This is the nineteenth installment of an exploration of some
of the possible futures discussed on this blog, using the toolkit of narrative
fiction. Our narrator, forced to grapple with the cognitive dissonance between
everything he believes about progress and the facts of life in the Lakeland
Republic, tries to evade the issue for an evening—and ends up even deeper in
perplexity...
***********
The next day was Saturday, and for a change, I didn’t have
anything planned. The marathon sessions of negotiation with President Meeker’s
staff, exhausting though they’d been, had taken up less of my time in Toledo
than I’d expected; even if I sat on my rump in my room until it was time to
catch the train home Wednesday, I’d still get back to Philadelphia with
everything taken care of that I’d officially been asked to do. That was
comforting—or it should have been.
As it was, I woke up in a foul mood, and things didn’t get
any better as I went through my morning routine and then stared at the window,
trying to decide what to do with the day. Partly, I was annoyed at the way the
evening had gone, annoyed with myself for almost getting into a fight with
Melanie Berger, and with her for almost getting into a fight with me. The worst
of it, though, was the bizarre logic she’d used to brush aside my concerns
about the Lakeland Republic’s survival. Her notion that progress had somehow
turned into the enemy of prosperity and the source of most of the world’s
problems—I could barely frame the idea in my mind without shaking my head and
laughing, it was so obviously wrong.
The difficulty was that I couldn’t come up with a
straightforward argument against it. You know the kind of paradox that looks
simple and turns out to be diabolically complicated once you start trying to
poke holes in it? This was the same sort of thing. I started by trying to come
up with a mental list of new technologies that obviously had more benefits than
drawbacks, but that turned into a tangled mess, because I’d spent enough time
in the private sector to know that most of the costs of any new technology get
swept under the rug in one way or another and most of the benefits the public
gets told about are basically made up by somebody’s marketing department.
For that matter, most of the new technologies that I’d seen
hitting the market—bioplastics, veepads, the metanet, and so on—actually
offered fewer benefits than the things they replaced, and I knew damn well that
the publicly admitted costs weren’t the only ones there were. Technologies come
onto the market because somebody thinks they can make a profit off them,
period, end of sentence. You can spend your entire life in corporate boardrooms
and one thing I can promise you you’ll never hear is someone asking, “But is it
actually better?”
I tried half a dozen other gambits and got absolutely
nowhere. Finally I decided to go for a walk and check out the latest news. I
was tired enough after the last few days that I’d slept in late, and it was
past ten in the morning before I went out the front door and headed for
Kaufer’s News. The day was brisk and blustery, with torn scraps of gray cloud
rushing past overhead, and the blue and green Lakeland Republic flag out in
front of the Capitol snapped and billowed in a cold wind.
There was a crowd around Kaufer’s. I wondered what that
meant, until I got close enough to hear the woman who ran it saying, in a loud
voice: “Ladies, gentlemen, listen up.
I’m out of today’s Blade, but there’s more on the way. No, I don’t know
how soon—depends on traffic. Hang on and it’ll be here.”
I’d figured out by the time she started talking that
something important must have happened, but I didn’t want to stand there, so I
walked the five blocks to the public library. I thought I remembered that they
had newspapers, though if the big story was big enough I guessed there might be
a line there too. They did, and there was, but there were half a dozen copies
of the Blade and one copy each of a dozen daily papers from nearby
cities, and they all had the same thing on the top headline. Since I didn’t
care which paper I got, it took just a couple of minutes before I got handed a
copy of the Cleveland Plain Dealer and settled down on a chair to read
the news.
The short version was that the business between Texas and
the Confederacy was getting ugly in a hurry. Right around the time Melanie
Berger and I were trying not to quarrel, the president of Texas gave a speech
in Houston claiming that Confederate oil companies, with Richmond’s covert
backing, were using horizontal drilling to poach oil from offshore fields on
the Texan side of the treaty line—and he said he had hard data to prove it. The
Confederate secretary of energy held a press conference an hour later calling
the claims an attempt to cover up Texan mismanagement of offshore oil reserves.
President Bulford was right back on the podium fifteen minutes later warning of
“consequences” if he didn’t get a satisfactory response; Richmond responded by
putting its armed forces on alert.
The Plain Dealer had the sort of detailed situation
report you basically have to belong to government to get in the Atlantic
Republic. Of course there were photos of President Bulford, his face red and
angry under the mandatory Stetson, and Secretary Lyall, with the icy expression
that Confederate gentlefolk use the way rattlesnakes use their rattles, to warn
you that someone’s about to die. The pages further in, though, gave all kinds
of hard data: a map of the treaty line off the Gulf coast with drilling
platforms marked in, a sidebar talking about the quarrels over the Gulf
boundary before the Treaty of Richmond, one long article about the Texan
accusations and the Confederate response, another long article about the
troubled history of the Gulf oil fields, a third trying to gauge international
reaction.
