Godstone

I looked down at the speedometer; the needle pointed to 100 kilometres per hour. The car, the latest hydrogen-cell model from Toyota, would not go any faster.

It was nearly four in the morning, and the road was deserted. Thick forest lay on both sides, and it was very dark; if there was a moon, the clouds covered it well. There was no lighting.

For the past hour, I had been listening to a call-in radio discussion about what would make a perfect world. The radio audience, insomniacs from all over Europe, called in to tell the radio host their visions of utopia. Everyone had a different idea.

One lady said that in a perfect world, the sky would always be blue. The radio host predictably pointed out that if the sky were always blue, there wouldn’t be any rain. And if there were no rain, the world would turn into a desert.

Another caller said that in a perfect world, there would be no suffering and no death. But if no one died, then everyone would live forever, I thought.

“Do we really want to live forever?” asked the programme host. “And would the earth be able to support that population if we did?”

One man said that in his perfect world, all the women would be beautiful, there would be no such thing as marriage, and there would be free love for everyone. The radio host asked the caller how he would make sure that the men stayed around to be good fathers to their children. He replied that the community would be responsible for bringing up and educating children.

Maybe that would be a good idea, I thought. Maybe it wouldn’t.

Many callers said that in a perfect world, they would have the freedom to do what they wanted. “But what,” asked the host, “if your freedom had negative consequences on other people? You may want the freedom to play loud music at night, but your neighbour would suffer. You may want the freedom to drive home drunk, but what if you kill someone on the way?

“And,” added the host, “you may want the freedom to burn coal or oil, as they do in Great Britain, but if you pollute and destroy the planet in the process…”

If I had been at home in Paris, I might have called the show to say that I would like to have the freedom to have as many children as I wanted, but I knew that the host would only say, “And what if everyone did the same?”

One lady called in to say that in her perfect world, people would have the freedom to think or believe what they wanted; they would be able to practise whatever religion they believed in. The host laughed and said, “Well, in that case, we already live in a perfect world. Besides,” he added, “some people think that in a perfect world, there would be no religion at all.”

Another caller said that in her perfect world, people would have what they needed rather than what they wanted. Everyone would be the same; there would be no disparity in income or wealth. The host agreed that in theory that would indeed be perfect, but in practice it would be impossible. If everyone had everything they needed, then there would be no need to work, and if no one worked, then no one would have any food to eat or clothes to wear.

As the show moved on, one woman called in to say that the discussion was pointless. “Mankind,” she said, “is imperfect, so how can mankind make a perfect world?”

The radio host then said something that Gee had once said to me, that mankind was the only animal on earth that always wanted more, not always in terms of material wealth but also in terms of personal achievement, and that people always had to compare themselves with others.

The host gave the example of a young man whose dream was to run a marathon. He trained hard and completed the marathon, but then he wanted to do a second marathon and run it faster. He wanted not only to beat his personal best but also to do better than the other competitors—to rise in the rankings.

The radio host gave a second example. A young lady wanted to learn how to ride a horse, and as soon as she had mastered the basics, she entered into local competitions. She knew that she wouldn’t win, but she wanted to see how she compared with others, and she enjoyed the competition.

Most animals are happy to eat, sleep, and procreate, explained the radio host, but man wants more. He wants to progress. He may want a bigger house, a faster car, a better school for his children, or a more upmarket club where he can play golf. The problem is that as soon as man gets what he wants, it is not enough; he wants something else. No other animal is like that.

I thought about that for a while, but if it weren’t in mankind’s nature to want to continually improve things, then we would all still be living in caves. We wouldn’t be listening to a radio show about how to make a perfect world. We would just be trying to survive and not get eaten by wild animals.

One man called in to tell a joke about an American tourist in Mexico. Every morning the American watched a local fisherman come in with his catch and sell the fish on the quayside.

“Why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?” the American asked the fisherman.

The fisherman explained that his small catch was enough to meet his needs and those of his family.

The American asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

“I look after my children and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, have a few drinks, play the guitar, and sing a few songs. I have a full life.”

