Sun Dance (2 page)

Tapping the ends of his fingers together, Sir Joshua listened without comment. I became conscious that he watched me as I read from my notes. Each time I looked up his eyes darted away. The odd question or two indicated a shrewd brain. The secretary reappeared and with an unctuous stoop placed a note at Goldberg’s elbow He rose abruptly, eyes swivelling to the door, “The P.M. wishes a word with you.” Maybe this was not the favourable consultancy report they required.

The secretary stepped forward. “This way, sir.” I followed him up a wide stairway flanked by studio portraits of Number 10’s past incumbents. All looked sincere but high office rather than nature granted dignity. I was ushered into a large Georgian drawing room warmed by the cheerful blaze in the wrought iron grate of an Adam fireplace. A magnificent secretaire bookcase, satinwood side tables, a walnut grandfather clock, all the trappings of gentility somehow gave the room an atmosphere of a Hollywood movie ripe for a cheap plot. A guitar slung on the carved shoulder of an elegant Chippendale chair suggested a relaxed attitude on the part of the musician.

Whilst waiting, my attention focused on a magnificent Dutch seascape. Rocks loomed ahead of a sailing ship in danger of foundering. Storm and action, a bearded skipper gripped the spokes of her wheel, sails shredded before a gale. Barefooted men strained at her ropes, obviously not in the same league as the talkers and manipulators I’d passed on the stairs, guiding the Ship of State

The P.M. breezed in, a welcoming grin and a hand with a resolute grip.

Motioning me to the large Chesterfield he beamed, “Do sit down. Care for a coffee?” Flinging an arm along its back casually, he sat himself at the other end. The effect of his manner was immediate. I marvelled at the approach, his controlling eye, the voice. Charm, charisma, an infectious mix of attributes difficult to quantify, but as history tells us, when applied to a world stage, their impact on the direction of events has often proved calamitous.

Sir Joshua slipped in quietly and stood uneasily at the casement window contemplating a garden bathed in March sunshine. Throughout our discussion, there’d been only fleeting eye contact. An unappealing man, and I suspected, he’d an agenda equally unattractive. Without doubt he regarded my paper as important, even dangerous. I’d exposed major issues which could undermine the government’s surreptitious programme for nuclear expansion.

The merest click and a side door opened. A tall, lean faced individual stalked into the room. He placed himself at the end of the couch behind the P.M., a baleful presence perhaps due to his hawkish nose. Eyeing me intently, his stare conveyed a challenging intellect. “Now, what’s this Josh has been telling me?” the P.M. began. His eyes appeared direct and friendly complimenting a gushing manner and school-boy grin.

“How can I help? Tell me about your work.” It had been an easy start. I began to outline my understanding of the problems faced by a growing nuclear industry. “My basic research, Prime Minister, is with the energy transfer between fast moving particles within the most intense magnetic fields we have so far produced, but my work for the consultancy paper which your government asked me to prepare has thrown up results with serious implications for the long term storage of nuclear waste. Preliminary findings highlight the possibility of conditions arising which could bring about a situation of the most critical nature. Depending on location and volume, the mix of various degrees of radio activity might……”

He cut in brusquely, launching into his usual theme of nuclear power being the clean energy alternative to our dependence on fossil fuels. Looking me straight in the eye he spoke at length. I listened with increasing surprise as it became clear how little appreciation existed for the long term consequences of the major changes which lay ahead. “Nuclear expansion is vital, a socially responsible undertaking. I intend to pursue the case with the utmost vigour. Naturally, we shall continue to support other forms of renewable power, but they can’t compete financially.” He smiled, a shade less friendly. “Budgets have a nasty habit of dictating limits and as you’ll know, one has to prioritize.”

