"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 C02 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 Meteorological 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 C02 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 1 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 pC02 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.