"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.
When the meeting was over, Lt. Lloyd Madden gathered the documentation together, locked it inside his briefcase, and stood by the door while the general made his farewells. A few minutes later the two of them were striding along the corridor, across the marble reception hall, and out through the glass doors and down the broad shallow steps of the NOAA Building.
