The Aftermath

by Samuel C. Florman

  Naturally, there are competing objectives, and these must be compared in alternative strategies. If we need our metals most importantly for making hand tools for agriculture and mining—thus improving our food yield for the immediate future and our stockpile of metal ores for future benefit—then the blades for our sawmills will have to wait, thus delaying our supply of trimmed lumber. And if we don't use our metals for axles and wheel rims, the wagons we make now won't last as long or operate as effectively as they otherwise might. Since everything depends upon nearly everything else, the arrows of influence make for a complex pattern of lines, loops, and arrows. Scenario after scenario is tried, and likely outcomes projected.

  And what, exactly, are our standards for success? We want "industrialization," but to what end? Pleasant homes and furniture and clothing as soon as possible? Or sacrifice near-term comfort for an earlier development of infrastructure? How urgently, and at what cost, do we want to develop electricity, followed by radio, TV, and a return to the computer age? In these decisions, community preferences have to be considered. Since there is no traditional marketplace and no established political forum, the public will must be sensed—mostly by direct discussion and enlightened inference.

  To analyze likely outcomes of alternate scenarios, the systems engineers like to apply mathematical models. System interactions can be expressed as mathematical equations. A basic optimization problem can be analyzed using differential calculus. Probability theory can be used, along with statistical analysis, decision theory, and a lot of other advanced methodologies. Plus computer simulation. But—why do I keep forgetting?—without the computers that we don't have, the analytical process is severely limited. Also, as we look at the world from the point of view of the average survivor, pure mathematics sort of loses its luster.

  Some of the most intellectually brilliant of our engineers have shown reluctance, in making broad plans for the future, to rely upon theoretical analyses. There is a pragmatic, seat-of-the-pants side of engineering that endures. Our days are filled with never-ending debates about how best to proceed.

  Conceptually, however, systems engineering gives us what is needed: continuous, critical evaluation of what is happening in each subsystem of our enterprise, and awareness of the effect that each decision has on the system as a whole. Applied rigorously by the Planning Subcommittee, guided by a few diligent systems specialists, we've had pretty good results over the past year. And pretty good results are all we dare hope for. As my father likes to say, "Let's not paralyze ourselves looking for perfection. We've got to get a product out the door."

  —————

  The central planning issue had barely been put to rest when a new challenge was voiced, and from an unexpected source: Captain Nordstrom.

  "I cannot follow more than a fraction of what you guys are up to," said the good captain, scratching his head to emphasize his perplexity, "but I don't think you realize what a small community we're talking about. There are less than twenty-eight thousand people left on the face of the earth—that we know about—and you're planning to rebuild an industrial infrastructure. Let me remind you that the Queen of Africa, a ship of modest size, carried a crew of one thousand. You need a hell of a lot of people to run a high-tech world."

  "Give us a break, Johan," my father replied impatiently. That's the only time I ever heard Dad call the captain by his first name. He always called him by his formal title, as did everybody else. But now he was showing annoyance in spite of himself. "You don't need all those waiters and dancing girls to run a ship."

  "Yes, yes," Nordstrom acknowledged. "I'm just trying to make a point, which is that twenty-eight thousand is a small number when you're talking about modern technology. You can fit that many spectators into an indoor arena to watch a basketball game. That's simply not enough people to establish an advanced civilization. I'd bet that the world you're dreaming about would need a population of at least a million."

  Suddenly I heard my friend Herb, who was present in his capacity as alternate recording secretary, whispering into my ear: "He's crazy. You couldn't squeeze twenty-eight thousand people into Madison Square Garden if you tried. For a Knicks game, not even twenty thousand. The exact figure—which is engraved in my heart—is 19,763. Oh, the poor Knicks! Never to be seen again!"

  Oh, the bizarre thought processes of my eccentric friend from New York City! I hushed Herb impatiently. The captain's imperfect information about basketball arenas did not alter the fact that the question he raised was important, in fact, crucial, and had not yet been adequately addressed, at least in my humble opinion.

  Actually, my opinion in this case was not at all humble, since I had recently given the matter a lot of thought. The history of technology cannot be isolated from considerations of population. I had studied this subject in school, and had done some fact-finding since the Planning Subcommittee started to do its work. In the many hours I had spent in meetings of the various leadership groups, I had been suitably quiet for a young whippersnapper. But at this point there was something I was determined to say.

  I raised my hand urgently, persuading my father to give me the floor. I knew that the engineers in the group liked to think in terms of numbers, so I figured that by talking about population growth, I could get their attention and keep it for at least a little while.

  "Before the Event," I began, "the world population had been growing at the rate of 2.1 percent annually, which means that it was on a course of doubling every thirty-three years. In the American colonies of the eighteenth century, the population grew at the rate of approximately 2.5 percent annually, exclusive of immigration, a doubling rate of twenty-eight years. The colonial governor of Connecticut proudly attributed this increase to 'an industrious, temperate life, and early marriage,' as well as 'the Divine Benediction.' When the HMS Bounty mutineers, along with their Tahitian wives, colonized Pitcairn Island—a virgin land—their long-term rate of increase was 3.4 percent. Perhaps the most interesting figure, closer to our own time and place, was Kenya during the 1980s; there the natural increase in the population approximated 4.1 percent. This reflected not only a robust birth rate but also the effects of public health advances in extending life expectancy."

