Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

"Okay, fine. But there are some things you have to estimate."

"You're absolutely right," Kenner said. "People estimate all the time. They estimate sales, they estimate profits, they estimate delivery dates, they estimateby the way, do you estimate your taxes for the government?"

"Yes. Quarterly."

"How accurate does that estimate have to be?"

"Well, there's no fixed rule"

"Peter. How accurate, without penalty?"

"Maybe fifteen percent."

"So if you were off by three hundred percent, you'd pay a penalty?"

"Yes."

"Hansen was off by three hundred percent."

"Climate is not a tax return."

"In the real world of human knowledge," Kenner said, "to be wrong by three hundred percent is taken as an indication you don't have a good grasp on what you are estimating. If you got on an airplane and the pilot said it was a three-hour flight, but you arrived in one hour, would you think that pilot was knowledgeable or not?"

Evans sighed. "Climate is more complicated than that."

"Yes, Peter. Climate is more complicated. It is so complicated that no one has been able to predict future climate with accuracy. Even though billons of dollars are being spent, and hundreds of people are trying all around the world. Why do you resist that uncomfortable truth?"

"Weather prediction is much better," Evans said. "And that's because of computers."

"Yes, weather prediction has improved. But nobody tries to predict weather more than ten days in advance. Whereas computer modelers are predicting what the temperature will be one hundred years in advance. Sometimes a thousand years, three thousand years."

"And they are doing better."

"Arguably they aren't. Look," Kenner said. "The biggest events in global climate are the El Niсos. They happen roughly every four years. But climate models can't predict themnot their timing, their duration, or their intensity. And if you can't predict El Niсos, the predictive value of your model in other areas is suspect."

"I heard they can predict El Niсos."

"That was claimed in 1998. But it is not true."* Kenner shook his head. "Climate science simply isn't there yet, Peter. One day it will be. But not now."

Another hour passed. Sanjong was working continuously on the laptop. Kenner sat motionless, staring out the window. Sanjong was accustomed to this. He knew that Kenner could stay silent and immobile for several hours. He only turned away from the window when Sanjong swore.

"What's the matter?" Kenner said.

"I lost our satellite connection to the Internet. It's been in and out for a while."

"Were you able to trace the images?"

"Yes, that was no problem. I have the location fixed. Did Evans really think these were images from Antarctica?"

"Yes. He thought they showed black outcrops against snow. I didn't disagree with him."

"The actual location," Sanjong said, "is a place called Resolution Bay. It's in northeast Gareda."

"How far from Los Angeles?"

"Roughly six thousand nautical miles."

"So the propagation time is twelve or thirteen hours."

"Yes."

"We'll worry about it later," Kenner said. "We have other problems first."

Peter Evans slept fitfully. His bed consisted of a padded airplane seat laid flat, with a seam in the middle, right where his hip rested. He tossed and turned, waking briefly, hearing snatches of conversation between Kenner and Sanjong at the back of the plane. He couldn't hear the whole conversation over the drone of the engines. But he heard enough.

Because of what I need him to do.

He'll refuse, John. amp;he likes it or not amp;Evans is at the center of everything.

Peter Evans was suddenly awake. He strained to hear now. He raised his head off the pillow so he could hear better.

Didn't disagree with him.

Actual location amp;Resolution Bay amp;Gareda.

How far amp;? amp;thousand miles amp; amp;the propagation time amp;thirteen hours amp; He thought: Propagation time? What the hell were they talking about? On impulse he jumped up, strode back there, and confronted them.

Kenner didn't blink. "Sleep well?"

"No," Evans said, "I did not sleep well. I think you owe me some explanations."

"About what?"

"The satellite pictures, for one."

"I couldn't very well tell you right there in the room, in front of the others," Kenner said. "And I hated to interrupt your enthusiasm."

Evans went and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Okay. What do the pictures really show?"

Sanjong flipped his laptop around to show Evans the screen. "Don't feel bad. You would never have had any reason to suspect. The images were negatives. They're often used that way, to increase contrast."

"Negatives amp;"

"The black rocks are actually white. They're clouds."

Evans sighed.

"And what is the land mass?"

"It's an island called Gareda, in the southern part of the Solomon chain."

"Which is amp;"

"Off the coast of New Guinea. North of Australia."

"So this is an island in the South Pacific," Evans said. "This guy in Antarctica had a picture of a Pacific island."

"Correct."

"And the scorpion reference is amp;"

"We don't know," Sanjong said. "The actual location is called Resolution Bay on the charts. But it may be known locally as Scorpion Bay."

"And what are they planning down there?"

Kenner said, "We don't know that, either."

"I heard you talking about propagation times. Propagation times for what?"

"Actually, you misheard me," Kenner said smoothly. "I was talking about interrogation times."

"Interrogation times?" Evans said.

"Yes. We were hoping we'd be able to identify at least one of the three men in Antarctica, since we have good photographs of all three. And we know the photographs are accurate because people on the base saw them. But, I'm afraid we're out of luck."

Sanjong explained that they had transmitted photos of Brewster and the two graduate students to several databases in Washington, where pattern-recognition computers checked them against individuals with known criminal records. Sometimes you got lucky, and the computer found a match. But this time, no match had come back.

"It's been several hours, so I think we're out of luck."

"As we expected," Kenner said.

"Yes," Sanjong said. "As we expected."

"Because these guys don't have criminal records?" Evans said.

"No. They very well may."

"Then why didn't you get a match?"

"Because this is a netwar," Kenner said. "And at the moment, we are losing it."

In media accounts, Kenner explained, the Environmental Liberation Front was usually characterized as a loose association of eco-terrorists, operating in small groups on their own initiative, and employing relatively unsophisticated means to create havocstarting fires, trashing SUVs in car lots, and so on.

The truth was quite different. Only one member of ELF had ever been apprehendeda twenty-nine-year-old graduate student at the University of California at Santa Cruz. He was caught sabotaging an oil rig in El Segundo, California. He denied any association with the group, and insisted he was acting alone.

But what troubled authorities was the fact that he was wearing an appliance on his forehead that changed the shape of his skull and made his eyebrows jut out prominently. He was also wearing false ears. It wasn't much of a disguise. But it was troubling, because it suggested that he knew quite a lot about the pattern-matching programs used by the government.

Those programs were tuned to look past changes in facial hairwigs, beards, and mustachessince that was the most common method of disguise. They were also designed to compensate for changes in age, such as increased heaviness in the face, drooping features, receding hairlines.