Part 5 (1/2)

”The full-world model seems obvious,” Sally said. ”It's just common sense. Why would any economist ignore it?”

Fort shrugged, made another silent circ.u.mnavigation of the room. Art's neck was getting tired.

”We understand the world through paradigms. The change from empty-world economics to full-world economics is a major paradigm s.h.i.+ft. Max Planck once said that a new paradigm takes over not when it convinces its opponents, but when its opponents eventually die.”

”And now they aren't dying,” Art said.

Fort nodded. ”The treatments are keeping people around. And a lot of them have tenure.”

Sally looked disgusted. ”Then they'll have to learn to change their minds, won't they.”

Fort stared at her. ”We'll try that right now. In theory at least. I want you to invent full-world economic strategies. It's a game I play. If you plug your lecterns into the table, I can give you the starting data.”

They all leaned forward and plugged into the table.

The first game Fort wanted to play involved estimating maximum sustainable human populations. ”Doesn't that depend on a.s.sumptions about lifestyle?” Sam asked.

”We'll make a whole range of a.s.sumptions.”

He wasn't kidding. They went from scenarios in which Earth's every acre of arable land was farmed with maximum efficiency, to scenarios involving a return to hunting and gathering; from universal conspicuous consumption, to universal subsistence diets. Their lecterns set the initial conditions and then they tapped away, looking bored or nervous or impatient or absorbed, using formulas provided by the table, or else supplying some of their own.

It occupied them until lunch, and then all afternoon. Art enjoyed games, and he and Amy always finished well ahead of the others. Their results for a maximum sustainable population ranged from a hundred million (the ”immortal tiger” model, as Fort called it) to thirty billion (the ”ant farm” model).

”That's a big range,” Sam noted.

Fort nodded, and eyed them patiently.

”But if you look only at models with the most realistic conditions,” Art said, ”you usually get between three and eight billion.”

”And the current population is about twelve billion,” Fort said. ”So, say we're overshot. Now what do we do about that? We've got companies to run, after all. Business isn't going to stop because there's too many people. Full-world economics isn't the end of economics, it's just the end of business as usual. I want Praxis to be ahead of the curve on this. So. It's low tide, and I'm going back out. You're welcome to join me. Tomorrow we'll play a game called Overfull.”

With that he left the room, and they were on their own. They went back to their rooms, and then, as it was close to dinnertime, to the dining hall. Fort was not there, but several of his elderly a.s.sociates from the night before were; and joining them tonight was a crowd of young men and women, all of them lean, bright-faced, healthy-looking. They looked like a track club or a swim team, and more than half were women. Sam's and Max's eyebrows shot up and down in a simple Morse code, spelling ”Ah ha! Ah ha!” The young men and women ignored that and served them dinner, then returned to the kitchen. Art ate quickly, wondering if Sam and Max were correct in their suppositions. Then he took his plate into the kitchen and started to help at the dishwasher, and said to one of the young women, ”What brings you here?”

”It's a kind of scholars.h.i.+p program,” she said. Her name was Joyce. ”We're all apprentices who joined Praxis last year, and we were selected to come here for cla.s.ses.”

”Were you by chance working on full-world economics today?”

”No, volleyball.”

Art went back outside, wis.h.i.+ng he had gotten selected to their program rather than his. He wondered if there was some big hot-tub facility, down there overlooking the ocean. It did not seem impossible; the ocean here was cool, and if everything was economics, it could be seen as an investment. Maintaining the human infrastructure, so to speak.

Back in the residence, his fellow guests were talking the day over. ”I hate this kind of stuff,” said Sam.

”We're stuck with it,” Max said gloomily. ”It's join a cult or lose your job.”

The others were not so pessimistic. ”Maybe he's just lonely,” Amy suggested.

Sam and Max rolled their eyes and glanced toward the kitchen.

”Maybe he always wanted to be a teacher,” Sally said.

”Maybe he wants to keep Praxis growing ten percent per year,” George said, ”full world or not.”

Sam and Max nodded at this, and Elizabeth looked annoyed. ”Maybe he wants to save the world!” she said.

”Right,” Sam said, and Max and George snickered.

”Maybe he's got this room bugged,” Art said, which cut short the conversation like a guillotine.

The days that followed were much like the first one. They sat in the conference room, and Fort circled them and talked through the mornings, sometimes coherently, sometimes not. One morning he spent three hours talking about feudalism- how it was the clearest political expression of primate dominance dynamics, how it had never really gone away, how transnational capitalism was feudalism writ large, how the aristocracy of the world had to figure out how to subsume capitalist growth within the steady-state stability of the feudal model. Another morning he talked about a caloric theory of value called eco-economics, apparently first worked out by early settlers on Mars; Sam and Max rolled their eyes at that news, while Fort droned on about Taneev and Tokareva equations, scribbling illegibly on a drawing board in the corner.

But this pattern didn't last, because a few days after their arrival a big swell came in from the south, and Fort canceled their meetings and spent all his time surfing or skimming over the waves in a birdsuit, which was a light broad-winged bodysuit, a flexible fly-by-wire hang glider that translated the flyer's muscle movements into the proper semi-rigid configurations for successful flight. Most of the young scholars.h.i.+p winners joined him in the air, swooping around like Icaruses, and then dropping in and planing swiftly over the cus.h.i.+ons of air pushed up by every breaking wave, air surfing just like the pelicans that had invented the sport.

