at least two dozen very eminent scientists suggest 57 plausible and mutually contradictory theories. Global climate change, if it's really happening as it seems, is a problem that needs the mobilised resources of the entire human race. What can possibly be more important? Instead, we've got more people in this country researching extruded meat products than the weather.

'So what does that matter,' snapped Hall belligerently.

I gazed at Hall sadly. 'So I'm bloody worried by it all, John, that's what. You have kids - they matter, don't they? Tell me that I'm stupid to worry about my kids' futures. Tell me you don't lie awake at night, listening to the wind prowling around your house. Tell me your wife isn't nearly on the verge of tears whenever the wind blows for days and days without stopping.' Hall bit his lip and didn't answer.

'Oh blast it, Dick!' cried Sir Anthony cheerfully, snapping his fingers. 'You always go moody on us just before lunch. Must be something to do with low blood sugar.' He was supposed to have been a pretty competent biochemist before he sold his soul, if he ever had one, to the Civil Service. 'Come on, committee,' he cried, 'Off to lunch now! Get some anti-freeze coursing through those lusty veins.' He made little shooing motions with his hands as though the members were chickens. The members stood and filed gloomily from the room.

Sir Anthony motioned me towards him. He adjusted his dark blue, college tie and scraped a crusty yellow scab of egg from it with a dirty gnarled thumbnail. He glanced at Arthur and then at me. He raised one bushy eyebrow. 'You sounded a bit extreme this morning, Dick. You're not going green around the gills, are you?' he laughed. He looked at either side of my head. 'Hope you're not thinking of putting anything lurid into the report of the committee.'

'The report will be submitted to you well before publication, Sir Anthony,' I replied stiffly. 'You'll be able to change anything you don't like in it.'

'Ah, well, we're under very considerable pressure from the Secretary to get this report out just as fast as possible, Dick,' said Arthur. 'The Secretary's under great pressure from the Minister and the Minister's being squeezed by the PM. The PM really does want to read our report a.s.a.p, you know.'

'A perfect ecology of arse-licking and back-stabbing, eh, Arthur?' I sneered. 'Got a bone for your nose yet?'

'Say what you like, Dick, but the government needs this report and it wants it at this point in time,' said Arthur levelly, ignoring the gibe. 'We can't afford to have a last minute rewrite or anything like that.'

'I'll just put down the evidence I've heard, Arthur,' I said. 'It'll be a lot easier than cooking up a pack of lies.'

'Nobody is suggesting that you present anything but the evidence you've heard here, Dick,' said Arthur.

'I've heard plenty of evidence in this room. Rather too much of it for my comfort,' I replied. 'In fact, I've been shocked. People who probably wouldn't ever dream of telling the truth anywhere else, even in church, seem willing to drop their trousers in front of us. Just because we're a Cabinet Office committee.'

'Everyone is telling the truth as they see it, certainly. So what's your problem, old chap,' asked Sir Anthony breezily.

'I told you earlier, Sir Anthony,' I said. 'We don't really know enough to know whether we're in serious trouble or not. There hasn't been enough of the right kind of evidence. Too much noise and not enough signal.'

'Too much evidence will just confuse the public about the real issues involved anyway, Dick. The report must be authoritative, concise and decisive,' said Sir Anthony. 'It must be totally convincing.'

'Convincing of what, Sir Anthony? Convincing of re-election?' I jibed.

'Look, Dick,' said Arthur evenly, 'You can put anything you want in the report, providing it's reasonable. We just don't want anything in it that's going to cause the public a lot of worry, cost the Government a great deal of money, curb economic growth or cause unemployment.'

'The Government would prefer an ecological disaster to an economic one?'

'Dick,' stated Sir Anthony firmly, 'We have been instructed that unnecessary public concern about the environment is not considered at all desirable.'

'You mean big dish of warm, bland pap is what's desirable,' I asked brightly.

Sir Anthony smirked and unleashed his sharpest blue gaze from within the dark bloody pools. 'Now Dick, you were specially picked to be our committee's Boswell,' he said. 'We knew that your heart's in the right place for this job. We also know that you can turn a very nice phrase, a very smooth phrase, out on to a piece of paper,' he murmured. They must have been thinking of my Antarctica oil exploration venture brochure. Only the absolutely greediest bastards in The City had been bitten by that one. Anyway, it was perfectly legal, only just a tiny bit sharp, that's all.

Sir Anthony smiled greasily at me. 'The government will be very, very grateful for a useful report, Dick,' he purred. 'Your name will be on the cover, right next to the Chairman's. The next Honours List is not far off, Dick.' He raised his eyebrows significantly. I said nothing but I still remember that my saliva ran to that bell.

'We know we can rely on you, Dick,' rumbled Sir Anthony, launching himself upright, 'Now lads, why don't we go get stuck into some lunch?' he asked affably. 'You know, Arthur, I really do think you must have one of the best cold buffets in the country here. Nothing fancy, mind you, but everything very, very sound. The lemon mayonnaise is simply brilliant. The white wines are not bad at all, either.'

'Maybe it should be privatised,' I sneered.

Sir Anthony smirked and glanced at me slyly. 'And do you know what, Dick?' he asked.

'No, what?' I replied.

'I made damn' sure those software committee chappies were fed somewhere else this time,' he crowed triumphantly. 'They're just a bloody sub-committee, after all! Ho, ho, ho!'

* * *

Well, I've managed to keep my present tense mouth shut for almost two whole entries. It's just about killed me, too. OK, reader, so you must be thinking, 'What a bunch of jerks, what wankers! How could they possibly not know they were killing the world with all their pollution?' Well, it's so very easy to sit back, ex post facto, and say that, with hindsight being as good as it is.

Sure, some scientists had been saying the same thing for years. But remember, just as many scientists, and very reputable ones, had been saying the opposite. The rest were like me: we just didn't know. We couldn't stop the world, anyway, just because we didn't know the answers. How could all those billions of people have been able to live in an ecologically sound way? In fact, could even a billion human beings ever have been ecologically sound, no matter how carefully they lived?

You see, even today in mid-disaster, I'm still not really convinced we caused whatever it is that has happened to us. There's no question that something dreadful has happened. It's just that there's no solid, scientific evidence that we humans caused it. Yes, I'm sure it seems probable that there were just too many people, living too well. But it might have happened just the same if there had been only a million people in the world, living in sylvan harmony. Without some hard scientific proof, it's impossible to know what to believe. Even if we'd been able to shut Britain down, I don't think it would have mattered all that much in the long run. We weren't the worst offenders, not by a long shot. We were pretty small beer. Isn't the west wind the one that always blows the hardest?

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