The Deep Range - Arthur C. Clarke [87]
Franklin did not relish the privilege of being a key witness at the commission’s hearings, but he knew that there was no way in which he could escape this ordeal. Much of his time was now spent in collecting data to refute the arguments of those who wished to put an end to whale slaughtering, and it proved to be a more difficult task than he had imagined. One could not present a neat, clear-cut case by saying that processed whale meat cost so much per pound by the time it reached the consumer’s table whereas synthetic meats derived from plankton or algae would cost more. Nobody knew—there were far too many variables. The biggest unknown of all was the cost of running the proposed sea dairies, if it was decided to breed whales purely for milk and not for slaughter.
The data were insufficient. It would be honest to say so, but there was pressure on him to state outright that the suspension of whale slaughtering would never be a practical or economic possibility. His own loyalty to the bureau, not to mention the security of his present position, prompted him in the same direction.
But it was not merely a matter of economics; there were emotional factors which disturbed Franklin’s judgment and made it impossible for him to make up his mind. The days he had spent with the Maha Thero, and his brief glimpse of a civilization and a way of thought far older than his own, had affected him more deeply than he had realized. Like most men of his highly materialistic era, he was intoxicated with the scientific and sociological triumphs which had irradiated the opening decades of the twenty-first century. He prided himself on his skeptical rationalism, and his total freedom from superstition. The fundamental questions of philosophy had never bothered him greatly; he knew that they existed, but they seemed the concern of other people.
And now, whether he liked it or not, he had been challenged from a quarter so unexpected that he was almost defenseless. He had always considered himself a humane man, but now he had been reminded that humanity might not be enough. As he struggled with his thoughts, he became progressively more and more irritable with the world around him, and matters finally became so bad that Indra had to take action.
“Walter,” she said firmly, when Anne had gone tearfully to bed after a row in which there was a good deal of blame on both sides, “it will save a lot of trouble if you face the facts and stop trying to fool yourself.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“You’ve been angry with everybody this last week—with just one exception. You’ve lost your temper with Lundquist—though that was partly my fault—with the press, with just about every other bureau in the division, with the children, and any moment you’re going to lose it with me. But there’s one person you’re not angry with—and that’s the Maha Thero, who’s the cause of all the trouble.”
“Why should I be? He’s crazy, of couse, but he’s a saint—or as near it as I ever care to meet.”
“I’m not arguing about that. I’m merely saying that you really agree with him, but you won’t admit it.”
Franklin started to explode. “That’s utterly ridiculous!” he began. Then his indignation petered out. It was ridiculous; but it was also perfectly true.
He felt a great calm come upon him; he was no longer angry with the world and with himself. His childish resentment of the fact that he should be the man involved in a dilemma not of his making suddenly evaporated. There was no reason why he should be ashamed of the fact that he had grown to love the great beasts he guarded;