Cash- the politicians yard stick. I watched his eyes. In unguarded moments they became just a jot unfocused, the merest glazing, a look which suggested the zeal of a man on a mission. “Our duty is to future generations,” he concluded emphatically. Long pause. His eyes met mine. “By the way, I know we provide a considerable amount towards funding your work. It’s under review at the moment.” Another pause. His eyes became hard and calculating. “You realise there’s considerable call on the national budget. Our welfare programmes are very demanding and to be honest I have to say, the Chancellor must allocate according to the greatest need.”

No smile. The inference was clear. My colour rose. I countered, aware of condescension in my tone, perhaps a hint of intellectual superiority. “In view of my research findings, Prime Minister, I feel my duty as a scientist is also to consider the safety of future generations, and I warn you due to the worldwide proliferation of nuclear facilities their safety is much in jeopardy.”

Hatchet Face moved forward and put his hand on the back of the couch. I ignored him. “That danger apart, on the wider issue of energy supplies, Prime Minister, wind and wave are folly, environmentally disastrous, geo-thermal maybe, but already there are solar energy farms in operation using mirror and lens enhancement to drive steam turbines. It may sound outlandish, the possibility exists for harvesting sunshine from the troposphere, never mind what could be dramatically achieved at house top level, if funds were diverted from, shall we say, military operations.”

My tirade reached fresh heights, “You all fail to realise it’s too late. The planet will continue warming at an accelerating rate in spite of your feeble attempts to reduce carbon emissions. Even if we could stabilise CO2 levels tomorrow overall temperatures will rise by two degrees at least, much more in some areas.”

I glared round the group, “Emission rates are accelerating gentlemen, up by thirty percent already in this decade. You fail to understand that the projected effect of any carbon cutting will be more than offset by the fast declining ability of our natural environment to absorb carbon and by no means an insignificant factor, world societies’ ever escalating consumption of energy,”

I repeated, doubtless in a supercilious manner, “The world’s ever escalating use.”

Silence. I’d struck home! Eyes fixed me with rapt attention. No holding back angry words from a racing mind. “Wind power, wave power! Look, gentlemen, you are harnessing two of the planets greatest natural forces, largely benign as a present function of the overall global system. Exploit their latent power and apply it to our form of energy usage and you’ll turn what are the earth’s natural features into substantial emitters of heat.”

Not a move. Were they stunned by my outburst? Goldberg, gazing out of the window had his back to me. Was I beginning to shout? “Emitters, dissipaters of heat, simple first form physics by turning wind power into radiant energy you’re adding to what the sun already supplies. It’s concentrating a cool breeze into electricity and running it through a two bar fire and putting it back into the atmosphere as heat escaping through the window. Never mind turning the tide into air conditioning systems for the wealthy whilst the poor swelter. You fools, nuclear power is the worst of all. Even forgetting the dangers I’ve outlined, you’re releasing into the environment the cosmic energy which was locked in uranium when the planet was formed.”

I let that sink in. Hatchet Face cleared his throat. I kept on regardless. “Anyway, I believe that major U.S. industrial business interests are bent on a rapid expansion of nuclear energy generation, both here and abroad, but within forty years mineral uranium will become a dwindling stock, not dissimilar to the current oil situation. So carry on, gentlemen, but if you want a future for your families then throw taxpayers money at photosynthesis and solar power, and make it fast.”

The P.M.’s eyes narrowed, pupils shrank to dots. His face twisted into a fixed smile. Before he could stop me, I began again, without doubt in a loud arrogant tone,

“Can’t you understand, methane is the real menace, twenty-five times more potent than CO2 at producing warming. Today’s escalating CO2 emissions are leading to the unleashing of the earth’s vast store of methane. It’s under the permafrost.We’re at the mercy of melting permafrost, and perhaps you aren’t aware that trillions and trillions of cubic meters of methane exists in ice clathrate deposits right across the globe, even below the sea bed. Extraction of this new type of fossil fuel is about to start. Make no mistake, this sort of disturbance could trigger a run away release of methane from the clathrate beds. The balance is delicate. Add in the melting effects of ocean warming on seabed reserves and you could get an uncontrollable chain reaction with disastrous consequences. Mark my words, the methane clathrates will be the planet’s next energy gold mine.”

