The Deep Range

CHAPTER XXI

‘So this,” grumbled Franklin, “is my reward for twenty years of devoted public service — to be regarded even by my own family as a bloodstained butcher.”

“But all that was true, wasn’t it?” said Anne, pointing to the TV screen, which a few seconds ago had been dripping with gore.

“Of course it was. But it was also very cleverly edited propaganda. I could make out just as good a case for our side.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Indra. “The division will certainly want you to, but it may not be easy.”

Franklin snorted indignantly.

“Why, those statistics are all nonsense! The very idea of switching our entire herds to milking instead of slaughtering is just crazy. If we converted all our resources to whalemilk production we couldn’t make up a quarter of the loss of fats and protein involved in closing down the processing plants.”

“Now, Walter,” said Indra placidly, “there’s no need to break a blood vessel trying to keep calm. What’s really upset you is the suggestion that the plankton farms should be extended to make up the deficit.”

“Well, you’re the biologist. Is it practical to turn that pea soup into prime ribs of beef or T-bone steaks?”

“It’s obviously possible. It was a very clever move, having the chef of the Waldorf tasting both the genuine and the synthetic product, and being unable to tell the difference. There’s no doubt you’re going to have a lovely fight on your hands — the farm people will jump right in on the Thero’s side of the fence, and the whole Marine Division will be split wide open.”

“He probably planned that,” said Franklin with reluctant admiration. “He’s diabolically well-informed. I wish now I hadn’t said so much about the possibilities of milk production during that interview — and they did overplay it a bit in the final article. I’m sure that’s what started the whole business.”

“That’s another thing I was going to mention. Where did he get the figures on which he based his statistics? As far as I know, they have never been published anywhere outside the bureau.”

“You’re right,” conceded Franklin. “I should have thought of that before. First thing tomorrow morning I’m going out to Heron Island to have a little talk with Dr. Lundquist.”

“Will you take me, Daddy?” pleaded Anne.

“Not this time, young lady. I wouldn’t like an innocent daughter of mine to hear some of the things I may have to say.”

‘Dr. Lundquist is out in the lagoon, sir,” said the chief lab assistant. “There’s no way of contacting him until he decides to come up.”

“Oh, isn’t there? I could go down and tap him on the shoulder.”

“I don’t think that would be at all wise, sir. Attila and Genghis Khan aren’t very fond of strangers.”

“Good God — is he swimming with them!”

“Oh yes — they’re quite fond of him, and they’ve got very friendly with the wardens who work with them. But anyone else might be eaten rather quickly.”

Quite a lot seemed to be going on, thought Franklin, that he knew very little about. He decided to walk to the lagoon; unless it was extremely hot, or one had something to carry, it was never worthwhile to take a car for such short distances.

He had changed his mind by the time he reached the new eastern jetty. Either Heron Island was getting bigger or he was beginning to feel his years. He sat down on the keel of an upturned dinghy, and looked out to sea. The tide was in, but the sharp dividing line marking the edge of the reef was clearly visible, and in the fenced-off enclosure the spouts of the two killer whales appeared as intermittent plumes of mist. There was a small boat out there, with somebody in it, but it was too far away for him to tell whether it was Dr. Lundquist or one of his assistants.

He waited for a few minutes, then telephoned for a boat to carry him out to the reef. In slightly more time than it would have taken him to swim there, he arrived at the enclosure and had his first good look at Attila and Genghis Khan.

The two killer whales were a little under thirty feet long, and as his boat approached them they simultaneously reared out of the water and stared at him with their huge, intelligent eyes. The unusual attitude, and the pure white of the bodies now presented to him, gave Franklin the uncanny impression that he was face to face not with animals but with beings who might be higher in the order of creation than himself. He knew that the truth was far otherwise, and reminded himself that he was looking at the most ruthless killer in the sea.

No, that was not quite correct. The second most ruthless killer in the sea…

The whales dropped back into the water, apparently satisfied with their scrutiny. It was then that Franklin made out Lundquist, working about thirty feet down with a small torpedo loaded with instruments. Probably the commotion had disturbed him, because he came quickly to the surface and lay treading water, with his face mask pushed back, as he recognized his visitor.

“Good morning, Mr. Franklin. I wasn’t expecting you today. What do you think of my pupils?”

“Very impressive. How well are they learning their lessons?”

“There’s no doubt about it — they’re brilliant. Even cleverer than porpoises, and surprisingly affectionate when they get to know you. I can teach them to do anything now. If I wanted to commit the perfect murder, I could tell them that you were a seal on an ice floe, and they’d have the boat over in two seconds.”

“In that case, I’d prefer to continue our conversation back on land. Have you finished whatever you’re doing?”

“It’s never finished, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll ride the torp back — no need to lift all this gear into the boat.”

