The Trilogy is Complete (Shameless Commercial III)

Another reader made the following comments:

 

Fourth World Nation is available on Amazon; here’s a link to the Amazon site:

https://www.amazon.com/Fourth-World-Nation/dp/1973142503/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1509379909&sr=8-1&keywords=Fourth+world+nation

For those who have yet to read the first book in the trilogy, it really is best to start at the beginning.  Fourth World is also available on Amazon, as a paperback or eBook.  Here’s a link to that site:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LWVNG6A/ref=cm_cr_ryp_prd_ttl_sol_0

 

Finally, I want to extend my sincerest thanks to all of you.  Child of the Fourth World is dedicated to all readers of the Fourth World Trilogy, who have been so generous and indulgent in sharing, at least for a time, the world of imagination with me.

With all my best wishes,

Chee Chow

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If You Like Beer…

“I like beer,” Judge Brett Kavanaugh announced defiantly to members of the Senate Judiciary Committee.  “I liked beer in high school.  I still like beer.”

I wonder how Kavanaugh reacted to the news earlier this week that global warming is adversely affecting barley, a drought- and temperature-sensitive crop.  As the world heats up, harvests of barley worldwide will steadily diminish, and one of its most popular products, beer, is projected to skyrocket in price as its availability plummets.

Sharon Lerner wrote in the NY Times this morning that now-lifetime-Supreme-Court-Justice Kavanaugh, when he was an appeals court judge, had a history of striking down environmental regulations– for example, the Environmental Protection Agency’s 2015 rule restricting the emission of hydrofluorocarbons (HFCs) from air conditioners and refrigerators.  HFCs are the fastest-growing type of heat-trapping greenhouse gas on the planet, trapping 1,300 times more heat than CO2 does.

This reminds me of a seemingly innocuous question that my 7th-grade science teacher asked his class in 1967, in the early days of ecologic awareness:  “On a hot day, why not cool off your house by leaving the refrigerator door open?”  We stared at him dumbly.  “Yes, it feels cooler right in front of the fridge, but the cooling process generates more heat than it removes, and that heat comes out the back of the fridge!” was the answer.  We rushed home to our kitchens to check it out, and you know, he was right!  In 7th grade, I learned that leaving the fridge door open would heat up, not cool off, the entire house.

That’s entirely different from the question of HFC emissions, but since 1967, I have pictured all the air conditioners in all of the houses, apartment buildings, shopping malls and corporate skyscrapers, pumping heat out of buildings and into the air outside, as a sort of massive global refrigerator with its door kept wide open.  So the answer to global warming is not to turn up the AC during a heat wave– a classic example of short vs. long term thinking.  The answer is to stop trapping heat with greenhouse gases.

According to Lerner, alternatives exist, but replacing HFCs with ammonia, propane or iso-butane has been blocked, not by science, but by politics.  And politics threaten to encroach ever more on the rulings of the right-leaning Supreme Court.  More government regulations, environmental or otherwise, are likely to fail.  Imagine the irony, when Brett Kavanaugh one day reaches into the mini-fridge in his chambers for a cold beer– only to discover that there is no more beer!

Personally, my adult beverage of choice is wine.  But my concerns, at least in that particular area, parallel those of beer-lovers:  global warming is already affecting grape harvests.  Not long ago, I stood on a terrace in the Rheingau, in northern Germany, looking out at a hillside vineyard with the owner.  His family had been in the wine business for centuries, producing fine riesling at the northernmost latitude still hospitable to grapes of the original European type, vitis vinifera.  Because of steady temperature rises over the past two decades, he told me, riesling will now grow much farther to the north.  “German winegrowers will have to move to the North Pole,” he half-joked.  The land we were looking at will one day be more suitable for grapes grown in southern France!

Here’s an excerpt from Fourth World, the first novel in my science fiction trilogy.  The third book, Child of the Fourth World, is now complete, and I will post on this blog when it becomes available on Amazon.  In this excerpt, I have taken out a paragraph, so as not to spoil the plot for new readers.

 

Professor Neelin added a generous pinch of salt to the lovely stew of root vegetables simmering on his stove.  The dignified sweetness of parsnips, carrots, and onions: three-part harmony, in parallel with the strains of a Bach Cantata drifting in from his living room.  Add textural overtones: the pillowy comfort of soft-cooked potatoes contrasting with the mild firmness of beets. Ah, nuances! Earthy, seductive perfumes of cumin, coriander and cardamom.  The challenge of cayenne and paprika. A distraction of lemon zest. Magnificent.

