“The nature of the universe is change, yet our infrastructures and commerce are built on the presumption of stability, of no change occurring. Our food supply, our access to the resources of water, energy and raw materials are fixed and growing in appetite. We somehow expect to have more of these, but the reality of the matter is that we have less and less.
“So… we have developed global systems and infrastructures that are at odds with reality.
“The challenge is to manage and protect this world and our future in the long run. To do that, we need to look out into space to fundamentally understand where it all evolved from; trace it back through time and through an intricate and well-understood evolution of particle physics I won’t burden you with today.”
She paused for a sip of water.
“The SKA is just one important leg of that discovery path. The data that it teases from the universe, together with a host of other major complementary investments into CERN and the Hadron Collider and other mega-science initiatives, will help us to further refine the accuracy of our scientific theories and models, which in turn will help us to plan and manage the distant future. Your children and their children will benefit and thank us for what we’re doing right here, today.
“Deeply passionate as I am about this topic, I must begin to ease toward a close with an important thrust, a message about the environment that science must survive in. That is the gist of my intention today—to bring science alive in your mind.
“In the 1960s, Soviet astronomer, Nikolai Kardashev, devised a scale to rate the kind of theoretical civilization that we might develop into and the kind of alien civilizations that the SKA might reveal to exist elsewhere in the universe.
“In broad terms, according to Kardashev, out there in the cosmos, there may be intelligent life capable of making contact with us and it will be at one or another level of development. He classified these civilizations as Type One, Type Two or Type Three civilizations.
“For a benchmark, humans at this moment are—yep, Type Zero-point-five; we don’t rate, we’re barely on the scale. This comes as a real blow to our collective ego, especially if we think the whole universe was made only for us.”
There were a few stirs in the audience and her teleprompter indicated that she had three minutes to wind up the speech, so she summarized.
“For those interested in the details, please do research ‘Kardashev Scale’ in your own time. As I noted, we hardly rate on this scale, yet, we think of ourselves as supremely intelligent and sophisticated. The reality check is that we’re barely three centuries into being a scientifically based species, into being students of the universe. We’ve barely had three decades with technologies that are more than pretty crude mechanical machines.
“We need to look at the scale in order to understand the type of global civilization that we can strive to be; even at the cost of cherished lifestyles or cultures.
“It is urgent to do so now, because this epoch, this moment in time, is one of grave danger. I cannot overemphasize this: We have the capacity in so many ways to derail our own progress and drive ourselves right back to virtually a Stone-Age existence; this is no exaggeration.
“The history of our species tells us that divisions between peoples hamper their ability to face challenges. Over the past ten thousand years, we’ve gone from lots of small groups to a few large groups. It’s the trend I want you to focus on; bands of hunter-gatherers became clans, city-states became nation states and now we see confederations of states.
“Europe as a single entity might have teething problems with breakaways, but at least it’s no longer wasting resources on borders and armies and internal friction. It demonstrates the trendline towards unity, from lots of competing groups to few cooperating groups: our future as a species lies in unity and for those of you who feel repulsed by that, give me a moment and I’ll explain to you why you feel it.
“There are milestones on the road to unity—let me list a few. We all routinely use the Internet; that is the first step toward information sharing at a global level.
“I am addressing you in English, the language most likely to assimilate and supersede all other cultures and languages, if only because it is the language of entertainment, commerce and diplomacy.
“Global perspectives are rocking cultures and the religions they harbour; in fact, the very word globalism has been tainted by the fear-mongers with negative connotations. I’ll bet it really bothers you when I say it… globalism. There’s an Orwellian tinge to it; I feel it myself.
“This is where it is critical to cast off the emotions of propaganda and look at the trajectory of truth.”
The convener caught her eye; he was tapping his wrist. She nodded at him.
“The world I inhabit today is less draconian than the one my parents inhabited. And they inhabited a less restrictive world than the one their parents inhabited. Yes, we all cherish fantasies about the past. But by all practical measures, the progress and conveniences our epoch has brought us, our easy access to travel, safe food, painless medicines, longevity—it has all occurred not just against a backdrop of globalism, but directly because of it.
“If we follow that progressive line of hard-won freedoms we now enjoy back through time, to… oh, maybe our fiftieth ancestor who lived a thousand years ago, only a fool would suggest that our convenient pain-free, entertainment-rich, lives now are less attractive than the lives of almost anyone who lived in our past.
“So, I ask all reasonable people present here today to look to those who shout out against our common humanity, the ones who want us to re-divide along outdated tribal and other lines, and consider, understand and realize, that they are the enemies of reason and prosperity. They are the foes of progress and education.
“They don’t want your freedom, they seek to restrict you.”
The convener was now pulling his index finger across his throat mouthing, “Cut!”
She was out of time right at the climax of the message she needed to deliver, and nothing was going to stop her from speaking it. Her audience were locked in on her every word, so she ignored the gesture and pushed on.
“Now, in closing, I must address our esteemed political leaders in this delegation.
