by John Hunt
“What currency isn’t?”
“Well, they are all fake paper currencies. Every country on the planet has adopted fiat currency. But the yuan is a bit stronger because of a lack of debt. Gold and silver have been currencies for thousands of years, and they will always hold value.”
Jeff considered and asked, “So, Sophia, why don’t people in the US refuse to accept the dollar, like the Saudi king could do, and just insist on being paid with silver and gold?”
“There are several reasons why they don’t. The first is that most Americans remain ignorant of the valuelessness of their currency.” She reached into her purse, shuffled around a bit, and produced a dollar bill. “Look at a dollar. It has the signatures of both the Treasurer of the US, and the Secretary of the Treasury, and says ‘In God We Trust.’ It is filled with symbols designed to increase one’s faith in it. Think about it, why do US government officials sign private Federal Reserve banknotes? That they do is just part of a scam to make people trust the pieces of paper more. Those signatures have no actual meaning at all.
“And then there is the legal tender line stamped on the bills. ‘This note is legal tender for all debts public and private.’ Doesn’t that make you feel all warm and fuzzy?” Sophia asked sarcastically, and looked at Jeff. “It shouldn’t. All that legal tender line means is that everyone in the US must accept the paper dollar in payment for any debt or purchase. If they do not accept the US paper dollar as payment, the law says the debt is immediately eliminated. The law in the United States forces you to accept payment in cheap printed pieces of paper, printed by the government. This makes the US government infinitely rich, at the expense of the people.
“Kublai Khan did this sort of crap a bit more obviously about 800 years ago. He was running short of gold, so he started writing notes with his signature on them saying that this piece of paper is worth 100 ounces of gold. If you didn’t accept that the piece of paper was worth that much, Kublai Kahn exerted a major punishment upon you. This was absolutely a fraud, empowered by force. Now the fraud is slightly more subtle, and the force behind it is hidden in terms such as ‘legal tender law.’”
Jeff, always aware of his surroundings, was therefore aware that there were few conversations at the surrounding tables. Several were now obviously listening to Sophia without compunction.
“Jeff, your children, my children, will pay horrendously. The United States has been expected to withstand forever the economic pressures of the entire world, the starving masses, the disease. But the United States dollar collapse may well be the trigger for the collapse of the rest of the world’s economies. And when economies collapse, people suffer, horribly. Survival will be the order of the day. All else will be cast aside. There will be no time or resources for philosophizing and advancing science. No resources to protect the environment. No resources for any forwarding of mankind. War will come. And there will be no way out of the downward spiral for the world. Our children, Jeff, have this future to look forward to. Petur thinks we could have hundreds of years of a new Dark Ages.”
Jeff exhaled, a bit too loudly, expressing the combination of a new awareness and a concurrent cynicism. Or was it denial? He asked, “What can be done?”
Sophia told him. She told him what Petur was doing.
And after what she told him, he knew she was a little crazy and so was her brother, although he had to respect her brother’s dedication to his pursuit. Jeff himself had no direction in life anymore, and felt quite lost, so he envied this man Petur Bjarnasson somewhat.
It had been a depressing conversation, and it only got worse. For unfortunately he had to tell her his bad news: he was being called back to work in Washington for now, but no doubt he would be in Latin America or Southeast Asia soon thereafter. He did not want to go, but it was a job, and he did not yet have anything else to do. Sophia took the news well. They had only known each other for a few days after all. Still, she seemed somewhat melancholic after that, which was precisely how Jeff felt.
The Second Year Begins
8. Paradise Found
Year 2013
PETUR WAS FLYING again. It had been a full year since he had first met Joseph Onbacher, Thomas Standall, and Otto Wagner. Aided by virtually unlimited resources, the development of the Project’s physical infrastructure had proceeded more rapidly than he had imagined possible. But then it had to be this way. There was no time to spare. Every week, every day counted.
Each of the first three financiers had been completely committed to the idea of the Island. Most of the many financiers called it “the Island” now. Onbacher, Standall, and Wagner convinced several more wealthy acquaintances to commit personal financial resources to the Island. And Petur had been flying all over the world, working eighteen hours a day, to accomplish task after task.
During the past few years, he and Isaac had rounded up over one hundred leading researchers in various fields, all excited by the opportunity to play a role in mankind’s next great advance, and each bringing a team of the finest young minds to bear on the problems specific to the Island’s purpose. They had recruited the most successful entrepreneurs — entrepreneurs who created value by creating useful products that there were markets for. These entrepreneurs created wealth where there was none before. And by creating wealth, these men were on the front lines of the battle against poverty. With the funds now available, and construction of the infrastructure on the islands progressing, their unrestrained talents could, just possibly, dig the world out of the hole created by the profligate governments.
It had not been difficult to secure a long-term lease of the group of islands eight hundred kilometers due north of Pitcairn Island in the South Pacific. They were owned by Mexico, entirely uninhabited, and had no notable natural resources. Mexico had no plans to use them for its military; World War II completely bypassed the area, and it was unlikely to enter into future conflicts. The islands were fairly useless for the Mexicans, but just right for the Island Project. No one had discovered them before the era of satellite mapping because they did not lie on the trade routes and so one ever passed that way before. A Mexican entrepreneur had rushed to claim the islands after they were identified on a satellite image, but he had died soon after and left the islands untouched and unnamed.