You really should watch the salt, he reminded himself- but the cautionary thought passed as quickly as a false alarm ringing in a distant corridor.  Hypertension, vascular disregulation, auto-inflammation, endocrine imbalance: what did those matter, in this context? The stew was a masterpiece, destined for an important dinner with the Senior Fellows of Mellon College- blood pressure was several levels of concern beneath that.  Now, what about the wine? Neelin glanced at the snow flurries outside his kitchen window, the heavily bundled students hurrying along High Street, a Campus Police car pulling over to the icy sidewalk. A red, certainly: full-bodied, warming, with peppery spice to highlight the stew, low in intellectual gravity, perhaps, but high in immediate gratification.  He smiled at the thought. Grenache would be perfect. Yes, a Garnacha from the Spanish District- algo muy especial, verdad? There were only a few old bottles of Garnacha remaining in his cellar three stories down, but why not- they probably should be drunk up, now that their youthful tannins had melted away.

———–

He gave the stew a final stir, carefully turned off the stove, took a wicker wine basket from his pantry, and donned a comfortable pair of leather slippers kept by the front door.  Life as Most Senior Fellow was good, undeniably, and yet he held an image in his mind of a peaceful retirement in the wine country of far Northern California- if only it weren’t in the Quarantine Zone.  The classic vineyard a hundred and fifty years ago would have been on a mountaintop overlooking the Napa Valley, but over the past century that had become too hot and dry, thanks to global climate change; the southernmost latitude suitable for the cultivation of cabernet sauvignon- or any variety of vitis vinifera– lay on the upper slopes of Mt. Shasta.  Still, far-northern California was a beautiful area. Neelin hummed with contentment as he opened his front door.

A campus policeman, obviously in poor condition, was laboring heavily up the last few steps to his landing.  Neelin recognized the man as head of security, often seen stalking around the Old Campus- and hadn’t his picture been on a poster denouncing drug abuse in the YaleConn community?  His name was Haley, or Halsey, something like that. He waited patiently for the cop to pass by, but instead, Halsey stopped at his door.

“Dr. Neelin?” he asked in between gulps of air.  “I’m. Torch Halsey. Security. Have to ask you.  To come with me, sir. Routine questioning. Recent events on campus.”

Ah, thought Neelin, his wicker basket dropping to the floor.  Here at last: inevitable, really. He closed his eyes. Perhaps the dream of retiring to Northern California wasn’t that farfetched, after all.

Nobel Intentions

The yearly Nobel prizes are traditionally awarded for great accomplishments in various fields– either singular achievements or those accumulated over a lifetime– but more and more, the winners seem to be chosen with the intention of shining a light on issues of growing worldwide concern, if not alarm.

On the same day that the United Nations warned that new studies indicate climate change and its disastrous effects are coming much faster than previous calculations had shown, and that we are already seeing irreversible damage to the environment, the Nobel Prize in Economics  (one of two) was awarded to William D. Nordhaus, a professor of economics at Yale.  Nordhaus created a model for analyzing the costs of climate change and has promoted a global system of carbon taxes to combat problems caused by greenhouse gases.  Having read the Freakonomics books, I have a strong feeling that the solution to climate change will come from the field of economics.  For those interested (and all of us should be), among books by Nordhaus on the subject are The Climate Casino and A Question of Balance.

After a year of the #MeToo movement and its effects on society and culture worldwide, the degree to which the movement is limited and as yet unformed becomes painfully clear when someone like Brett Kavanaugh is elevated to the US Supreme Court.  Despite “greater awareness”, some things still don’t seem to matter:  the fact that women who have been sexually assaulted or harassed (leaving aside the particular allegations of Dr. Blasey-Ford) feel that men in power don’t sincerely listen, and don’t prioritize their reality over politics; the fact that many abused women will no longer speak out, fearing the destruction of “stepping in front of a train that will get where it’s going anyway”; and critically, the fact that many men will see no need to challenge themselves to become better people.  In the immediate wake of the Kavanaugh debacle, the Nobel Committee saw fit to recognize Denis Mukwege and Nadia Murad with the Nobel Peace Prize, for their “efforts to end the use of sexual violence as a weapon of war and armed conflict.”  No doubt the winners were selected some time ago, but the message is a timely one.

