"Impossible," said the secretary of defense. "It's aH underground."
The scientist sighed. He had a IMe bottle with the waxy substance and another bottle that appeared empty. A third tightly sealed bottle was filled with black oil.
"These are anaerobic bacteria," he said holding up the apparently empty bottle. "Anaerobic means they can function without air. That is why once they are introduced into any oil system, they can go completely through it because they don't need air to reproduce or survive. So they can consume the contents of the oil under the ground, once they're introduced there."
"But who would introduce them?" asked the secretary of defense.
"The air itself, if they don't have to travel far," the scientist said. "Fortunately, they seem able to be blown about for only short distances. The ships off the shore
90
of St. Maarten's still appear to be working all right, so that means the bacteria were not blown that far out."
"Punch him in the nose," said the president.
"What, sir?"
"I punched him in the nose and then we all lived happily ever after."
"These are bacteria, sir. You can't punch them in the nose."
"If we could, we'd be a lot better off, I tell you."
"Yes. That would be true," said the scientist "But we can't."
"No. I guess we can't. Those days are gone," said the president.
"Never go near a gun when it is being used," said the secretary of defense, shaking his head. "Wheew, those things make noises just like giant firecrackers."
The scientist said desperately, "There is going to be no oil left on the planet. No oil. No gasoline. No plastics made from oil. None."
"Maybe it just means the end of the oil glut," said the president.
"No, sir," said the scientist. "It means the end of the internal combution engine, which just about means the end of industry. There will be no more cars running on gasoline unless some substitute is found, which will be a lot more expensive than we're paying now. Can you imagine ten-dollar-a-gallon gasoline? That is if this bacterium doesn't attack the synthetic fuels also."
"Oh," said the president. "The end of the industrial age."
"Back to the horse and plow," said the scientist. "Maybe back to the caves."
"Unless," said the president. He was used to people warning him about things. When someone came to you with a warning, he was invariably trying to sell you something, some idea or weapon or program. Nothing ever seemed to reach his desk without a warning attached. But this thing in the little bottle seemed real. It was not the same as the warning he'd gotten that morning that if America did not spend three times its
91
gross national product on beautifying the prison system, someone was going to be unhappy in Harlem and therefore America would end. The person who was going to be unhappy in Harlem, of course, was the person who wanted to run the $20 trillion prison system, with every second-story man getting his own personal psychiatrist and live-in mistress.
That was nonsense, but this looked real. No matter how pretty the movies made ancient times look, history was, in truth, a bunch of people dying in their thirties from upset stomachs and cold weather and no food.
This was a real crisis. He watched the scientist take the tops off the apparently empty bottle and the small vial of oil. He held the open ends of the bottles together. The oil suddenly became cloudy, then bubbled and turned to wax.
"You have just witnessed the rapid-breeding bacterium," the scientist said. "This bacterium consumes petroleum. A bottle dumped into an oil well, in minutes would be reproducing itself over and over, so rapidly that it might be only hours before it consumed the entire underground pool of oil. And it can do this because it needs no air. It is anaerobic."
"What's the white stuff? Maybe we can sell the white stuff," said the secretary of defense. He had come from a large industrial company and had taken over the nation's defense.
"The white stuff is dead bacteria. Like human pus, sir," said the scientist. "You must understand that if I am a little vague, it is because this is not my particular field. I was called in as a last resort."
"Well, let's get someone in this particular field," said the president. "And let's do it now."
"That is part of the disaster, Mr. President. There is no one in this particular field who can be reached. I wouldn't be here if there was. But I can't impress on you too much the importance of this. With enough oil to breed on, this bacterium could grow until it's as large as the Rockies. It's horrifying."
"We can handle the Rockies. Turn them into a 92
parking lot for Los Angeles," said the secretary of the interior. "L.A. needs parking."
"Why can't we get any scientists in that field?" asked the president. He ignored the secretary of the interior. He liked to ignore his secretary of the interior. He only wished the press would also.
"I found, to my horror, when I tried to get some assistance that they have all gone. First, every expert in the field was attracted to MUT, and then they were either killed or hired off somewhere. Where, I don't know. In essence, sir, we are facing an epidemic—a petroleum epidemic—with all the doctors gone."
"You mean the entire oil supply of the world is in danger."
"Exactly."
"I think someone has planned this thing," said the president. "I think whoever removed the experts in this field made that invisible stuff there that becomes the white stuff. That's what I think."
"I think you may be right, sir," said the scientist.
So did the other cabinet members.
"Well," said the secretary of defense. "Now that we've got that settled, let's move on to the next item on the agenda."
"Let's stay with this one for a while," said the president wearily. Maybe his secretary of defense would really be happier back in private industry.
"Where did these bacteria come from in the first place?" the president asked. "Why were they created?"
"To clean up oil spills," said the scientist.
"Why would anyone want to clean up oil spills?" asked the secretary of the interior.
"To protect the oceans and the sea creatures who live in the ocean," the president said.
"Environmentalists," said the secretary of interior. "I knew they'd cause us trouble. What has an environmentalist ever produced?"
The president sighed again. Maybe his secretary of the interior would be happier back in private industry too. But that was for later. For now was this problem,
93
and the president understood it better than anyone else at the table. The bacterium had been created for a purpose. The people who might be able to stop it had already been removed from helping. That had been part of the plan too. And now civilization was ready to get thrown back to the Bronze Age if he did not stop this evil force, whoever or whatever it was. He knew he would now have to use that one power he had said he would never use.