In a violent movement Clifford Newman rose to his feet, knocking his chair over and commanding the attention of every single man and women sitting around him.
Moments before he had been sitting, or rather festering, in his chair as delegates on either side of him screamed at each other. He had placed his hands on the black reflective surface of the table, finger by finger. Taking a deep breath he had prepared to stand, not knowing what he was going to say, but preparing to stand anyway. Now he stared at his own bewildered reflection in table. He still did not know what to say.
"Is there something you would like to add, Mr. Newman?" inquired the chair.
"Yes," confirmed Clifford, but as to what it was he wasn't sure.
"And would share that with us?"
The entire conference room was silent, all eyes on him, and Clifford almost considered sitting down, but didn't.
Why not? He asked himself, I'm just a scientist, not a bloody politician or an Admiral. While gazing at the many eyes looking at him, some expectant and interested, some amused or annoyed, he cleared his throat.
"I've been sitting in this ch-chair," he said, indicating the one overturned on the floor, "for over eight hours. I have been, no offense to Mr. and Mrs. Niven, surrounded by screaming nitwits for the entire duration of this meeting. We haven't yet faced the facts… a-and they are simple. We have just three weeks before a celestial body the size of the moon collides with the Earth."
"Thank you, Mr. Newman, we are well aware of the gravity of our--"
"I wasn't finished," interrupted Clifford. "We have nothing nearly powerful enough to stop the object or even deflect it. I'm here as a scientist to state my professional opinion and since no one has asked me I'll tell you."
"Yes, pray tell," said a delegate from across the table with sarcasm.
"Evacuation."
Murmurs of discussion spontaneously burst out from everyone at the table. Then one voice, that of Supervisor Watkins, rose above them all.
"What you propose is impossible, there is no way for an evacuation of Earth to be organized in three weeks. It cannot be done."
"Then in three weeks the human race will be extinct."
More noise from the rest of the table, but Watkins remained silent. Then once again, his voice silenced the others.
"What do you propose we do then? How do we evacuate the entire human race from the planet?"
"You don't. A committee or something would have to be created to select the crew. Base it on genetic traits, crisis control, problem solving, any basic need for survival. Then send out as many of these teams as we can put together, with as much technology, food, water, and oxygen into every available space worthy vessel on the planet. That is the only hope for mankind now!"
No one, not even Supervisor Watkins had anything to say. Each one was dumbstruck with the implications of Earth's destruction. Their minds, so busy arguing and bickering, now struggled to grasp the idea of an entire sentient species not existing, and the idea that they were it.
"We have," continued Newman, "some technology capable of recycling oxygen, it's very primitive but it's better than nothing. For food, I can only think of putting livestock on the shuttles with the crews. Where they will go once in space is anyone's guess, we have some rough ideas of where some possibly habitable planets might be, but they are light-years away. When they get there new governments must be founded, new societies created. Earth must created anew on another planet, another world. It's our greatest and only chance for survival."
One or two seconds elapsed in total silence. Clifford Newman, the scientist, took a deep, shaky breath and looked about the room. Reaching down slowly to his chair, he set it upright. Then sitting down, he exhaled.
The room burst into a cacophony louder than before but it was music to Clifford's ears. Representatives from different countries spoke to each other about classified projects concerning propulsion, food production, and other technologies. The Earth was unquestionably gone in three weeks, but humanity still had a chance.
© 1997 Daniel Parke -- All Rights Reserved