This year the Committee has also chosen more women for the Nobel Prize:  Donna Strickland in physics and Frances Arnold in chemistry.  Aside from the outstanding merits of their work, these winners may encourage more girls at school age to head into the STEM disciplines.

I have to admit, as Friday and the announcement of the Nobel Peace Prize drew near, my greatest fear was that Donald Trump might win it (as a number of his supporters have chanted at rallies), along with the leaders of North and South Korea, for the negotiations over de-nuclearization of the Korean Peninsula.  The Peace Prize is often awarded, not for a goal already reached, but in order to encourage a peace process to keep on going.  But consider this year’s winners.  How insulting would it be to them, to award the prize to a man who mocked Dr. Blasey-Ford at a political rally; who bragged about committing sexual assault; who denies science and is withdrawing the US from the Paris Agreement, working to undo measures that increase fuel efficiency, and who favors coal and oil over clean, sustainable energy sources like wind and solar?

The Nobel Prize Committee has shown sensitivity and good sense (and yes, that includes Bob Dylan!).  May the Nobel Prize continue not only to reward human accomplishment, but also to shape our view of the human condition.

On the lighter side, here is an excerpt from Fourth World, the first novel in my science fiction trilogy.  The pharmaceutical researcher Walther Beame has one eye on the Chimera Project, and his other eye on the Nobel Prize:

Dr. Walther Beame, recently-appointed Project Director at Eunigen.  Scion of a distinguished medical family, graduate of a prestigious internship and post-doctoral fellowship at MassMed.  Developer of numerous theraproteomic patents, holder of top industry awards. He was even listed, in a recent issue of Inner Circle Magazine, among New York Metropol’s most-eligible bachelors.  Ha! White-haired and balding on top, in his late fifties, still most eligible!

Yet never had he possessed the same gravitas as on this particular evening.  It was the culmination of years of work, and the potential for a major scientific advance could be compared to… well, there was simply no precedent!  Not the first multi-species gene created; not the first stem cell injected into a lab animal; not even the discovery, over two centuries ago, that DNA could be snipped apart and recombined.  But it wasn’t over yet- Beame glanced back at the two security men following him at a discreet distance, slowed his pace and forced himself to take a deep breath as he rounded the corner to enter the main lobby, where his guests were waiting.

Beame stopped abruptly and stared.  What he saw under the five-story-high ceiling looked distinctly like a religious tableau:  two women sat to the right side, heads bowed slightly in quiet conversation. By the entrance on the left, a third woman had the vigilant stance of a sentry.  And alone in the center of the dome-shaped lobby stood Benn Marr, looking so innocent and vulnerable (appearances certainly can be deceiving, thought Beame). Looming high in the air directly above Benn was a huge glowing holographic projection of Eunigen’s symbol, the caduceus entwined with a double-helix of nucleic acid sequences in lieu of snakes.  The caduceus rotated slowly on its axis, creating the effect of a giant drill pointing downward right at Benn Marr. It was one of those unplanned moments rich with symbolic meaning: He is the One. The message would hardly have been clearer if a golden halo borne by cherubs had suddenly been placed on top of Benn’s head.

 

A Pirate in the Kitchen

The news of Anthony Bourdain’s suicide in France came as a shock this morning.  And yet, somehow, it wasn’t beyond belief– he lived so intensely, so close to the edge, that it seemed almost a matter of time before some event in his life, even a minor one, would tip the scales.  Honestly, I’m glad not to be like that, but his intensity and edginess did serve as an inspiration to me in what I chose to write.

In the late 1990s, I was a mid-career physician with my eye on writing science fiction in retirement.  The books I was reading then were by authors such as Georges Perec, John Irving, William Gass, Jim Harrison and Jonathan Safran Foer.  One day, because of my love of cooking, I picked up Kitchen Confidential out of curiosity, and was immediately struck by Bourdain’s lurid stories of drug abuse, dropping out of college, alcohol addiction, brutal relationships, and the corrupt realities of the restaurant business (all the more vivid now, in the broad wake of Mario Batali, Ken Friedman, Charlie Hallowell and the #MeToo movement).  I learned about the mob’s ties to NYC fish delivery; cringed at the image of a huge pirate-like sous-chef who calmly lifted searing-hot pans out of the broiler with his bare hands; and I learned the horrible truth about what goes into those Sunday brunch buffets.  Kitchen Confidential, much more than the cookbook I was hoping for, changed everything– for me in my world view, patronage of Sunday brunches, and ultimately my fiction writing; and for Bourdain, when its success launched him into the public eye.  CNN signed him to the popular television series Parts Unknown, now cut short in its 12th season.