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw my father looking at his watch, so I picked up the pace of my presentation.

  "A 4.1 percent annual increase yields a doubling period of eighteen years. A similar increase was experienced in Iran during the years after the 1979 revolution, when clerics called on Iranian women to breed an Islamic generation. Also certain Mormon groups in Utah, practicing polygamy, achieved a growth rate of 10 percent, with a doubling period of seven years!

  "But setting aside the extremes on either end, I think there is no reason we cannot expect to duplicate the experience of Kenya and Iran in the 1980s. After all, our population is relatively young and generally healthy. In South Africa, before the Event, almost half the population was under twenty-one years of age. After the rigors of fire and flood, I would guess that the average is even lower. The Engineering Village people are also young, on average—thanks mainly to my father's policies in arranging the seminar, along with the hiring practices of cruise ship companies. And so far, we're all amazingly healthy.

  "If we lead an industrious, temperate life," I went on, trying to add a jovial touch, "and marry early, like those colonists in Connecticut—and if we enjoy the Divine Benediction—the 4.1 percent figure should be achieved." Then I sketched out the growth pattern, roughly, thus:

  Projected Population

  Today 27,500

  In 18 years 55,000

  In 36 years 110,000

  In 54 years 220,000

  In 72 years 440,000

  In 90 years 880,000

  In 108 years 1,760,000

  I stopped to let them absorb these numbers, and then continued.

  "If—to follow through on the captain's concern—it would take a million people to establish and maintain an industrial society, then we
can expect to reach that magic number in about ninety-four years. That's a long time, to be sure; but no longer than it took our ancestors to build some of the medieval cathedrals. Even if none of us expects to live another century, we shouldn't be afraid to start on a few long-term projects of our own. Our great-grandchildren will thank us."

  So far, my audience was as attentive as I could have hoped. But I hadn't yet gotten to my main point, which was that we shouldn't underestimate what can be achieved by our present population, right now and in the near-term future.

  "Remember," I continued, "at the time of the American Revolution, Boston contained no more than twenty thousand people and New York City between twenty-five and thirty thousand. The states of Rhode Island and New Jersey each had populations of only sixty thousand persons, while mighty New York and industrious Connecticut were barely at the two hundred thousand level. If we then consider what was achieved in the years immediately following the Revolution—Fulton's steamboat in 1807; dozens of textile mills along New England's rivers by the 1820s; the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad chartered in 1827—well, we should be bursting with optimism.

  "Also, we tend to forget that the early American factories turned out substantial quantities of manufactured goods with surprisingly small numbers of workers. The blast furnaces of prerevolutionary days were run by about a dozen men. The average cotton factory employed thirty-five people, a paper mill fifteen, a flour mill only three. In 1807, a sizable shop in the Pennsylvania countryside manufactured steam engines and a variety of mechanical devices for many different industries, while employing on average no more than thirty-five workmen."

  I was now ready for the piece de resistance.

  "In the mid-1800s, the Norris Locomotive Works of Philadelphia built locomotives, each of which contained some five thousand separate parts, each part designed, then cast or forged or pressed on site"—now it was Dr. Wilson Hardy, Sr., my dear old dad, who was glaring at me, so I hastily summarized—"sixty-four of these monsters were manufactured in a year with a workforce of only six hundred. Imagine: sixty-four locomotives built from scratch in a year by six hundred men!"

  "Thanks, Wil," my father said firmly, but with a slight smile to indicate that he was pleased I had done my homework and learned so much interesting history. Yet I could tell that I had said more than enough to make my point.

  Captain Nordstrom most kindly wrapped up my remarks with a concession: "I guess that young Wilson here—a chip off the old block—has mustered enough facts to shoot me out of the water. So, if we need not be discouraged by the size of our population, let us go on to other matters."

  Later that night, I told Sarah about my brave entry into the great debate and described what I considered my creditable showing. She grew pensive.

  Finally, very quietly, she said, "If your predictions about population growth are going to prove accurate, we will have to do our share, won't we?"

  My response, half in yearning and half in panic, was, "Of course, but shouldn't we see the general situation organized a little better before we rush ahead with our own plans?"

  Sarah had the final word on the subject: "Balzac said it was easier to be a lover than a husband, and I guess he was right."

  I assumed she was smiling, but in the darkness it was impossible to tell.

  9

  On the second day set aside for feedback sessions, the electrical engineers took a turn at venting their displeasure. "Uh-oh," Herb Green quipped under his breath to Wil Hardy, "it's the 'Charge of the Electric Light Brigade.' "

  The leader of the onslaught was Donald Ruffin, president of the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers. He was the inscrutable fiber-optics specialist who had said he didn't know what to expect in Africa other than a bunch of angry elephants. On this occasion, he skipped the sarcasm and got right to the point.

