A Goode Year 2012

A Goode Year - 2012

by Francis Goode

www.francisgoode.com

Copyright 2012 Francis Goode

Smashwords Edition

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License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Introduction

The dam (short story)

What the Greeks gave us... and what we've done with it (blog)

Betrayal (short story)

Lost at sea? A tale of two ships on a voyage of discovery (blog)

A step closer to the Higgs Boson? (blog)

Goodenough gets his stripes (short story)

Einstein and Spinoza (blog)

Beyond the Olympics – a golden future for society? (blog)

Presidential election 2012 (blog)

Family business (short story)

Olympic legacy? (blog)

A century of symbols (blog)

The birthday shoes (short story)

Golden age and national shame (blog)

Oaths and other ethical issues (blog)

Why stop at trading carbon emissions? (blog)

The young artist (short story)

Price, value and hunger (blog)

Universe in reverse (blog)

Shadow killer (short story)

Other philosophical engineers (or engineering philosophers?) (blog)

What's so good about rational anyway? (blog)

Away with all flesh (short story)

Bookend

Introduction

So, another year flies past outside our cave. The landscape that Spinny and I look out over has donned its winter garb. Naked lines of stumpy vines stretch out across the empty fields and offer no cover for the hares to hide from trigger-happy huntsmen, whose shotgun retorts rumble around the valley like thunder. But during the long nights, when moonlight sparkles in the frost and mirrors the glimmering stars in the clear sky above, peace reigns.

Well, we've survived another year, says Spinny cheerfully, working on a wonderful new web design in the darkness of the cave. The slender strands of silk glimmer in the firelight as a mournful owl's hoot drifts in from the fields - still no respite for the poor hares out there.

Survived, yes... I suppose we must have. Another year older, another year wiser...

Oh? Do you think we are, really? Spinny asks, a little sharply.

Older? Yes, I should say so. I certainly feel it.

Spinny sighs. No, I mean, are we really any wiser?

I give the fire a stir. Sparks fly and a log crackles. How do you measure wisdom? Is there a healthy amount one should aim to accumulate in a year? Perhaps that's something else the government should set a target for.

Well, I respond at last. If not wiser, at least I think we understand a little more.

Possibly.

Spinny glances around at the stacks of books in every corner of the cave, those little receptacles of human knowledge, storing and transmitting the sciences over the centuries. At some point in the last few hundred years there must have been a moment when the number of books in existence contained exactly the amount of knowledge that one person could read in a lifetime. Since then they've contained more knowledge than anyone could accumulate in a lifetime. That was the moment when cooperation became the only possible way for mankind to advance. We truly became dependent on one other. And then came the internet...

Possibly?

Well, I suppose you must have acquired some knowledge from all these books you read. Spinny begins to unpick a cocooned fly that's attached to the web. But does knowledge always equate to understanding?

That makes me think of the great philosopher Baruch de Spinoza and his three types of knowledge. The first type comprises the assortment of simple ideas we use to get us through our daily lives with minimal mental effort, not bothering to separate out valid observations from the prejudices, rumours and lazy assumptions we pick up along the way. We begin to acquire the second type of knowledge when we use our gifts of rational thought and observation to work out what's really happening around us in a systematic way. And it's then that the third type of knowledge arrives, by intuition or subconscious processes, to give us true understanding.

Do you mean Spinoza's third type of knowledge? I ask.

Spinny seems to ignore my question, quietly absorbed in unwrapping and chewing on the fly. I try again.

You mean that knowledge is something we can take in, from books, for example. But understanding is generated from within, once we've taken in enough knowledge. Is that it?

Spinny has eaten enough. Playing out a length of silk the spider drops down elegantly onto the rock beside me. Maybe.

A thought strikes me. Like gossamer?

Dozens of pairs of eyes look up in surprise. Like gossamer? Of course I like it. Couldn't live without it.

That's true. Weight for weight, these wonderfully processed strands of protein are five times stronger than steel. They provide Spinny and other spiders with homes, nets, traps, intruder alarms, signalling wires and paragliders. But I suspect Spinny is deliberately misunderstanding me.