I read the whole thing carefully, because it wouldn’t take
much to turn the situation into a world-class headache for the Atlantic
Republic. There were still a few wells pumping in Pennsylvania, but most of the
oil that kept things running back home was bought from the Confederacy, and
there wasn’t enough spare capacity elsewhere to make up the difference if the
Confederate and Texan oilfields were shut in. That meant yet another spike in
oil prices, more turmoil on stock markets worldwide, and a messy
balance-of-payments problem for the new administration in Philadelphia to deal
with.
The most annoying thing about it all, though, was that it
brought me right back up against Melanie Berger’s paradox about progress. The
one country in North America that had absolutely nothing to lose if the
Confederacy and Texas started lobbing ordnance at each other was the Lakeland
Republic. While the rest of the continent was going to be flailing around
trying to keep their transport networks from coming unglued, the Lakelanders
didn’t have to care; their trains, streetcars, canals, horsedrawn buggies, and
the rest of it would keep on running. It frankly seemed unfair.
By the time I was finished with the Plain Dealer it
was getting on for lunchtime. I found a pleasant little Greek place a couple of
blocks past the library, had lunch, and then headed back to the hotel to
regroup. Right out front was a kid with a canvas bag of rolled newspapers. He
was calling out, “Extra! Latest news on the mess down south!” That sounded
worth another buck and a quarter. I had to dig in my wallet for a one, though,
and in the process a card went fluttering to the ground. The kid scooped it up
and handed it back to me, so I tipped him an extra quarter. The card turned out
to be the one the musician handed to me my first day in Toledo, the one
advertising Sam Capoferro and His Frogtown Five; I glanced at it, pocketed it,
took my paper and headed up to my room.
I’d seen newsboys shouting “Extra! Extra!” in old vids, but
didn’t have a clue what they were yelling about. Now I knew, and I also knew
one of the ways that people in the Lakeland Republic got news about
fast-breaking stories. The extra issue was a single thick section, all about
“the mess down south;” they’d apparently thrown every reporter in town at the
story, gotten plenty of quotes from Lakeland officials and assorted experts,
not to mention the Confederate and Texan embassies in Toledo, and a couple of
stringers down on the Gulf coast. I ended up putting in a good chunk of the
afternoon reading and taking notes. Wednesday night I’d be back in Philly, and
unless this blew over fast I was going to be in Ellen Montrose’s office
Thursday morning and I needed to have proposals ready.
All the while, though, my mind kept circling back around to
Berger’s wretched paradox. She’d claim—I could hear her say it—that the
Atlantic Republic was being held hostage by its own technologies, that it was
less stable and more vulnerable because it chose to run its transport network
on imported oil and made itself dependent on complex systems reaching out past
its borders. She’d point to that as one more example of the way that progress
cost more than it was worth. Absurd as that generalization was, I couldn’t think
of a cogent argument to refute it, and that irritated me.
I actually ended up spending the better part of a couple of
hours, when I could have been doing something useful, standing at my window
staring out at the streetscape and trying to make sense of the whole business.
When I finally noticed how much time I’d wasted, I grumbled something I won’t
write down, and decided to go out somewhere and chase the circling thoughts out
of my head. I thought of Sam Capoferro’s card; a jazz club sounded like a good
choice, and with the help of the hotel concierge, I was sitting on a streetcar
fifteen minutes later as it rattled its way down toward the waterfront
district.
The Harbor Club was in a big square brick building with tall
windows that spilled lamplight onto the sidewalks. The guy at the door was big
and tough enough to double as the bouncer, but he took a good look at the card
I handed him, nodded, and waved me past the desk where other patrons were
paying the cover charge. The band was tuning up, and people were standing in
groups on the dance floor talking and flirting, waiting for things to get
started. Me, I got settled on one side of a little two-person table, waited for
a waitress, asked about a menu—they had food service, I’d seen coming in, and not
just bar snacks—and, on a whim, ordered the same sort of Lakeland-style martini
Melanie Berger got the previous night, just gin, vermouth, and an olive.
I honestly had no idea how it would taste. Every martini I’d
ever had back home had stuff thrown in to flavor it—crème de cacao, crème de menthe, grenadine syrup, maple syrup, clam juice, carrot juice, butterscotch ice cream, sriracha-flavored mayonnaise, or what have you—and I’d always thought that’s what a martini was: gin or vodka, and anything up to half a dozen sticky things to beat up your taste buds. The drink the waitress set on my table a few minutes later was a different creature entirely. I looked at it and sniffed it, and then took a sip.
It was delicious. I blinked, set the glass down for a moment, considered the taste, and then picked it up again and took another sip. It was just as good the second time. I sat back, let the alcohol smooth down the rough edges of my nerves, ordered dinner and waited for the band to start.