“But if you fished longer every day, you could sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you could buy a bigger boat. With the extra money the larger boat would bring, you could buy a second one and a third one and so on until you had an entire fleet of trawlers.

“Instead of selling your fish to a middleman, you could negotiate directly with the processing plants and then even open your own plant. You could also buy a fleet of trucks to transport the fish, perhaps even a cargo plane to export the fish to Europe or Japan.

“You could leave this little village and move to New York City and run your business from there.”

“How long would that take?” asked the fisherman.

“Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years,” replied the American.

“And after that?”

“Afterwards? That’s when it gets really interesting,” answered the American, laughing. “When your business gets really big, you can start selling stocks and make millions!”

“Millions? Really? And after that?”

“After that you’ll be able to retire, live in a little village near the coast, sleep late, play with your children, catch a few fish, take a siesta, and spend your evenings drinking and enjoying your friends.”

As the programme was winding down, someone called to say that we all lived on a spectrum, with freedom at one end and responsibility at the other. We had the freedom, for example, to make money but also the responsibility to make sure others had enough money with which to live decent lives. He said that a perfect world for him would be one where everyone treated each other with respect and dignity, told the truth, and was honest in their dealings.

“In a perfect world,” he said, “everyone would be happy, but they would only be happy if they all worked for the good of the community and for others. Giving,” he added, “makes you happier than receiving.”

I thought about this as I drove. I asked myself whether I treated others with respect and dignity. And did I give back to the community as much or more than I received?

The clouds cleared a little and the moon came out; it wasn’t a full moon but nearly. The road was dry, and visibility was good. We had another two hours to go before we arrived. The village bakery shop would not open until 7:00 a.m., but I would drop everyone off at the chalet as soon as we arrived and put the kids back to bed.

Perhaps they would sleep another couple of hours. I would then go back to the bakery to get breakfast for everyone: croissants,pain au chocolat, and brioche.

The dashboard clock clicked over to 4:00 a.m., and I listened to the early morning news, the volume still low enough to not wake the others. The newsreader sounded sleepy, even sleepier than I.

The GGC, or Grand Governing Council, the newsreader began, was due to hold its monthly meeting later that day at their headquarters in Babylon. The three subjects on the agenda were climate change, population growth, and the rebel colony in Great Britain.

The GGC was worried that the natural shifting of the earth on its axis would result in a new ice age; experts had warned that temperatures were likely to fall by about two degrees Celsius across the globe by 2020, in just twenty-five years’ time. This could lead to mass migration of both animals and humans in the northern hemisphere towards the equator.

The GGC was worried not just about migration but also about food production, with agricultural land lost to ice. The newsreader warned that falling temperatures would lead to increased ice coverage across the food-producing regions in the northern hemisphere. She gave the example of the Mer de Glace, the glacier on Mont Blanc, which was already expanding. She said that if it continued to expand at the same rate for the next one hundred years, it would stretch as far as the French city of Lyon.

The GGC was also due to discuss population growth. The newsreader explained that the world’s population was forecast to increase from its current two billion people to three billion by the end of the century, about the maximum that the earth could support without environmental damage. Demographic experts felt that the world population would at that point level off and then begin to fall again.

I knew that if the stone hadn’t allowed me to go back in time, the world’s population would have been about twice as high as it was now. As a result of my journey back in time, there would be three billion people less on earth by the end of the century than there otherwise would have been.

I thought of Salim and his fellow warmongers and eco-terrorists. Back in 1986, they had tried to start a nuclear war that could have wiped out 80 percent of the world’s population, about four billion people in total. I had thwarted their plans by changing history, but in the process I had stopped three billion people from being born.

The thought had haunted me for the past few years. Was stopping all those babies from being born the same as killing them? All those lives that never happened, all the happiness and heartache that make up human lives. Would it have been better if they had lived, at least for a while? What was it that Tennyson had said? “It is better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all.”