“Democracy is a system that counts votes, it does not weigh them. In this regard, it is an imperfect system. But democracy is the best we have, so I won’t talk against it.
“We must, however, remain mindful that when we only count votes, wherever in the world that may be, we are counting the votes cast by the least informed and comparing them on an equal basis with the most informed.
“This potentially results in bowing to the lowest level of understanding, and that in turn leads to hampered political and military infrastructures that cater to and appease the most superstitious, fear-ridden minds that are still anchored in our deep past.
“For this reason, I beg you to be vigilant and guard against the fear, suspicion and superstition with which your electorate will seek to harness and saddle you.
“The greatest tragedy of our epoch might prove to be that we are dragged back into our own past by our primitive roots and fears, that ignorance and arrogance will take the steering wheel, and that we commit species suicide through an Armageddon so tragically close to winning the war against irrationality and oppression.
“So, as you flick through the news tomorrow morning, when you see the ugly face of terrorism, when you are frustrated by religious fundamentalism and other movements that scream against unity and progress, I ask you to think of my words here today.
“Please… Choose bravely.”
Chapter 14
Loxton, Dara was pleased to note, proved a much smaller but prettier town than Carnarvon; leafy and green, and loved rather than the drab undecorated utility appearance so common for the towns of the region.
The quaint and only coffee shop on the unimaginatively named Carnarvon Street was deserted. It was dappled in shade cast by a mix of well-establ
ished pine and poplar. The tranquil town almost didn’t fit with the arid escarpment into which it was set.
Dara had arrived early and parked his bike around the corner.
The road past the shop terminated in a circle with an attractively architected face-brick church built on it. The church itself was a smaller clone of the Carnarvon church, though its gardens were greener and seemed better maintained. Like its Carnarvon prototype, the steeple had a clock set into it that indicated he’d arrived a full twenty-five minutes early. Excited, he’d ridden faster than intended.
Venturing this far from home with nobody knowing his whereabouts had been exhilarating. His heart was still fluttering—so many stimuli, concerns and issues nagging him. But they were all ridiculous, childish paranoias; or so he’d convinced himself.
He calmed himself and selected a seat in the shade. The young, coloured waitress came out and wordlessly passed him a menu, then went back inside. Through the glass, he saw her consult with an older white woman who studied him as the waitress spoke. The older lady nodded and came outside, directly to him.
“Hello seun, is jy alleen?” It was a badly disguised ruse to engage in conversation. Clearly, she wanted to know what a dark-skinned youth—perhaps the first ever—was doing at her table.
“I’m sorry Ma’am, I don’t understand,” he said.
The cultured Oxford accent startled the proprietress.
“Ooooh, ‘n Engelsman!” she bleated in response. “I is sorry my boy,” she continued in halting and heavily accented English. “I did not know. Is you going to be alone, so I can clear?” She indicated the cutlery settings for four.
“I have a meeting with someone,” Dara told her, feeling important, and she cleared two settings.
“I get you something while waiting?”
“Water will be fine.”
The water was a little brackish, municipal tap water with a tang of chemicals, but it was palatable, and Dara’s constitution was now accustomed to the local flora as he had arrived a few months earlier.
It was a tranquil and windless day, the cicadas barely perceptible in the distance. Dove and rock pigeon choruses were the lead vocal, strumming out their signature staccato call. No vehicles or pedestrians were about.
A few minutes later, creeping silently, a pickup with a cage at the back rolled by. It had the blue and yellow markings of the South African Police and was topped with a blue light over the cab. It held two occupants, a white driver and black passenger, both in police uniform. They studied Dara as they cruised. Their approach and their focus made it clear that they had been called to take a look.
They reached the circle with the church on it fifty meters away and passed out of sight around and behind the shrubbery and building.
Dara’s heart was suddenly pounding, his breathing ragged.
Relax! he told himself. This was a pickle; a dark-skinned boy in whitest Africa, sixty kilometres from home on a motorbike he was not licensed to ride! The flimsy menu he was pretending to study fluttered so he put it down.
She was watching him through the window; the owner of the shop, talking on her phone.
The van was gone and didn’t appear again as it should if it had kept the same pace.
“Surely, they would…” Dara assured himself, “if they were coming back…”
He was gripped with paranoia, trying desperately to relax.
A few minutes passed, and the waitress came out again to inquire if he needed anything else. It felt more like she’d been sent to gauge something, but the moment she saw the police van rolling silently back from behind the church she scuttled directly inside again.
Dara quickly fished in his pocket and pretended to make a call on his mobile, hoping it would give him cover and make him appear relaxed. He positioned himself to watch the road in the reflection of the window, and just then the vehicle slid quietly into the reflected view. It stopped adjacent to his position and the idling engine was cut.
Moments passed at a glacial pace, his mind cramming with thoughts of what might happen next.
He heard the door unlatch and saw the reflection as the driver got out on the far side of the vehicle, donned his police hat and started making his way around the front of the car, now definitely heading in Dara’s direction.