When interviewed by the Associated Press about Parts Unknown, he said:  “If you think about who the audience is and what their expectations might be, I think that’s the road to badness and mediocrity.  You go out there and show the best story you can as best you can.  If it’s interesting to you, hopefully it’s interesting to others.  If you don’t make television like that, it’s pandering.”

That is exactly the argument that ran through my mind almost a decade later, when writing Fourth World, the first novel in my science fiction trilogy.  Reading it over, I noted the density of medical technology (for example, genetic engineering with multi-species recombinant DNA) and discussions of related ethical questions (debated in 2018, but settled by law in 2196).  In that book, I even invented a space engine– necessitating a new, fictitious subatomic particle– in order to allow Benn and Lora to fly from Mars to Earth in only four weeks!  Was I going too far, risking the alienation of my readers?  To me, that would be better than waving a hand and simply issuing the order, “Warp nine– engage!”  Wasn’t it preferable to stay true to my own vision of the novels– to be a pirate in my own kitchen?

But who was the audience?  Who were my readers, and what might their expectations be?  If I edited the novel to suit some hypothetical, “average” reader, Anthony Bourdain would call it pandering and a road to mediocrity.  And indeed it would be.  With the conviction that this was my one, best shot at writing, I decided that if the content was interesting to me, then hopefully it would be interesting to others as well.

A few weeks ago, I spoke to two sixth-grade classes about the Fourth World series and writing (see my blog post Kids These Days!).  I advised the potential writers among them to read as much as they could, in order to absorb some of the vocabulary and craft of writing.  Also, they should write about what they know– in my case, medicine, science, colonialism, geopolitics, food and wine.  What I omitted was the importance of being true to themselves, to write what came from within, and not for the sake of external acceptance and positive reviews.

(I know, I know:  marketing!  For all those professional writers in the blogosphere who are now groaning at my remarks, I apologize and readily acknowledge that it’s easier to ignore ratings when you’ve already had a career in medicine).

Should I, or shouldn’t I, have taken an axe to potentially challenging material?  You be the judge.  Here’s the passage from Fourth World with which I wrestled long and hard, before deciding to leave it in, completely intact:

After hanging around the engine room aimlessly for a couple of days, Benn finally asked a sympathetic engineer for a tour.

“All right, Benn, I’ll give you a simplified version.  To start with, let’s consider these subatomic particles as such, although we analyze them as waves.  Flowsorb takes a variety of hyped-up particles, by-products harvested from the fusion reactor (efficient, right?) and fires these particles from the central initiator, where they first enter the cyclic counter-current mechanism. Meanwhile, at the terminal emitter, each compatible, or what we call candidate, particle degrades to a capacitron:  you remember that’s a cousin of the anti-proton, capable of absorbing energy like a sponge, storing that energy until a specific threshold is exceeded, then discharging it. Following me so far?”

Benn nodded uncertainly.

“See, the Flowsorb mechanism exploits the power of the Almighty Exponential,” said the engineer, bowing his head only half in jest.  “Changes in particle direction are forced by plasma nano-platforms, which are folded by powerful magnetic fields. These folds are embedded in thousands of larger platforms which fold into larger convolutions, and they, in turn, fold upon themselves– and so it goes, over and over.

“The repeated folding forces streams of energized particles to pass streams of capacitrons traveling in the opposite direction, millions of times over, each time transferring a portion of energy back toward the center.  Finally, a new cycle begins– but with their energy multiplied in each cycle, these exponentially-accelerated particles asymptotically approach the speed of light. You see?”

The engineer, now multiplying his own energy level, waved his hands in the air.  “Particle velocities literally explode by orders of magnitude! Then we eject these particles into space, and the rest relies on Newton’s Third Law:  you know, action and equal-slash-opposite reaction. Major thrust is what I’m talking about!  And that enables us to reach Earth in only four weeks, a journey that used to take more than seven months!”

 

Opioid of the People

Karl Marx called religion the opium of the people, its drug-like influence blinding them to the realities of the world, and therefore advocated atheism.  Also fearing an opiate effect on his audience, Bertolt Brecht used entfremdungseffekt, or alienation, in his theatrical productions in order to avoid sweeping the audience into a make-believe world.  It might be argued whether religion or theater was closer to an addictive drug historically, but in recent times, the opioid of the people turns out to be much more literally so.  It is the drug OxyContin, manufactured by Purdue Pharma.

