take an overdose like the rest of them and get it over with quietly?'
Winthrop had expected skepticism from the other members of the subcommittee whose brief was to vet the agenda for the next monthly session of PSAC, when the president himself would be in attendance. He had expected incredulity from some of them, even scornful laughter --but not the open hostility he now faced.
The attack had been led by Gen. George N. Wolfe of the Department of Defense, who wasted no time and little breath in calling the proposal alarmist and unscientific. Winthrop had actually flushed and only just stopped himself blurting out that the general should stick to military matters and leave others better qualified to decide what was 'unscientific' and what wasn't. But this would have opened an old wound, he knew--the presence of a Defense Department spokesman on the President's Scientific Advisory Committee--and would have served no useful purpose. It wouldn't help his career any either. If word got back to the Pentagon that the deputy director of the World Ocean-ographic Data Center was an awkward son of a bitch . . . well, anyway, better to ease off a little and not get excited. He wanted to see his name on the director's door, not on a list of has-beens circulating Washington for the post of washroom attendant.
'It amazes me, Winthrop, that you even considered putting this crackpot notion forward in the first place.' General Wolfe hunched forward over the polished circular table, his tanned face a maze of cracks and lines that was the legacy of Southeast Asia. His eyes were like fissures in sandstone. 'Jesus Christ, man, this is a government- appointed body, not a goddamn college debating society. We're supposed to deal in hard scientific fact. Instead you come up with some ludicrous concoction dreamed up by a lunatic living on--' He turned his craggy head abruptly to his aide, a lieutenant with sharp features who murmured in his ear. General Wolfe swiveled back to bark at Winthrop, 'Canton Island. Wherever the hell that is.'
Winthrop smoothed his silvery hair with long slender fingers. 'General, I feel I ought to point out that Dr. Detrick is an eminently respected scientist with an international reputation. His book
General Wolfe snorted rudely. 'Just because the guy's written some book or other doesn't make him a divine oracle.'
Esther Steinbekker, the chairwoman, cropped gray hair framing a sexless face, and with a slight squint behind black-frame spectacles, said crisply, 'Many of us are familiar with Dr. Detrick's work, Parris. We know of his important contributions to the field. But really, on the basis of unsupported and unverified data you can't seriously expect us to include this item on the PSAC agenda.'
Everyone looked toward Winthrop, who was at pains to define his position. The last thing he wanted was to be lumped with Theo in the cranks and screwballs category.
'Of course I must agree that the research is, as yet, unsupported by others in the field--and I don't for one second accept all the conclusions that Detrick draws. But I do think we should at least consider what is after all the fruit of twenty years effort. If Detrick is conceivably right--'
'Then I'm a Dutchman,' General Wolfe grated, getting a few chuckles and hidden smiles.
Winthrop eyed him stonily. This bastard was out to make him a laughingstock. He could feel perspiration prickling the back of his neck.
Two seats along to his left, Professor Gene Lucas spoke up in his mild southern voice. Lucas, a small, slim man with a clipped gray moustache, was with the Geophysical Dynamics Laboratory at Princeton and was one of the country's leading experts in the study of the biosphere.
'You say in your summary, Dr. Winthrop'--peering through bifocals at the stapled typewritten sheets before him--'that Detrick expects the decline in phytoplankton production to have an effect, quote appreciable effect unquote, on the oxygen level within twenty years.' He looked up, mouth tight and prim. 'If that were the case, shouldn't we be able to register the start of such a trend right now? Those things don't happen overnight.'
Before Winthrop could respond, one of the other scientists, a particle physicist, directed a question at Lucas. 'As we're not as well-ac-quainted with atmospheric dynamics as yourself, Professor Lucas, perhaps you could tell us how such a change would be detected and if in fact there has been any change?'
'No, none at all,' Lucas stated emphatically. 'The most recent measurements indicate that the percentage of oxygen in the atmosphere has remained stable at 20.94 for the past sixty years; that's to say, since continuous reliable records were kept. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest either a rise or fall in oxygen content.' He turned to regard Winthrop over his spectacles. 'Furthermore, it has been calculated that if the entire fossil fuel reserves of this planet were to be burned, the combustion would reduce the oxygen to only 20.80 percent, an insignificant change, which would have nil effect on life-forms, including man.'
Winthrop was beginning to regret that he'd raised the subject. Two of his senior staff had studied Theo's massive dossier of research and both agreed that its implications were serious enough to warrant a hearing before PSAC. As for Winthrop himself, he'd felt that this was the least he could do in the light of Theo's personal appeal.
But if he'd known, even had an inkling, of the vehement reaction from the military, he would never have stuck his neck out. It was almost as if they had an ulterior motive. Yet what could be further removed from matters of national security than a
'To put this in perspective, as a kind of frame of reference,' Professor Lucas went on in his gentle drawl, 'we have to remember that the atmosphere weighs fifty-seven thousand trillion tons. Any anthropogenic effect would be negligible in comparison with the natural flux of gases on such a vast scale.'
'What's that in plain English?' demanded General Wolfe, fixing Lucas with his steely gaze.
'I'm referring to any man-made interference in the ecological balance. Its effect would be infinitesimal.'
'Uh-huh,' the general said dubiously, casting a sideways glance at his aide.
'While I accept Professor Lucas's point about there being no apparent signs of oxygen deficiency at the present time,' Winthrop said, addressing everyone around the table, 'it's worth pointing out that changes in the atmosphere can and do happen, and quite quickly at that. There's been a significant increase in carbon dioxide over the past hundred years, for example--'
'Which has been noted and measured,' Lucas stated quietly.
'Yes, true.' Winthrop moistened his lips and plunged on, conscious that all eyes were upon him. 'But-- surely--what ought to concern us is the speed, the--uh--suddenness of that increase. If it can happen with carbon dioxide, why not with oxygen? Couldn't Dr. Detrick's work point to the first signs, be the first hint, so to speak, of a possible decline in the oxygen level?'
There was a thin note of pleading in his voice that made him feel ill. Just what was he trying to do? Convince them that Theo's research was valid or that Parris Winthrop was far too clever to be taken in by a bogus scientist?
'Well, for one, I don't accept Detrick's hypothesis,' said an elderly white-haired man opposite. 'He might know all there is to know about marine biology, but his grasp of atmospheric physics is highly suspect, it seems to me.'
There were nods and grunts on all sides.
The back of Winthrop's neck felt cold and clammy. He saw that the general's aide was watching him with hawklike intensity, the faintest glimmer of a smile pasted on his thin lips. Was it triumph? Smug satisfaction? What was going on here, some kind of subversive political ploy to have him removed from PSAC? If that happened his chances of making director were zilch.
'We seem to have arrived at a consensus,' said Esther Steinbekker, with what sounded in Winthrop's ears to have a ring of finality about it. 'As chairwoman I can't recommend that this committee include the item on the agenda for the next presidential meeting. Need we take a vote?'
She looked from face to face, her squint behind the heavy black frames coming to rest on Winthrop.
The room went quiet. Any committee member had the right to insist on a vote. Winthrop stared down at his manicured hands and white cuffs resting on either side of the neatly stacked files on the leather-bound blotter. He swallowed carefully, making sure that the movement in his throat went unnoticed. A vote would be recorded in the minutes, become part of the official archives of PSAC. It could be referred to in the future, checked up on by anyone who wanted to dish dirt. However, no vote, no record.
He took care not to move a muscle.