  "What we want to know, Wilson," he said, poking a finger at Dr. Hardy, "is how you civil engineers have managed to take over this operation. Yesterday, my good friend John Hertzler raised some valid questions about centralized planning; but he didn't get to the problem that our group thinks is most serious. You, along with your sidekick Alf Richards, want to keep us busy with bricks and concrete and then slowly, deliberately, reenact the Industrial Revolution."

  Ruffin pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, referred to some scribbled notes, and continued in stentorian voice: "I haven't heard a blessed word about solar energy, wind turbines, or atomic power, not to mention nuclear fusion. You're going to busy us with digging in coal mines when we should be thinking about new solutions for a new age. Why aren't you planning to make photovoltaic cells, which could be used to recharge our batteries and get our computers up and running? And how about superconductivity? You're proposing to bring copper from hundreds of miles away without considering the marvelous work that's been done on getting more electricity to flow through special cables made of various new materials."

  "Please, Donald," responded Dr. Hardy, who seemed to grow more resolutely calm with each new tempest, "to make photovoltaic cells, first we need metals and carefully prepared semiconductor materials. And, in the last superconductive line I saw, the cable had to be cooled to minus 320 degrees Fahrenheit by running liquid nitrogen alongside it. Is that what you want us to do? We're trying to crawl in order to walk, while you're asking that we start out by flying. We're saying that the people have no bread, and you're suggesting that they can eat cake."

  Hardy hesitated, as if uncertain about how to phrase his next thought. Then he continued: "And, Donald, let's not begin to pit electrical engineers against civils or any other discipline. That's not what we're about here."

  "I'm not just talking about electricity," Ruffin grumbled. "What are you doing about biotechnology? Not a damned thing. And robotics? And how about materials science? We can make almost any magical stuff you can imagine just by mixing some complicated molecules together—polymers, industrial ceramics, fiber composites, semiconductors, specialty metals ... We're capable of miracles, and you're sitting down to play with iron. We're not a primitive tribe here. Damn it, Wilson, we've got some brilliant men and women aboard, and we ought to let them loose—not try to relive history. I'm surprised you haven't appointed a committee to reinvent the wheel."

  At this, a tall, determined-looking woman stepped forward. Elsa Bryson was head of the Materials Science Department at Ohio State University, and as she straightened her black-rimmed glasses, she could hardly conceal her disdain for the last speaker's presentation.

  "Dr. Ruffin," she began, "nobody here could possibly be more anxious to work with new substances than those of us whose field is materials science. But let's just reason together for a moment. How are we going to mix these wondrous materials, work with them, store them, heat them, mold them, compress them, extrude them—do anything with them—unless we have basic implements and containers? And the basic implements and containers we need— we crave!—are mostly made out of steel and glass. So please; let these folks get on with the work that needs to be done. There's plenty of thinking and planning we can do as we wait for our laboratories to take shape, and I'm sure that goes for you and your electronics colleagues as well."

  "Besides," and here Tom Swift spoke up, "let's not forget that two hundred people have been assigned to an R and D operation. So it's not as if the future is being ignored. I'm one of the directors of the enterprise, Donald, and I promise you that we'll be agitating on behalf of innovation. If you can figure out how to make electricity by sticking bamboo into sand and then transmitting the current through grapevines, we'll help you work out the details starting tomorrow. And by the way, if we do reinvent the wheel, it will be the best damned wheel that the world has ever seen."

  Wilson Hardy, Sr., had one more volley to discharge. "When we sailed from New York," he said sternly, "we might have been in what some people liked to call the post-industrial age, the era of wireless communications and the Internet. But, damn it, Donald, we're not there anymore—if we
ever were to the extent that was advertised. Anyhow, before you guys can return to making the world go round with fiber optics and computers, we're going to have to forge a lot of steel and pour a lot of concrete." In spite of his protestations about harmony between the engineering specialties, it was apparent that this rugged civil engineer enjoyed telling his high-tech colleague a thing or two about priorities.

  In due course, the "Charge of the Electric Light Brigade" flickered away into mumbles and grudging concurrence.

  It soon became clear that, when all was said and done, the recommendations of the Joint Planning Subcommittee were going to prevail relatively unscathed. Nevertheless, everyone agreed that the five-day hearing period should be maintained. It was important that time be allowed so that Inlanders with a distance to travel would be able to have their say. Also, there were numerous individuals who, even if they approved the plan in general, wanted to be heard, and required time to get their thoughts together.

  On the morning of the third day, for example, a group of academics made a presentation on behalf of "pure science" as opposed to engineering and technological development. This was a subject that the planners had not considered in any depth. Although many of the engineers knew a lot about science, the group contained only a few honest-to-goodness scientists—physicists, chemists, biologists, astronomers, and the like. There were several such professionals among the Inlanders and a number among the spouses who had traveled on the Queen of Africa. In total, however, they numbered merely a handful.

  Tom Swift, speaking on behalf of the R and D directors, gave assurances that the scientists would be provided with all possible resources and cooperation. "Yet, obviously, it will be a very long time before we get around to building cyclotrons and radio telescopes." What he did not say, but thought, was: who knows when, if ever, we will recover the scientific knowledge—and genius—that was eradicated in the Event?