Wild Thing: A Novel Read Free

carbohydrates. Nothing we can make is going to come close to producing that kind of energy. And even if it did, we wouldn’t be able to design batteries efficient enough to store it. That’s another thing about oil: it’s its own storage and transport medium.”
    “Safer nuclear?”
    “Nuclear’s a hoax, even when it
doesn’t
leak or explode. Nonuclear plant has ever produced as much energy as it costs to build and maintain. All nuclear does is keep France clean while it poisons South America. Which is enough crazy-scientist-lady info for one evening. You talk.”
    I laugh. “I feel like an idiot,” I say. “Here I thought it was all about the climate change.”
    “That’s not really what I meant by ‘talk.’ ” But when I don’t respond, she says “And anyway, a lot of it
is
all about the climate change. The oil crash will kill six billion people—at a minimum, because that would take us back to where we were before the Industrial Revolution, and the planet’s lost a lot of carrying capacity since then. But climate change will kill everybody else. Climate change will kill everyone on Earth even if we
prevent
the oil crash. We could stop using hydrocarbons right now, and just let the six billion die, and climate change would continue to speed up. We’ve already pulled the methane trigger.”
    “Which is what?”
    “It’s where you heat the Earth to the point where the Arctic methane hydrate shelf starts to melt. Methane’s twenty times more powerful as a greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide. Fifty million years ago it turned the sky green. This time it’ll do it a lot faster.” She looks at me again. “You know, you seem to be strangely enjoying this.”
    I am. I’m not sure why. The complete destruction of the human race
is
fairly amusing, obviously—particularly if it happens through overpopulation and technology, the only goals humanity has ever taken seriously. But it’s just as likely that this woman’s suspicions are accurate, and what’s making me happy is being near her. With Violet Hurst, what message
isn’t
the medium going to kick the shit out of?
    Must get lonely, as well as frustrating.
    “So when was the point of no return?” I say.
    “Forget it. I’m cutting you off.”
    “But that’s what catastrophic paleontologists do? Study the end of the world?”
    “The various ends of the world. The specific extinction event that’s about to happen is a subspecialty.”
    “And that’s what you do for Rec Bill?”
    “What I do for Rec Bill is confidential. And no.”
    “Can you at least tell me what he wants to talk to
me
about?”
    “Not really.”
    “Off the record?”
    “Sorry,” she says. “He wants to tell you himself. With Rec Bill, it’s all about trust.”
    She signals toward an exit. “Speaking of which, he wants me to wait around and drive you to your hotel when you guys get done, but I think I’m going to put my foot down on this one. I clearly love catastrophic paleontology enough to bore the hell out of strange men with it, but even
I
have to go get drunk afterward and pretend I’ve never heard of it. Just tell Rec Bill to call you a cab. And keep the receipt.”

3
     
    Portland, Oregon
    Still Monday, 13 August
     
    The twelfth floor of the main building of Rec Bill’s office park seems to be one enormous room, dark except for a spotlight over the receptionist’s desk and another one over the waiting area. The waiting area’s floor-to-ceiling windows have channels cut into them that guide the rainwater into tree shapes. The noise from them is making it hard for me to pick out sounds from the dark rest of the floor.
    About twenty yards in, an entire office in a glass cube lights up. It looks like a diorama in a natural history museum. There’s even a man getting up from the desk.
    For a moment I think he’s been sitting in the dark, waiting for the light to go on, but then I realize that’s too stupid: it’s just that the cube has gone from opaque to