The scientist swung his tiny metal fish around toward the island, and promptly set off at a speed which the dinghy could not hope to match. At once the two killers streaked after him, their huge dorsal fins leaving a creamy wake in the water. It seemed a dangerous game of tag to play, but before Franklin could discover what would happen when the killers caught the torpedo, Lundquist had crossed the shallow but clearly marked mesh around the enclosure, and the two whales broke their rush in a flurry of spray.

Franklin was very thoughtful on the way back to land. He had known Lundquist for years, but now he felt that this was the first time he had ever really seen him. There had never been any doubt concerning his originality — indeed, his brilliance — but he also appeared to possess unsuspected courage and initiative. None of which, Franklin determined grimly, would help him unless he had a satisfactory answer to certain questions.

Dressed in his everyday clothes, and back in the familiar laboratory surroundings, Lundquist was the man Franklin had always known. “Now, John,” he began, “I suppose you’ve seen this television propaganda against the bureau?”

“Of course. But is it against us?”

“It’s certainly against our main activity, but we won’t argue that point. What I want to know is this: Have you been in touch with the Maha Thero?”

“Oh yes. He contacted me immediately after that article appeared in Earth Magazine.”

“And you passed on confidential information to him?”

Lundquist looked sincerely hurt.

“I resent that, Mr. Franklin. The only information I gave him was an advance proof of my paper on whalemilk production, which comes out in the Cetological Review next month. You approved it for publication yourself.”

The accusations that Franklin was going to make collapsed around his ears, and he felt suddenly rather ashamed of himself.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said. “I take that back. All this has made me a bit jumpy, and I just want to sort out the facts before HQ starts chasing me. But don’t you think you should have told me about this inquiry?”

“Frankly, I don’t see why. We get all sorts of queries every day, and I saw no reason to suppose that this was not just another routine one. Of course, I was pleased that somebody was taking a particular interest in my special project, and I gave them all the help I could.”

“Very well,” said Franklin resignedly. “Let’s forget the post-mortem. But answer for me this question: As a scientist, do you really believe that we can afford to stop whale slaughtering and switch over to milk and synthetics?”

“Given ten years, we can do it if we have to. There’s no technical objection that I can see. Of course I can’t guarantee the figures on the plankton-farming side, but you can bet your life that the Thero had accurate sources of information there as well.”

“But you realize what this will mean! If it starts with whales, sooner or later it will go right down the line through all the domestic animals.”

“And why not? The prospect rather appeals to me. If science and religion can combine to take some of the cruelty out of Nature, isn’t that a good thing?”

“You sound like a crypto-Buddhist — and I’m tired of pointing out that there’s no cruelty in what we are doing. Meanwhile, if the Thero asks any more questions, kindly refer him to me.”

“Very good, Mr. Franklin,” Lundquist replied rather stiffly. There was an awkward pause, providentially broken by the arrival of a messenger.

“Headquarters wants to speak to you, Mr. Franklin. It’s urgent.”

“I bet it is,” muttered Franklin. Then he caught sight of Lundquists’s still somewhat hostile expression, and could not suppress a smile.

“If you can train orcas to be wardens, John,” he said, “you’d better start looking around for a suitable mammal — preferably amphibious — to be the next director.”

On a planet of instantaneous and universal communications, ideas spread from pole to pole more rapidly than they could once have done by word of mouth in a single village. The skillfully edited and presented program which had spoiled the appetites of a mere twenty million people on its first appearance had a far larger audience on its second. Soon there were few other topics of conversation; one of the disadvantages of life in a peaceful and well-organized world state was that with the disappearance of wars and crises very little was left of what was once called “news.” Indeed, the complaint had often been made that since the ending of national sovereignty, history had also been abolished. So the argument raged in club and kitchen, in World Assembly and lonely space freighter, with no competition from any other quarter.

The World Food Organization maintained a dignified silence, but behind the scenes there was furious activity. Matters were not helped by the brisk lobbying of the farm group, which it had taken no great foresight on Indra’s part to predict. Franklin was particularly annoyed by the efforts of the rival department to profit from his difficulties, and made several protests to the Director of Plankton Farms when the infighting became a little too rough. “Damn it all, Ted,” he had snarled over the viewphone on one occasion, “you’re just as big a butcher as I am. Every ton of raw plankton you process contains half a billion shrimps with as much right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as my whales. So don’t try to stand in a white sheet. Sooner or later the Thero will work down to you — this is only the thin edge of the wedge.”

“Maybe you’re right, Walter,” the culprit had admitted cheerfully enough, “but I think the farms will last out my time. It’s not easy to make people sentimental over shrimps — they don’t have cute little ten-ton babies to nurse.”