Dara was transfixed, watching with horror as the reflection in the glass locked onto him. He did his best to appear unconcerned.
The shop owner was watching too. In the silence, he could hear the first crunch of the approaching boot on the pathway.
Just then the policeman in the passenger seat on the two-way radio called to his walking companion. The man turned aside and went to the passenger window.
Dara felt the urge to bolt.
At that moment, the silence was broken by a high-pitched whine and a throaty cough of thunder approaching from the distance, out of sight, beyond the circle and the church.
The engine coughed and coughed again…three more times, blasting suddenly into the howl of a jet engine as the low-slung glistening red car burst from behind the church under throttle. It looked like a predator, crouching low and wide, clinging to the tarmac as a lobster grabs a towel.
The car coughed a final time as the driver flipped the gears down to a halt, snug behind the police van.
There it burbled like a wasp’s nest full of smoke, the engine cut.
The policeman had straightened from the driver’s window, studying the red sports car pulled contemptuously close behind him on a deserted street.
The door of the Ferrari opened, and its sharply dressed driver unfolded his lofty frame from its innards.
The policeman suddenly seemed to recognize the man and made haste toward him, but as he came in range the man faked a left jabbed punch to the policeman’s gut. As the cop doubled to the lightly landed blow, the man snatched the police hat with his right hand off the policeman’s head and crowned himself with it, displaying a deftness and speed that belied his proportions. It was a friendly gesture, but one only a true friend could get away with.
There was unbridled laughter and a slapping of backs, a bone-crunching handshake and smile-lines creasing both men’s faces.
Only then did Dara realize he’d halted his charade on the phone and was watching the scene unfold, mouth agape with bewilderment.
The hat was restored to its rightful head and the two men spoke a moment longer, then the well-dressed young man looked in Dara’s direction and gestured toward him. The policeman followed his gaze and the pair said something to one another. The tall man patted the cop on his shoulder said, “Dankie boet, groete aan almal,” an intimate greeting of old friends.
“Al’s reg,” the policeman replied in affirmation, returning to his van as the young man with the wide smile and electric blue eyes approached in Dara’s direction.
Dara could see both policemen still studying him intently as they cruised slowly away in the background. The white driver now had the radio microphone up to his mouth and he was no longer smiling.
“Memes?” the stranger asked.
I’ll be in my car… you can’t miss it… Dara remembered those words and now he understood them. The traumatic startles of the past half hour had nearly wiped his memory clean; he’d almost forgotten why he was even here, risking his freedom.
“VoorVel?” Dara asked tentatively, stumbling over the pronunciation, which required an “F” sound for the “Vs”—“FoorFel.”
“Uhmmm, well… yes—but don’t say it out aloud!” the man suggested. “It’s not something you say out loud. That tannie in there will hear you and won’t be pleased.”
As oom literally meant uncle but was generically used for any older man, so too tannie meant aunt and was used as a generic label for any older woman.
“My name is JJ… JJ Kruger,” the man said.
Kruger was a common enough last name in the area, but it stood out for Dara. It was a significant name, but in this instant of tangled emotions he just couldn’t place it.
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“How did you know I’m Memes?” he asked as they shook hands, JJ’s hand like a brick, thick and solid.
JJ looked around theatrically. “Is there anyone else here who looks like a dirty heathen?” he asked with a laugh.
Apart from the tannie and the waitress, the village seemed entirely deserted.
“But I didn’t expect you to be so young—you don’t give that away when you write.”
“Thank you,” said Dara, a bit taken aback by it all and at a loss for words.
“The pieces are falling into place,” JJ pondered aloud, studying him. “I heard from my Pa that there was some trouble up here with an Indian boy. Your mother is a scientist?”
Dara was struck speechless as his predicament far from home came crashing in on him. He’d seen the electric blue eyes before, the colossal proportions, he’d heard that last name—Kruger. Constable Kruger, he realized; the hulking man with the predacious eyes filling the doorway of the police station.
He felt the blood drain from his face and he went faint, his mouth dry and tunnel vision threatening.
“Your dad’s the policeman in Carnarvon?” he stumbled, trepidation in his voice.
“Don’t worry.” JJ reached across and enveloped his shoulder in that vast paw. He’d seen Dara’s look of terror; the reasons for it were obvious. “We’re friends, remember? Same side. I’m not one of them.”
The old lady in the store was on the phone again, watching them through the window and reporting this outrageous gossip to somebody… possibly to everybody.
“So, your mother is a scientist?” JJ asked. “Impressive! Rumour has it that she’s beautiful too. Smart and stunning.”
“Yes,” Dara agreed—he was very proud of her.
“It’s an exciting project we’ve got here. I was so thrilled when it was announced,” he sighed. “But my people, they’ve got gripes. Some are legitimate and others are ancient fears and suspicions they’re battling to overcome.”
A Trojan Affair Page 10