David Brin - Existence

The toilet-bidet had every water and air jet accoutrement, along with the latest seat warmer-vibrator from Kinshasa Luxe. But clearly, the porcelain bowl itself simply flushed, straight into the sewer, just like in the bad old days. There was no separate collector unit, or PU. No way for a man to perform the modern duty never asked of women. The one obligation that few women-even the most egalitarian or environmentally dedicated-volunteered to perform.

Back home, Hamish took care of reducing his household phosphorus waste by simply peeing off his bedroom balcony onto the roses… or into a sheltered flower bed outside his office. The world’s simplest recycling system, and adopted by males all over the globe-wherever any nearby patch of nature might benefit-once a mild gaucherie, now an act of Earth patriotism.

To be honest, he enjoyed it, and Carolyn was no longer around to roll her eyes, muttering about a “so-called crisis that must have been trumped up by macho little boys.”

That brought a smile of recollection… followed by a frown, remembering how, toward the end, she had called him a hypocrite for telling millions of viewers and readers, in Condition of Panic, that the phosphorus shortage was a hoax-a plot conceived by fertilizer barons and radical Earthfirsters.

“In that case, why have you put PUnits in every bathroom of this house?” she demanded, one day. “You could be consistent. Take it to court! Pay the fines! Flush away!”

Hamish’s standard response-“Hey, it’s just a story!”-didn’t seem to work with her anymore. Not toward the end.

In truth, that novel-retitled Phoscarcity? and then Phos-scare-city! for the movie version-was one he rather regretted. Denying the obvious had cost him some credibility. But, then, Carolyn never understood- I don’t like smartaleck boffins telling me what to do. Even when they’re right.

Veering back to the here and now, Hamish wondered about the House of Glaucus-Worthington. For all the luxury of this bathroom, it pretty blatantly ignored the worldwide fertilizer shortage. Do they bribe Zurich officials to look the other way, when this grand mansion sends all its phosphorus down to the mulching plant, mixed in with toilet paper and poo? Downstream reclamation was far less efficient, after all. And the Swiss loved efficiency.

Just because you’re a plutocrat, that doesn’t automatically mean you don’t care about the planet. Even if the GWs shrug off this emergency, some of their visitors will be planet-minded types or rich Naderites, who will want to…

… oh…

Okay, mystery partly solved. The chamber pot was a courtesy, for guests choosing to do the planetary correct thing. But such a conspicuously impractical PC solution! Some servant would have to come, perhaps twice or more a day, collect each contribution and then clean the pot…

For the second time in a few heartbeats, Hamish got the “aha!” moment that he lived for.

I get it. You’re telling me that you can send well-paid, elegant, soft-spoken servants all through this mammoth showplace, emptying and scrubbing antique porcelain PeeYews-each of them worth a small fortune-by hand. All right, point taken. You are rich enough to no longer care how many nines you have in your percentile.

Also, he recalled with a wince, rich enough to not give a damn about fame… or autographs.

As Rupert Glaucus-Worthington had demonstrated, by smiling faintly, when Hamish tried to hand him a signed copy of The New Pyramid, touching it lightly with a fingertip, before allowing a butler to carry it away. And then, with condescension that seemed more indolent than purposely insulting, the patriarch had asked:

“And so, Mr. Brookeman, what is it that you do for a living?”

One cultural gulf between people living east and west of the Atlantic had long swirled around that question. Americans tended to ask it right away, often unaware that it might cause offense.

To us it means “What interesting task or skill did you choose as the daytime focus of your life?” We assume it’s a matter of choice, not caste. Meanwhile, Europeans tend to translate the question to “What’s your born social class?” or “How much money do you make?” Generations of misunderstanding arose from that simple, treacherous, conversational error.

Only, then, why did Glaucus-Worthington-as European as the Alps-ask it?

Hamish recalled the sense of hurt that question triggered when he arrived at this great house, along with a dozen other guests, all brought in by private stratojet to assist tomorrow’s negotiations. Stepping from limousine to receiving line was no new thing for Hamish. He had been prepared for the usual light chitchat with his host, before butlers took each visitor to private chambers for freshening up.

But Hamish was also accustomed to being one of the most famous people in any room, never subjected to that particular question.

Could it be that he’s really never heard of me? When I answered by offering up some movie titles, none of them seemed to strike a bell. He simply smiled and said “How nice,” before turning to the boffin standing next in line.

Of course, the superrich do have elite pastimes. Interests and activities we can only dream of. Priorities beyond mere…

Standing by the bed-halfway changed from his travel clothes into the obligate white tie and dinner jacket-Hamish blinked in sudden realization.

It’s too much. No person could be that far out of touch. Anyway, all you have to do today is plug a farlai in your ear to get automatic, whispered bio-summaries about anyone you meet. A conscientious host does that, making every guest feel appreciated.

No. The snub was deliberate. Rupert wants to seem aloof, above it all.

But the hand is overplayed.

They’re trying too hard.

Hamish knew what Guillaume deGrasse, his favorite detective character, would say right now.

I can smell fear.

He had no opportunity to share that insight with the Prophet before dinner-only a few moments to offer his capsule summary of meeting Roger Betsby, the self-confessed poisoner of Senator Strong. Tenskwatawa’s dark eyes glittered while listening to Hamish’s brief tale about the daring, the gall, the utter chutzpah of a rural doctor, who seemed so cheerfully-if mysteriously-willing to bring himself down, along with a despised politician.

“So you still have no idea what drug Betsby used to warp Strong’s behavior? Getting him to make such a fool of himself in public?”

“Only that it was a legal substance, even medicinal. What he did was still a crime, Betsby concedes that. But he implies that a jury would be lenient, and that public revelation of the substance itself would do the senator even more harm than has already been done. Betsby threatens that he’ll confess everything, if there’s any retribution. I have to admit… it’s one of the strangest types of extortion I’ve ever seen.”

Tenskwatawa laughed upon reading Hamish’s expression of mystification. “He sounds like a worthy little adversary for you, my friend. Just the sort of challenge that keeps you diverted and happy.”

Forsaking his usual denim for contemporary evening clothes, the man often called a “prophet” seemed to be downplaying the whole messenger of destiny thing. Mysticism had no place at this mountaintop summit, where the twin negotiating themes would be pragmatism and flattery. Only the former would be spoken of explicitly. But in order to achieve the main goal-bringing an important segment of world aristocracy fully into the Movement-there must be a two-pronged appeal, to both self-interest and ego.