Petur never would have learned of the islands’ existence if Pitcairn Island were not so close. Pitcairn Island was home to the big man who knew the islands best and who had helped immensely with the Project. Petur had come across Jack Gaimey by chance.
Petur originally had picked Pitcairn itself as a possible location for his project primarily because of its geography. Although it was slightly small, it would have served most purposes. It was located along the Tropic of Capricorn and therefore surrounded by water at the appropriate temperature for the efficient functioning of the deep ocean thermal electric power plant that he planned to deploy.
Several years ago, he had flown to the Marquesas and boarded a large charter schooner for the long sail to Pitcairn. He had told himself it was just a vacation but he knew he would not have gone there just for fun. He had hoped he would like it, for it would be a week before the next ship would land on the tiny island. He had been told that people traveled to the island only by sea, and even that was not easy. Indeed, the schooner had been unable to approach close to the land; so local residents had had to row an aluminum longboat out to sea to pick up Petur.
Upon arrival, he had found nearly nothing — a small town, farmhouses, and fruit trees. Isaac, through some friends in the British Embassy, had arranged accommodations for Petur at Pitcairn’s inn, which was really just a house with extra rooms. The inn had had several guest bedrooms, lodgings for the innkeeper’s family, a dining room and bar area, and the living room, which the family and guests shared. The bar and dining area had been rustic — furnished in wood and rather dark, for the windows were too small and made of tinted glass. The short innkeeper and his wife had been friendly, and he had learned a great deal from them
— most importantly that Pitcairn was not the place to establish his Island Project.
Pitcairn Island was not big, about six square kilometers, and it had perhaps seventy inhabitants — all with tan complexions. Almost all of them were descendants of the mutineers from the Bounty, who had mingled their genes with lovely Tahitian women. The island was overpopulated in the mid-nineteenth century and this led to a migration of all the inhabitants to an island near New Zealand, loaned to them by the British. In fact, the British forced the Bounty descendants off their home, supposedly for their own good. Some families subsequently returned to their home island, and it was those families and their descendants who nurtured the fruit trees.
The elderly innkeeper, Josiah Young, had informed Petur that the people of Pitcairn Island would not accept a mass influx of scientists, engineers, entrepreneurs, families, and support personnel. They did not want to become overpopulated again. He had patted him on the back, pried open his fingers, and slapped a huge mug of ale into his hand.
“My young friend, you should not attempt such an endeavor on a remote island.”
As he said those words, the door to the inn opened and a thunderous voice belted out, “Where is my beer, innkeeper? I have been here for almost three seconds and I am parched!” The accent was like the innkeeper’s, partly English, partly Australian, partly something else. Petur could only see the outline of the man in the brightly contrasting backlight of the inn’s open door. He was broad, tall, and wore a hat similar to those worn by Australians in the Outback. As he walked further into the relatively dark room, Petur could see sunlight reflect off the beads of perspiration that rolled down his arms.
The innkeeper laughed and said merrily, “Where have you been, Jack Gaimey? You’re nearly an hour past your appointed time. I would have been worried about you, but for that I never worry!”
“Ah, Josiah, it has been a day to remember!” said Jack Gaimey as one of the huge mugs was placed in his hand, this time a darker brew than Petur’s, with a significant head on it. “I have been to Paradise and back!” He sat down at the small bar nearby and brought the mug to his mouth, gulping colossal volumes of the brew. Petur could see him more clearly. He was large, well-tanned, muscular, and clean-shaven. He placed his hat on the chair beside him. This man was not a descendant of the British Bounty’s crew — he was as dark- skinned as a man could be.
The innkeeper had begun filling another mug with beer.
The big man at the bar smiled widely and said, “Paradise is lovely today. Cool breeze, rolling hills, tall trees, gorgeous beaches, marvelous lagoons, and lovely women.” He sighed with exaggerated contentment, “Ah, Paradise!”
The innkeeper looked over at Petur and winked. “You can believe everything but that ‘lovely women’ bit. There are no women in Paradise.”
This seemed rather odd, so Petur had to ask. “How can there be no women in paradise? That’s a contradiction in terms.”
The sweaty, muscular man looked over at him, as if noticing him for the first time, and said, “Perhaps it is not truly paradise then yet, mister, since it is shy a few X chromosomes. But those will come someday.”
Introductions followed, and Petur learned that Jack Gaimey was always called “Jack Gaimey,” never “Jack,” never “Mr. Gaimey.” Jack Gaimey wanted to know all about Iceland, so Petur complied. But it was not long before Petur was able to make a comparison between the incessant wetness of Iceland, and the regular rains of Pitcairn, thus channeling the conversation back to the large man’s pursuit of paradise. All three men had enjoyed several mugs of beer and were sitting around a pine table in front of the bar when Petur learned that Jack Gaimey’s “Paradise” consisted of a group of islands to the north. He went on to describe them: five small islands, of which the biggest was forty square kilometers, much larger than Pitcairn. The other four islands were nearby. All were uninhabited, and as far as Jack Gaimey knew they had never been tamed by man. He considered them his islands, despite the fact that they were Mexican possessions. He figured no one else seemed to have any use for them. So as long as nobody was looking, he would call them his own.
