"I don't like it," I said.
"You don't have to." Fromkin shrugged. "The universe doesn't care. God doesn't take public opinion polls. The fact is, what you like, what I like, what anyone likes-it's all irrelevant." His expression was deceptively cordial. He seemed almost deliberately hostile. "If you really want to make a difference, then you need to ask yourself this question about everything you do: will this contribute to the survival of the species?" He looked around the gathering. "Most of us here are breeders. Would you have us compromise that breeding potential in favor of some altruistic gesture of ultimately questionable value? Or let me put that another way: you can spend the rest of your life raising and teaching the next generation of human beings, or you can spend it nursing a few dozen of the walking wounded, catatonics, autistics and retards who will never be able to contribute, who will only continue to use up resources-not the least of which is your valuable time."
"I hear you, sir. But to sit calmly and eat caviar and strawberries and bagels and lox while talking about global death and benevolent genocide-"
He put down his plate. "Would it be more moral if I starved while I talked about global death and benevolent genocide? Would starving make me care more? Would it increase my ability to do something-other than hurt?"
"You shouldn't be talking about it so dispassionately at all," I said. "It's unthinkable."
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, but his voice remained steady. "It is not unthinkable." He said it very deliberately-was he angry? "In fact, if we do not think about it, we will be risking the consequences of being caught by surprise. One of the basic fallacies of sophomoric intelligence-don't take it personal, son; I insult everybody equally-is moral self-righteousness. Merely being able to perceive the difference between right and wrong does not make you a moral person; it only gives you some guidelines in which to operate." He leaned forward in his chair. "Now, here's the bad news. Most of the time those guidelines are irrelevant-because the pictures we hold in our heads about the way things should be usually have very little relation to the way things actually are. And holding the position that things should be some way other than what they are will only keep you stuck. You'll spend so much time arguing with the physical universe that you won't produce any result at all. You'll have some great excuses, but you won't have a result. The fact that we can do nothing about the circumstances that are sending us into a long recede is unpleasant, yes-now let's stop arguing about the situation and start handling it. There is still much we can do to minimize the unpleasantness-"
"One half billion human deaths is more than just an unpleasantness-"
"Four and a half billion human deaths is more than just an unpleasantness too." He looked at me calmly. "And please, lower your voice-I'm sitting right here."
"Sorry. My point is, this whole discussion seems inhumane."
He nodded. "Yes, I have to grant that. It does seem inhumane." He changed his tone suddenly. "You know any crazy people?"
"Damaged," I corrected. "Crazy is a negative connotation."
"Sorry," he amended. "I grew up in a different time. Old habits are hard to break. I still hadn't gotten used to women having the vote when the next thing even lawyers wanted to ride in the front of the streetcars. Do you know any mentally dysfunctional human beings? Any damaged people?"
"A few."
"Did you ever stop to consider why they were that way?"
"They were irrational, I suppose."
"Were they? Sometimes irrationality is the only rational response to an irrational situation. It's a very human thing-and it's not limited to humans alone." He said softly, "That's what we're doing here-the only rational response to an irrational and very frightening situation. Quite possibly-no, quite probably-of the people in this room"-and he gestured to include the whole reception, spread out across several acres of hotel-"less than half of us may be alive next year at this time. Or even next week." He shrugged. "Who knows?"
The sweet young thing, whose knee he was resting his hand on, went pale at that. He patted her gently, but otherwise ignored her. He continued looking at me. "All of a sudden, there are a lot of things out there that can kill human beings. And there isn't a lot left to stop them. You know, we've had our way on this planet far too long. Nature is always willing to take advantage of our weaknesses. Remember, Mom's a bitch. We've spent centuries building a technology to isolate us from the real world. That isolation has left most of us survival-illiterate and vulnerable. But the machine has stopped-is stopping now-and most people are going to be at the mercy of the contents of their stomachs. Nature doesn't care; she'll finish the job the plagues started and never miss us. Humans weren't always the hunter at the top of the food chain-we were just a passing fad. Now we're going to be prey again, like in the old days. Ever seen a wolf pack?"
"No...."
"We've got them running loose in the streets of Denver. They're called poodles, terriers, retrievers, Dobermans, shepherds, collies, St. Bernards and mutts-but they're still wolf packs. They're hungry and they can kill. We could lose another thirty million people to animals, formerly domestic and otherwise, right there. Probably more. I'm talking about worldwide, of course. And I'm including people packs in that estimate toothose are animals of another sort. We'll probably lose a hundred million people who would not have died otherwise, but there's no longer the medical care to take care of the injuries and illnesses that they'll incur in the next twelve months. Did you know that appendicitis can be fatal? And so on-" He stopped, looked at me and smiled. I was beginning to understand his charm. He never intended anything personally. "So, my young friend-much as I respect your indignation and the emotions on which it is based-what we are doing here tonight is quite probably the most rational thing we can be doing. I notice you haven't tried to excuse your presence here; perhaps you're quite rational too. In fact, there is only one thing more rational for a person to do that I can think of."
"What's that?"
He went soft for a moment, gentle. "Make love to someone you care about. You're not immortal, you know. If you don't take the opportunity to tell someone you love them tonight, you may never get another chance."
He was right. I thought about a whole bunch of someones. Fromkin stood up and offered his arm to the girl. She and another woman both tried to take it. Fromkin smiled and offered his other arm. He smiled at me again, knowingly, and then the three of them moved off and away.
Yes, just like Whitlaw. He got the last word too.
EIGHTEEN
I TURNED to go and almost bumped into a dream. "Oops, excuse me-" I caught her to keep from stumbling, then forgot to let go.
"Hello!" she said, laughing.
"Uh-" I flustered, unable to speak. I was mesmerized-her eyes were soft and shiny gray, and I was lost in them. Her skin was fair, with just the faintest hint of freckling. Her face was framed by auburn curls that fell in silk cascades down to her shoulders. Her mouth was moist and red.
I wanted to kiss her. Who wouldn't?
She laughed again. "Before you ask," she said, "the answer is yes."
"Huh?"
"You are going to proposition me, aren't you?" Her voice was dusky velvet, with just the slightest hint of Alabama in it.
"Uhh . . ." I took a step back. My feet stayed where they were, but I took a step back.
"Are you shy?" Yes, Alabama. Definitely. She spoke each word so slowly I could taste it. And she smelled of honeysuckle and lilac -and musk.
I found my voice. "Um, I used to be......
"I'm glad to see you got over it," she said, laughing. She put her arm through mine and started walking me toward the elevators to the garage levels. "What's your name?"