No, I laugh. I meant that understanding is like gossamer, something that's produced inside you. Understanding is made from knowledge you've taken in, like gossamer's produced from the protein you get by eating flies.

So, in this rather obscure analogy of yours, you're saying my flies are the equivalent of your books?

I shift a little uneasily. When Spinny puts it like that, it does all seem a little far-fetched. I decide to shift the conversation back to safer ground.

I like gossamer, too. Especially your webs in the early morning dew. They're so beautiful, it's so good of you to share them with us.

Share them with you?

Yes. Little works of art that you share with us every morning. They're so nice to see.

Are they? I never realised. Spinny frowns and gazes up at the wisps of Milky Way in the cloudless sky. I thought you bipeds hated them because they get tangled in your hair.

Well, I suppose some of us do. But just because some people don't like them, doesn't mean you should stop sharing them with us.

Mmm, I suppose you could be right. From Spinny, that's high praise. But then, you should share things, too.

Me? What have I got to share?

Your scribblings.

Oh. Them.

You never know. Someone, somewhere might appreciate them.

I doubt it.

I doubted that anyone likes my webs.

Which scribblings do you think I should share?

"Well, all those short stories you've written this year. Somebody might like to look at one or two of them. Then there are the blogs on our website, of course."

"Yes, I see. And the blogs those kind people at the Institution of Engineering and Technology allow me to publish on their Engineering and Technology Magazine site."

There you are then. You could put all that stuff together and publish it as an e-book, or something like that.

I consider the idea for a moment. An e-book is a wonderful thing, a gossamer thread, lighter than air that you set free to blow away on the wind. Who knows where it might settle, or who might come across it?

I could send it out to friends. Give them something to read during their dark holiday nights.

Why not?

Why not indeed.

We hope you find something to enjoy here. If not, just comb us out of your hair.

Francis Goode and Spinny

December 2012

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The dam

A short morality tale for our times.

The battered old river cruiser slipped easily downstream, its engine needed only to negotiate the occasional rocks and rapids. For the two men lounging on deck, their day's work done, the gentle chugging could barely be heard above the raucous screeches and whistles coming from the dense forest on either side. But it was loud enough to disturb some huge bird from its perch in a nearby branch. With a clatter of wings and an ear-piercing screech of alarm, it took flight and flapped ponderously over the boat. Harry Olsen leant back to watch the explosion of colour overhead. He grinned as he extracted the stump of a large Havana cigar from his mouth.

'Knew I should've brought my gun.'

His companion squinted to follow the bird's flight along the river towards the deep V-shaped crevice at the bend.

'Yeah, maybe you should've, Harry.' Al Conway wiped his brow with a check shirt sleeve. 'Sure is beautiful here, though. Makes me almost sad to think what's going to happen to it.'

'Sad? Hell, you've got that wrong, I mean sure, it's pretty, but who the heck ever gets to see it? Not you, for certain, if this project hadn't brought you here. At least now you get to enjoy it, for a year or so. And after that, you'll have some great memories.'

Al let out a little laugh. 'Yeah, you're right. I guess I'm the lucky one. As you say, not many people get to visit paradise. And get paid for it.'

'Too right.'

Harry removed his baseball cap and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his safari jacket. For a moment his short cropped hairs glistened like tiny needles in the rays of the setting sun.

Al wiped his own brow again. 'All the same, I kinda feel for those people back there. They'll lose a lot.'

'They seemed happy enough today.'

'Yeah, well you do a darn fine job of talking things up, Harry. The presents you brought didn't do any harm, either. But still, do you think they really took on board exactly what's happening here?'

'Well, that's their look out. But I reckon that Head Man, Kanto or whatever his name is, got the picture OK. He understands that once they're resettled they'll have everything they need. Water, electricity, schools, everything. Things can only get better for these people.'

'They seemed more bothered about their darn burial grounds than water and schools.'