Starting in medical school (I graduated in 1981), it was drummed into students that opioids are addictive, dangerous, life-changing, not to be prescribed lightly, a last resort only.  We grew up disciplined, ready to tackle the tough decisions, morally rigid and a bit self-righteous.  We were automatically skeptical whenever patients demanded stronger pain meds, and in steadily escalating quantities.  Of course we knew real pain existed, and we were sympathetic– but at the same time, there were sure to be malingerers, addicts, and those who would resell prescribed narcotics for a huge profit.  The fear of treating pain insufficiently was often eclipsed by the fear of being taken advantage of, as health care providers.  As we gained experience, some became better judges of character, but no one ever knew for sure; I remember a couple of seemingly reliable patients forging my signature for Demerol injections in the Urgent Care Clinic.

Then came a blizzard of editorials in medical journals and the lay press– sometime in the ’90s, as I recall– excoriating doctors for their callous under-treatment of chronic pain and pressing for a liberalized approach to the prescription of opioids.  It felt like a public shaming of our profession for its paranoia and lack of compassion, and was taken by many as welcome permission to loosen up our self-imposed standards.  But despite a universal sense of relief, a rational approach to opioids remained elusive.  It made sense that terminal cancer patients should never be denied a narcotic for their excruciating pain, but elsewhere on the spectrum of pain, the same uncertainties prevailed.

Now with the opioid crisis making daily headlines, the pendulum has swung all the way back.  The public is outraged about the ubiquity of opiates and resulting societal problems; over-prescribing doctors and the pharmaceutical companies share the blame. And it seems that Purdue Pharma had knowledge of the dangers and abuse of their product long before admitting it to drug regulators.  Huge profits and corporate greed attached to OxyContin, not surprisingly, outweighed public health concerns.

In my Fourth World novels, the drugs in question are psychopeptides, the proteins made by translating recombined multispecies DNA– including DNA discovered in Martian fossils.  The giant pharmaceutical company Eunigen discovered those fossils and secretly manufactures these products.  Here’s an excerpt from Fourth World:

“Thor Ibsen, my name is Dr. Walther Beame.”  He was speaking more rapidly now. “I am about to give you a higher dosage of a drug very similar to Deep Coma.  Is that all right with you? I should tell you that there may be a substantial risk of serious side-effects at this high a dosage, including rash, headache, fever, abdominal pain, death, incontinence, loss of taste, and loosening of the nails.  All right then?” Beame smiled thinly at Trip and nodded encouragingly as he spoke.

“Yes.  Q.”

“Note that informed consent was obtained,” Beame murmured to 0749, who duly marked a box on his datadisc.  Without further ado (except for an audible gasp from 0749), Beame then applied the Dermamist injector and emptied the entire contents of the white vial into the subject’s carotid artery.

It took only a few seconds for the effects to begin.  Trip’s eyes slammed shut, his jaw clenched, his lips pulled tightly back in a grimace reaching almost ear-to-ear and revealing gold-capped molars on either side.  Nice, thought 0749: designed to match his gold chin cup and nostril ring. Trip’s tremulous hands grabbed onto the seat, knuckles white; his back arched against the plastic restraints pinning down both shoulders; his feet kicked violently against securely tightened leg straps.

…..

That wasn’t quite a seizure, thought 0749, but it was close.  He searched his datadisc. Seizures were not listed among the side-effects.

“Dr. Beame, just what are we observing here?  I mean, what are we expecting to happen to the subject?  Do you think the higher dose of drug will result in a more prolonged extra-corporeal experience?  And will the withdrawal therefore be more painful than the previous?” 0749 tried to suppress the rising anger so familiar by this point in his short career at the Repro Division.  He really should get around to filling out a transfer application, and soon.

Beame continued to stare at Trip’s contorted face, as he considered the question.  0749 was struck by the resemblance between Beame’s face and that of the subject: the tightness of its expression, the mouth drawn back, the look of one greedily searching for something in the obscure distance.    Finally, the director explained matter-of-factly to his conscience-plagued lab technician, “Don’t worry yourself, 0749; he will not experience any painful withdrawal this time. Extrapolating from results so far in our titration protocol, you can rest assured that this time the subject will successfully expire.”