Sir Joshua spun round, startled. I leaned closer to the P.M. almost shouting in his face, “It’s your inability to see beyond the flashy world of high finance.It’s your myopic economic policies versus the environment and moreover, Prime Minister, I question your political mandate from the electorate for any such expansion of the nuclear industry. Had you spent a fraction of our taxes on researching low frequency photovoltaic cells, instead of vast sums creating the misery of your illegal attack on Iraq, the menace of nuclear generation could be avoided.”

I raged on without drawing breath, “And by the way, all nuclear facilities are to a certain degree under micro-chip control, don’t forget the manufacture of these components is vital to much of today’s modern living and it’s passing out of U.S. control, moving to cheaper labour out East. Your so called terrorists will quickly learn that by infiltrating the design and manufacturing processes of the micro-chip industry they can create mayhem in far wider zones than the battlefield. Nuclear plants, aircraft, air traffic control, early warning systems, banking affairs, health, innumerable areas of our complex societies could be vulnerable. It’ll make the type of wars you’re presently spending billions on fighting seem as outdated as armoured knights on a medieval crusade.”

They sat back. Stunned at my outburst nobody spoke. In an attempt to recover my composure I ended by saying in a more moderate pitch, “as far as climate change is concerned the challenge is even greater. We’re passing the tipping point of runaway temperatures and we’ll need intelligence to survive, not ideology.”

Hatchet Face made to speak. The P.M.’s raised hand stopped him and glaring at me his eyes narrowed to venomous black dots. I heard Goldberg draw a sharp breath. The silence turned icy. The clock ticked loudly. “I think these wider issues are really not part of your specialised field,” with considerable self-control, his words were delivered in a measured tone.

Immediately we all stood up. Smiling thinly, mouth only, he squeezed my arm. “The industry is confident the matters which concern you are well in hand. There’s always a lunatic fringe opposing us, constant danger from extremists, religious fanatics and so forth, but have no fear, we will control these issues.”

His head lifted a fraction; his eyes glittered with an arrogant hardness, “I know I’m doing what is right. It’s for the great mass of honest people, their future, their homes and their jobs. Thank you none the less for coming over but if you don’t mind my saying so, I think your views are both highly offensive and irrelevant.”

The atmosphere became frigid. He dropped my arm. Hatchet Face exchanged glances with Goldberg and moved from his listening post behind the Chesterfield to stand at the Prime Minister’s elbow. We moved to the door. With a piercing glance, as though it could be an afterthought, the P.M. continued,

“I understand your consultancy paper is not yet up for discussion elsewhere.” He became unpleasantly insinuating. “I’m sure you know what I mean. Sections of the press can be so disruptive when it comes to the interests and wellbeing of our Nation.” His eyes drilled into mine. “Nor would a lack of discretion of any kind be in your own interests.”

From now on had I to fear surveillance?

Turning abruptly he nodded to Hatchet Face who without a word showed me out. Un-noticed, Sir Joshua had already slipped from the room.

That was it, another wasted day. I loathed meetings and the paper shuffling types who cultivated them into a profession. Two hours in the H.Q. of power; cloak and dagger tactics behind the curtains of influence and preferment. Northing what it seemed, sleight of tongue replaced straight forward exchange, expediency before honesty. Throughout my ill chosen outburst, Hatchet Face studied me, heard all, said nothing, but contributed to the atmosphere of side glancing suspicion. Two hours in the shadowy corridors of talkers and plotters, two hours too long.

As I’d left, lens- eyed vultures waited at the front gates hoping to pick over some object of degraded ‘officialdom’, maybe a politician who fiddled with his expenses, his secretary, or both.

The fag ends of a fading democracy.

I came away disgusted.