'Yeah, well, maybe a taste of progress will sort that out for them.'

The boat accelerated as the river narrowed in the approach to the canyon. Steep cliffs rose up a hundred metres on either side. Harry chuckled.

'It's going to be quite a sight, Al, that gap all filled in with concrete. Can you picture that?'

Al nodded and looked back at the valley they'd come along. He struggled to imagine it under a hundred metres of water.

'Kanto's son didn't seem so happy, either. I'm not sure he bought your line about them being equal partners in all this.'

He sensed the impatient movement beside him as Harry tossed the remains of his cigar into the river. A shoal of inquisitive silver red fish examined it, then darted away in disgust.

'Yeah, well, he's not the Head Man, is he? And even if they don't all like it, so what? How many of them are there? A couple of thousand, maybe. Against ten million in the city who'll benefit from the electricity we'll provide. Chicken shit. No contest. This is our duty, Al. Progress, a better world.'

***

'So, lady and gentleman, the climax of today's tour, see for yourself the great progress we're making.'

Harry stepped back from the railing of the viewing platform to let the VIPs see the feverish activity of earth movers, caterpillar trucks and tractors below. Clouds of dust hung over the site, and along the newly built highway a fleet of cement mixers queued to discharge their loads into the flexible pipes that spewed a constant stream of concrete onto the site.

'But you're behind schedule,' said the Japanese banker who hadn’t spoken all afternoon.

Harry forced himself to smile. 'Just a little, sure. But you see we're working damn hard to catch up. Look there, that's over a thousand cubic metres of concrete per hour going in, night and day, twenty-four seven.'

'But how long behind schedule?' pressed the banker.

Harry chewed on his cigar. This was the part of the job he hated most. 'Investor relations,' they called it. And a project this size meant many investors.

'We're on it. Look, we've paralleled up some activities. See?' He indicated the spidery network of scaffolding rising above the wet concrete. 'They're putting up the shuttering for the next level already. With a fair wind, we'll be back on schedule next month.'

'That's a lot of manpower. Are you on budget?' asked the Chinese financier.

Harry leaned towards the group and tapped his nose. 'Ah, that's the beauty of it. We're using local people, the indigenous population. I call them our monkey men. They've been climbing trees all their lives - and they work for peanuts!'

He leant back to enjoy their ripple of laughter. He knew that one would do the trick, break the ice. He used it on all the visits.

The German capitalist frowned. 'Is it not dangerous working like that? What about the health and safety risks?'

Harry nodded sagely. 'Sure, sure. We meet all the health regulations those guys have ever written down. No risk of lawsuits there. Or any sort of suits, if you see what I mean.' Another titter of laughter, and they were still smiling as they returned to the fleet of SUVs waiting to whisk them back to the city. Harry waved them off with a sigh of relief.

He heard the first ominous creak as they disappeared. Then came a huge ripping like tearing cloth and an ear-splitting clatter that echoed round the valley. When he got down to the site it was all over. Lost in the clouds of dust, the men were milling around, leaderless, while concrete continued to belch out of the pipes. It filled in the little depressions that had appeared in the smooth surface. The scaffolding had disappeared.

Al came across as he leapt down from his truck. Harry grabbed his sleeve.

'What the hell happened?'

Al looked startled, like a bird. 'I don't know, Boss. The scaffolding just gave way. Maybe they didn't know how to fix it up properly.'

Harry peered into the vast liquid pool. There was no longer any trace of a disturbance.

'Oh my God. And they're all...'

'Yeah, they're all down there. Every one of them. We'll have to get them out, Harry.'

'And how are we going to do that?'

Al ran a hand over his head. 'I don't know... just pull them out, I guess.'

Harry shook his head. 'We don't have the equipment. In fact, I don't even know what equipment to use to fish two dozen corpses out of quick setting cement.'

'Corpses?'

'They don't stand a chance, Al. They’re gone.'

Al put both hands to his face. 'But still, we've got to get them out...'

Harry pulled him away from the group that had gathered round, waiting for orders. He whispered