That was perfectly true; it was very hard to draw the line between maudlin sentimentality and rational humanitarianism. Franklin remembered a recent cartoon showing the Thero raising his arms in protest while a shrieking cabbage was brutally dragged from the ground. The artist had taken no sides; he had merely summed up the viewpoint of those who considered that a great deal of fuss was being made about nothing. Perhaps this whole affair would blow over in a few weeks when people became bored and started arguing about something else — but he doubted it. That first television program had shown that the Thero was an expert in molding public opinion; he could be relied upon not to let his campaign lose momentum.

It took less than a month for the Thero to obtain the ten per cent vote needed under the constitution to set up a commission of inquiry. The fact that one tenth of the human race was sufficiently interested in the matter to request that all the facts be laid before it did not mean that they agreed with the Thero; mere curiosity and the pleasure of seeing a department of the state fighting a defensive rearguard action was quite enough to account for the vote. In itself, a commission of inquiry meant very little. What would matter would be the final referendum on the commission’s report, and it would be months before that could be arranged.

One of the unexpected results of the twentieth century’s electronic revolution was that for the first time in history it was possible to have a truly democratic government — in the sense that every citizen could express his views on matters of policy. What the Athenians, with indifferent success, had tried to do with a few thousand score of free men could now be achieved in a global society of five billion. Automatic sampling devices originally devised for the rating of television programs had turned out to have a far wider significance, by making it a relatively simple and inexpensive matter to discover exactly what the public really thought on any subject.

Naturally, there had to be safeguards, and such a system would have been disastrous before the days of universal education — before, in fact, the beginning of the twenty-first century. Even now, it was possible for some emotionally laden issue to force a vote that was really against the best interests of the community, and no government could function unless it held the final right to decide matters of policy during its term of office. Even if the world demanded some course of action by a ninety-nine per cent vote, the state could ignore the expressed will of the people — but it would have to account for its behavior at the next election.

Franklin did not relish the privilege of being a key witness at the commission’s hearings, but he knew that there was no way in which he could escape this ordeal. Much of his time was now spent in collecting data to refute the arguments of those who wished to put an end to whale slaughtering, and it proved to be a more difficult task than he had imagined. One could not present a neat, clear-cut case by saying that processed whale meat cost so much per pound by the time it reached the consumer’s table whereas synthetic meats derived from plankton or algae would cost more. Nobody knew — there were far too many variables. The biggest unknown of all was the cost of running the proposed sea dairies, if it was decided to breed whales purely for milk and not for slaughter.

The data were insufficient. It would be honest to say so, but there was pressure on him to state outright that the suspension of whale slaughtering would never be a practical or economic possibility. His own loyalty to the bureau, not to mention the security of his present position, prompted him in the same direction.

But it was not merely a matter of economics; there were emotional factors which disturbed Franklin’s judgment and made it impossible for him to make up his mind. The days he had spent with the Maha Thero, and his brief glimpse of a civilization and a way of thought far older than his own, had affected him more deeply than he had realized. Like most men of his highly materialistic era, he was intoxicated with the scientific and sociological triumphs which had irradiated the opening decades of the twenty-first century. He prided himself on his skeptical rationalism, and his total freedom from superstition. The fundamental questions of philosophy had never bothered him greatly; he knew that they existed, but they had seemed the concern of other people.

And now, whether he liked it or not, he had been challenged from a quarter so unexpected that he was almost defenseless. He had always considered himself a humane man, but now he had been reminded that humanity might not be enough. As he struggled with his thoughts, he became progressively more and more irritable with the world around him, and matters finally became so bad that Indra had to take action.

“Walter,” she said firmly, when Anne had gone tearfully to bed after a row in which there was a good deal of blame on both sides, “it will save a lot of trouble if you face the facts and stop trying to fool yourself.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“You’ve been angry with everybody this last week — with just one exception. You’ve lost your temper with Lundquist — though that was partly my fault — with the press, with just about every other bureau in the division, with the children, and any moment you’re going to lose it with me. But there’s one person you’re not angry with — and that’s the Maha Thero, who’s the cause of all the trouble.”

“Why should I be? He’s crazy, of course, but he’s a saint — or as near it as I ever care to meet.”

“I’m not arguing about that. I’m merely saying that you really agree with him, but you won’t admit it.”

Franklin started to explode. “That’s utterly ridiculous!” he began. Then his indignation petered out. It was ridiculous; but it was also perfectly true.

He felt a great calm come upon him; he was no longer angry with the world and with himself. His childish resentment of the fact that he should be the man involved in a dilemma not of his making suddenly evaporated. There was no reason why he should be ashamed of the fact that he had grown to love the great beasts he guarded; if their slaughter could be avoided, he should welcome it, whatever the consequences to the bureau.

The parting smile of the Thero suddenly floated up into his memory. Had that extraordinary man foreseen that he would win him around to his point of view? If his gentle persuasiveness — which he had not hesitated to combine with the shock tactics of that bloodstained television program — could work with Franklin himself, then the battle was already half over.