Petur was surprised to learn that Jack Gaimey was the local pilot. Petur clearly had been misinformed by the New Zealand office of the British Consular General (which oversaw the distant Pitcairn), for he had been told there was no aircraft access to the island. Jack Gaimey rebuffed the notion. With his special aircraft equipped with auxiliary fuel tanks, he shuttled people and goods amongst all the islands within a fifteen hundred kilometer radius. In fact, for the most part, his was the only means of rapid travel in this part of the world. His aircraft was a modified US Marine Corps V-22 Osprey prototype, with dual propellers that swiveled to allow vertical takeoff and landing. The pilot had obtained this plane a few years earlier — intact and ready to fly — as surplus from the United States Defense Reutilization and Marketing Office, and news had not yet reached the outside world. For one thing, if some smart government officials in the US figured out what Jack Gaimey had obtained because of the weaknesses of the US military surplus sales system, they might attempt to get it back, even though he bought it legally. He had purchased it with its weapons intact and fully supplied with ammunition.
When demand for his services was low, the pilot would often fly up to Paradise, where he would set his Osprey down on a beach by the calm waters of the broad lagoon on the southwest corner of the largest island. He would swim among the coral and stroll through the lush vegetation, or perhaps just sit on a floating log and fish in the crystal-clear aquamarine water. He could see the fish, tantalized by the bait on his line, thirty feet below.
Jack Gaimey had been exploring the islands for years, but there were yet many places he had not been. Certain parts of the two biggest islands were inaccessible because of the dense jungle overgrowth. Those areas might be navigable with heavy machinery clearing the way, but it was impassable for one man with just a machete. He had not even bothered to try. He could fly over the tops of the extinct volcanic peaks and see everything that he wished, anyway.
Jack Gaimey had regaled Petur with nearly endless descriptions of his beautiful islands. And Petur had hired him to take him there. In this manner Petur had found the Island Project’s home several years ago.
Petur turned his mind to the present and peered forward at the big pilot handling the controls of the sleek nine-passenger Bell-Boeing Tiltrotor — the commercial version of the V-22 Osprey. This was a company craft — owned by the Island Corporation. Although previously hangared in the Marquesas, its permanent home was changing during this flight. From now on it would live on the biggest of the five islands, which was now known as Paradise 1.
Jack Gaimey turned back toward Petur and pointed down through the window. Petur had not been to the island in months, and he was eager to see for himself the progress he had heard so much about. Most of the family housing was completed, as were major portions of the various research facilities requested and designed by each of the scientists who had joined the team. He mashed his face against the side window to get a better view down and in front of the plane. The islands were scattered ahead of them — bright splotches of green surrounded by white and pink rings, all swimming in the calm azure waters of the tropical ocean. They approached surprisingly fast.
The plane descended and began a gentle circle around Paradise 1, providing a glorious view to the passengers. Petur smiled toward Joseph Onbacher, who sat in the seat beside him. Onbacher had just now awoken, and was excited — but Petur knew that exhaustion prevented him from adequately displaying his giddiness. He did not travel much anymore, and certainly not on such long trips. It had been almost thirty hours since he had left Washington National — almost the entire time spent in a variety of aircraft. He may have been excited to see the island from above, but judging from the frequency with which he squirmed in his seat, he was even more eager to land and find a bathroom.
The airstrip had been completed several months earlier. Large eno
ugh to land a large passenger jet, its primary purpose thus far was receiving the propeller-driven cargo planes bought from the US military, which carried many of the supplies required for construction of the extensive facilities. Much of the heavier material was brought in by ship and received by the pier in the lagoon on the southwestern corner of the island. There had been no need for dredging, for the natural channel out of the lagoon was deep and wide.
Petur was struck by the extent of the progress visible from the air. The large central academic facility could be seen rising through the tops of the trees about half a kilometer from the pier, with the center of the airstrip another kilometer further inland. To the north, south, and west of that large central construct, and connected by a series of walking paths, were the dozen buildings comprising the ancillary facilities. Further out were more than three hundred small clearings in the forest, many just barely visible. Within each was a separate house. There were several larger areas, treeless from the start, which had been, or were being, modified into playgrounds, athletic fields, and picnic areas. The well-worn dirt roads showed clearly that construction continued. The pace had been remarkable, in large part because of the skill of the foreman of the job — Otto Wagner’s executive facilities director, on a two-year-long sabbatical from his responsibilities in Germany.
Soon they were past the island, heading towards Paradise 5, which lay some five kilometers due west of Paradise 1. To the south lay three other islands. Paradise 2 stood high, with tall cliffs on all sides. The other two were smaller, appeared softer, and were surrounded by gentle beaches. Paradise 5 was Jack Gaimey’s least favorite island, for it was small, flat, barren, and ugly. It was an atoll, like Paradise 1, but compared to its lushly forested siblings it was a lifeless desert.