He looked across at Wu Shih, then back to Tsu Ma, seeing how tense his fellow T'ang had grown. Even Wei Feng was looking down, disturbed by the direction Li Shai Tung's words had taken. He pressed on.
"As you know, for the past twenty years I have been trying to anticipate these problems—to find solutions without taking what seems to me now the inevitable step. The number of orbital farms, for instance, has been increased eight hundred percent in the past fifteen years, resulting in fifty-five percent of all Chung Kuo's food now being grown off-planet. That success, however, has caused us new problems. There is the danger of cluttering up the skies; the problem of repairing and maintaining such vast and complex machineries; the need to build at least four and possibly as many as twelve new spaceports, capacity at the present ports being strained to the limit. Added to this, the cost of ferrying down the produce, of processing it and distributing it, has grown year by year. And then, as we all know, there have been accidents."
He saw, once again, how they looked at each other. This was the Great Unsaid. If the Seven could be said to have a taboo it was this—the relationship of food production to population growth. It was Chung Kuo's oldest problem—as old as the First Emperor, Ch'in Shih Huang Ti himself—yet for a century or more they had refused to discuss it, even to mention it. And why? Because that relationship underpinned the one great freedom they had promised the people of Chung Kuo— the one freedom upon which the whole great edifice of Family and Seven depended—the right to have an unlimited number of children. Take that away and the belief in Family was undermined; a belief that was sacrosanct—that was the very foundation stone of their great State. For were they not themselves the fathers of their people?
Yes. But now that had to change. A new relationship had to be forged, less satisfactory than the old, yet necessary; because without it there would be nothing. No Seven, no State, nothing but anarchy.
"We know these things," he said softly, "yet we say nothing of them. But now it is time to do our sums: to balance the one against the other and see where such figures lead us. All of which brings me back to the report I commissioned and its central question—what would have happened if the Ping Tioo had succeeded in their attack on the plantations?"
"Li Shai Tung . . . ?" It was Wei Feng.
"Yes, Cousin?"
"Will we be given copies of this report of yours?"
"Of course."
Wei Feng met his eyes briefly, his expression deeply troubled. "Good. But let me say how—unorthodox I find this: to speak of a document none of us have seen. It is not how we normally transact our business,"
Li Shai Tung lowered his head, respecting his old friend's feelings. "I understand, Cousin, but these are not normal times, nor is this matter—orthodox, shall we say. It was simply that I did not feel I could submit such a document for the record. However, when the detailed report is ready I shall ensure each of you receive a copy at once."
Wei Feng nodded, but it was clear he was far from happy with the way things had developed, despite his words about "thinking the unthinkable." Li Shai Tung studied him a moment, trying to gauge how strongly he felt on the matter; then he looked away, resuming his speech.
"However, from our first and admittedly hurried estimates, we believe that the Ping Tioo attack would have destroyed as much as thirty-five percent of the East European growing areas. In terms of overall food production this equates with approximately ten percent of City Europe's total."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Were this merely a matter of percentage reductions the problem would be a relatively minor one—and, indeed, short term, for the growing areas could be redeveloped within three months—but the fact is that we have developed a distribution network that is immensely fragile. If you will forgive the analogy, we are like an army encamped in enemy territory that has tried to keep its supply lines as short as possible. This has meant that food from the plantations has traditionally been used to feed the eastern Hsien of City Europe, while the food brought down from the orbitals—landed in the six spaceports on the western and southern coasts—has been used to feed the west and south of the City. If the plantations failed, it would mean shipping vast amounts of grain, meat, and other edibles across the continent. It is not impossible, but it would be difficult to organize and immensely costly."
He paused significantly. "That, however, would be the least of our problems. Because production has not kept pace with population growth, the physical amount of food consumed by our citizenry has dropped considerably over the past fifteen years. On average, people now eat ten percent less than they did in 2192. To ask them to cut their consumption by a further ten percent—as we would undoubt-edly have to in the short term—would, I am told, return us to the situation we faced a year ago, with widespread rioting in the lower levels. The potential damage of that is, as you can imagine, inestimable.
"But let me come to my final point—the point at which my worries become your worries. For what we are really talking of here is not a question of logistics—of finding administrative solutions to large-scale problems—but an ongoing situation of destabilization. Such an attack, we could be certain, would be but the first, and each subsequent attack would find us more vulnerable, our resources stretched much further, our options fewer. What we are talking of is a downward spiral with the only end in sight our own. My counsellors estimate that it would need only a twenty-five percent reduction in food supplies to make City Europe effectively ungovernable. And what can happen in Europe can, I am assured, be duplicated elsewhere. So you see, cousins, this matter has brought to our attention just how vulnerable we are in this, the most important and yet most neglected area of government."
He fell silent, noting the air of uneasiness that had fallen over the meeting. It was Wu Shih, T'ang of North America, who articulated what they all were thinking.
"And what is your answer, Shai Tung?"
Li Shai Tung took a small, shuddering breath, then answered. "For too long we have been running hard to try to catch up with ourselves. The time has come when we can do that no longer. Our legs cannot hold us. We must have controls. Now, before it is too late."
"Controls?" Wang Sau-leyan asked, a faint puzzlement in his face.
Li Shai Tung looked back at him, nodding. But even now it was hard to say the words themselves. Hard to throw off the shroud of silence that surrounded this matter and speak of it directly. He raised himself slightly in his chair, then forced himself to say it.
"What I mean is this. We must limit the number of children a man might have." The silence that greeted his words was worse than anything Li Shai Tung had ever experienced in Council. He looked to Tsu Ma. "You see the need, don't you, Tsu Ma?"
Tsu Ma met his eyes firmly, only the faintness of his smile suggesting his discomfort. "I understand your concern, dear friend. And what you said—there is undeniably a deal of truth in it. But is there no other way?"
Li Shai Tung shook his head. "Do you think I would even raise the matter if I thought there were another way? No. We must take this drastic action and take it soon. The only real question is how we go about it. How we can make this great change while maintaining the status quo."
Wei Feng pulled at his beard, disturbed by this talk. "Forgive me, Shai Tung, but I do not agree. You talk of these things as if they must come about, but I cannot see that. The attack on the plantations would, I agree, have had serious repercussions, yet now we are forewarned. Surely we can take measures to prevent further attacks? When you said to me earlier that you wished to take decisive action, I thought you meant something else."