Art went out and thrashed around on a body board, enjoying the water, which was chill, but not so much as to absolutely require a wetsuit. He hung out near the break that Joyce surfed, and chatted with her between sets, and found out that the other ancient kitchen workers were good friends of Fort's, veterans of the first years of Praxis's rise to prominence. The young scholars referred to them as the Eighteen Immortals. Some of the Eighteen were based at the camp, while others dropped by for a kind of ongoing reunion, conferring about problems, advising the current Praxis leaders.h.i.+p on policy, running seminars and cla.s.ses, and playing in the waves. Those who didn't care for the water worked in the gardens.

Art inspected the gardeners closely as he hiked back up to the compound. They worked in something resembling slow motion, talking to each other all the while. Currently the main task appeared to be harvesting the tortured apple bushes.

The south swell subsided, and Fort reconvened Art's group. One day the topic was Full-World Business Opportunities, and Art began to see why he and his six fellows might have been chosen to attend: Amy and George worked in contraception, Sam and Max in industrial design, Sally and Elizabeth in agricultural technology, and he himself in resource recovery. They all worked in full-world businesses already, and in the afternoon's games they proved fairly good at designing new ones.

Another day Fort proposed a game in which they solved the full-world problem by returning to an empty world. They were to suppose the release of a plague vector that would kill everyone in the world who had not had the gerontological treatment. What would the pros and cons of such an action be?

The group stared at their lecterns, nonplussed. Elizabeth declared that she wouldn't play a game based on such a monstrous idea.

”It is a monstrous idea,” Fort agreed. ”But that doesn't make it impossible. I hear things, you see. Conversations at certain levels. Among the leaders.h.i.+p of the big transnationals, for instance, there are discussions. Arguments. You hear all kinds of ideas put out quite seriously, including some like this one. Everyone deplores them and the subject changes. But no one claims that they are technically impossible. And some seem to think that they would solve certain problems that otherwise are unsolvable.”

The group considered this thought unhappily. Art suggested that agricultural workers would be in short supply.

Fort was looking out at the ocean. ”That's the fundamental problem with a collapse,” he said thoughtfully. ”Once you start one, it's hard to pick a point at which one can confidently say it will stop. Let's go on.”

And they did, rather subdued. They played Population Reduction, and given the alternative they had just contemplated, went at it with a certain intensity. Each of them took a turn being Emperor of the World, as Fort put it, and outlined his or her plan in some detail.

When it was Art's turn, he said, ”I would give everyone alive a birthright which ent.i.tled them to parent three-quarters of a child.”

Everyone laughed, including Fort. But Art persevered. He explained that every pair of parents would thus have the right to bear a child and a half; after having one, they could either sell the right to the other half, or arrange to buy a half from some other couple and go on to have a second child. Prices for half children would fluctuate in cla.s.sic supply/demand fas.h.i.+on. Social consequences would be positive; people who wanted extra children would have to sacrifice for them, and those who didn't would have a source of income to help support the one they had. When populations dropped far enough, the World Emperor might consider changing the birthright to one child per person, which would be close to a demographic steady state; but given the longevity treatment, the three-quarters limit might have to be in effect for a long time.

When Art was done outlining the proposal he looked up from the notes on his lectern. Everyone was staring at him.

”Three quarters of a child,” Fort repeated with a grin, and everyone laughed again. ”I like that.” The laughter stopped. ”It would finally establish a monetary value for a human life, on the open market. So far the work done in that area has been sloppy at best. Lifetime incomes and expenditures and the like.” He sighed and shook his head. ”The truth is, economists cook most of the numbers in the back room. Value isn't really an economic calculation. No, I like this. Let's see if we can estimate how much the price of a half child would be. I'm sure there would be speculation, middlemen, a whole market apparatus.”

So they played the three-quarters game for the rest of the afternoon, getting right down to the commodities market and the plots for soap operas. When they finished, Fort invited them to a barbecue on the beach.

They went back to their rooms and put on windbreakers, and hiked down the valley path into the glare of the sunset. On the beach under a dune was a big bonfire, being tended by some of the young scholars. As they approached and sat on blankets around the fire, a dozen or so of the Eighteen Immortals landed out of the air, running across the sand and bringing their wings slowly down, then unzipping from their suits, and pulling wet hair out of their eyes, and talking among themselves about the wind. They helped each other out of the long wings, and stood in their bathing suits goose-pimpled and s.h.i.+vering: centenarian flyers with wiry arms outstretched to the fire, the women just as muscular as the men, their faces just as lined by a million years of squinting into the sun and laughing around the fire. Art watched the way Fort joked with his old friends, the easy way they toweled each other down. Secret lives of the rich and famous! They ate hot dogs and drank beer. The flyers went behind a dune and returned dressed in pants and sweats.h.i.+rts, happy to stand by the fire a bit longer, combing out each other's wet hair. It was a dusky twilight, and the evening onsh.o.r.e breeze was salty and cold. The big ma.s.s of orange flame danced in the wind, and light and shadow flickered over Fort's simian visage. As Sam had said earlier, he didn't look a day over eighty.

Now he sat among his seven guests, who were sticking together, and stared into the coals and started talking again. The people on the other side of the fire continued in their conversations, but Fort's guests leaned closer to hear him over the wind and waves and crackling wood, looking a bit lost without their lecterns in their laps.