Meal and music arrived within thirty seconds of each other, and both were just as satisfactory as the drink. The food was tasty in that unobtrusive way that doesn’t call attention to itself. The band was something else again. I’d guessed, the first time I’d heard him on the piano, that Sam Capoferro could play a hell of a jazz number, and he was as good as I’d thought, playing stride piano like a reincarnated Fats Waller. The other players ranged from common or garden variety competent up to really good, and their notes danced and spun on top of Capoferro’s driving rhythms. The playlist was mostly familiar jazz standards, with a couple of pieces I didn’t recognize—if they were new, though, they’d been composed by someone who knew all the nuances of classic jazz, and was more interested in crafting a good tune than in trying to be original.
By the time the first set was over, the bad mood I’d had earlier had packed its bags and caught a train to somewhere else. I was on my second martini by then, which didn’t hurt. The band finished up the last notes of “The Joint is Jumpin’” and the crowd clapped and roared. Half the people on the dance floor headed for tables and the other half clumped up to talk and flirt; a busboy came by and scooped up my empty plate; and maybe five minutes later, I saw a half-familiar face moving through the crowd, pretty clearly looking for somewhere to sit.
I don’t think he saw me, but he passed close enough that I could call out, “Mr. Vanich.”
He turned, quick as a cat, and spotted me then. I hadn’t been mistaken—it was the quiet man with the improbably forgettable face and voice. “Good evening, Mr. Carr.”
“You look like you need a seat.” I motioned to the one facing mine.
“Here by yourself?” When I nodded: “Then please, and thank you.” He settled onto the chair; the waitress came over, took his drink order, headed off into the crowd.
We chatted for a little while about little things, what I’d seen in Toledo and so on, and then I decided to take a calculated risk. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you do in government?”
“I work for the state department.” He sipped his drink. “Foreign technology assessment—thus I tend to come along when somebody from State or the President’s staff meets a foreign dignitary, since I know what technologies they’re used to using and can translate, so to speak.”
I gave him a surprised look. “If I’d placed a bet, I’d have lost it. I had you pegged as intelligence.”
He laughed. “Good, Mr. Carr. Very good. You’re not the only one who’s come to that conclusion, but—” He shrugged. “I look far too much like a spy to make a competent one.”
I nodded after a moment. “Foreign technology assessment. That’s got to be an interesting gig—tracking the capabilities that other countries have that yours doesn’t.”
“True.” He sipped his drink—something brown called an Old Fashioned. “But that’s only part of my job. The other part, which is far and away the larger one, is tracking the vulnerabilities they have that we don’t.”
And there I was, face to face with Berger’s wretched paradox again. I must have looked completely blank for a moment, because Vanich went on. “Almost always nowadays, Mr. Carr, when a country adopts the latest technology, the costs outweigh the benefits—but the costs aren’t necessarily obvious. In many cases they’re not public knowledge at all. One of my main jobs is figuring out what the costs are, where they’re likely to show up, and how heavily they’re likely to strain political, economic, and military institutions.”
I covered my confusion with another swallow of martini. “Okay,” I said. “But I’m not sure I’d agree with your claim that the costs always outweigh the benefits—”
“Almost always,” he noted with a bland smile.
“Okay, almost always. That still seems kind of extreme.”
“Not at all, Mr. Carr. You’re familiar with the law of diminishing returns, I imagine.”
“Of course.”
“That applies to technology as much as it does to anything else.”
“Granted, it applies to individual technologies—” I started, and then saw his look. It was the classic Lakeland you-don’t-get-it look I’d seen so many times before.
“Not just to individual technologies,” he said. “To technology as a whole, just as it applies to every other human activity.” He indicated my drink. “One martini is a very good thing. Three or four? Still good, but with certain drawbacks. Ten? You’re kissing lampposts and walking on your knees. Twenty? You’re in the hospital, or worse. We agree on that—but to claim that technology is exempt from the law of diminishing returns, it’s as though you insisted that when you’ve already had four martinis, you can have four Manhattans, and then four scotch and sodas, and then four Old Fashioneds, and then four gin and tonics, and you’ll be just fine.”
I literally couldn’t think of anything to say. A moment later, the band spared me the necessity of coming up with a response, launching into a good lively performance of “All That Meat and No Potatoes.” The waitress came around, and I ordered a third martini and tried, with some success, to lose myself in the music. When that set was over, I changed the subject, and we chatted about something I honestly don’t remember in the least; by the time the third and final set was over, I’d remembered that I’d planned to go to the Atheist Assembly the next morning, said my goodbyes, paid my bill, and headed out onto the street to catch a cab back to the hotel.
While I waited, Vanich’s words circled in my head: Technology, as a whole, subject to the law of diminishing returns. That couldn’t possibly be true.
Could it?