But it was more than that; there was also the sheer randomness of it. The world to which I came back was very different from the one that I had left. The cities were smaller, much smaller, and the forests were much bigger. The fact that there was half as many people also meant that half of the people that I had known simply didn’t exist.

Simon, my best friend from school and university, had never been born. But then my flat in Onslow Square didn’t exist either; with fewer people in the world, there was less demand for housing, and London’s urban sprawl stopped in Mayfair.

But my biggest worry had been for Mary: Would she be there when I got back? Or would she, like Simon, be one of the unborn billions?

All this made me wonder whether Salim’s solution might have been better than mine.

And Imad? Would the world have been better off if he had given the stone to the Soviets? Could they have saved lives where I only stopped them from being lived?

But the thought that troubled me the most was this: could I have arrived at a better outcome by not travelling back in time but by trying to make everyone live more sustainable lives? Could the earth have supported us all if only we lived differently?

Perhaps Irene, the lady I had met on the bus to Eilat, had been right. Perhaps the best intentions don’t always lead to the best outcomes.

I saw a lone truck in the distance, and I pulled out to overtake it. It was the first time on this journey that I had had to overtake anything. The road was straight, and I would easily be able to see any approaching car by its headlights. Even so, I wasn’t used to having to overtake anything; I sat up in my seat and put both hands on the wheel.

The newsreader was still talking about the agenda for the GGC meeting; the biggest debate was expected to concern Great Britain where a rebellion had broken out the previous year. The country had declared independence and established parliamentary democracy. It was now effectively a self-governing nation.

The GGC had held a global referendum on the issue earlier that year. The referendum asked the question whether the GGC should reassert its authority over Great Britain by force or by diplomacy. Of course, the vote was overwhelmingly for diplomacy.

Talks were going badly, and the British parliament had recently announced two major policy initiatives. The first was that they would soon start to burn locally produced coal for their energy needs. The second was they would soon start manufacturing arms just in case the GGC did decide to use force against them.

As far as I could see, there was no good solution to the problem, only a choice between bad solutions.

Some friends of mine had urged me to go into politics, to stand for election for my local council and then—who knows?—work my way up to the GGC. But I didn’t think that politics were for me. My family was more important; I wanted to be there for them.

Besides, there had recently been rumours of corruption within the GGC. There were suggestions that some GCC members were acting for their own personal gain and not for the collective good. I was particularly worried by a small group of companies that had recently been lobbying to change the laws and allow petroleum to be used as an energy source. Of course it wasn’t necessary. The world had such a great mix of solar, wind, tidal, and hydrogen-cell energy that it didn’t need either coal or petroleum. But the latter were so cheap that it was inevitable that someone would push for them. There were rumours that they might get their way.

Perhaps more worrying were the rumours that some local leaders were implementing mass sterilisation programmes and forced abortions to meet their population quota targets. The GGC had set up a committee of enquiry to investigate the stories, and the committee had found no evidence of them. Even so, the rumours persisted.

I was about level with the back of the truck when it began to sway alarmingly from side to side. Suddenly, I heard Adam’s voice in my head, saying, “Brake, Dad, brake!” I looked into the rear mirror, expecting to see Adam sitting up, wide-awake. Instead his head was leaned up against the window, his eyes closed. My foot pressed hard on the brake pedal.

“Harder, Dad, brake harder!” Adam shouted inside my head.

I did as he told me. The Toyota began to lurch, and I felt the twins sliding forward in their seats. I looked again in the mirror; Adam was now awake.

Less than fifty metres in front of us, a car had appeared from nowhere and had stopped sideways across the road. I was blocked on my left by a crash barrier and on my right by the truck. I realised that I had no choice; I was going to hit the car in front of me. And I was going to hit it hard.

The truck to my right began to waver across into my lane, moving to the left, taking some precious centimetres. There was a murmur from the back, a complaint from one of the kids as they slid off their seats.

I had read somewhere that your whole life passes in front of your eyes in the moment before you die. I had always thought that would be impossible: How could you relive your whole life in just a few seconds—or even microseconds? The answer, as I found out then, is that time slows down when you are about to die. You really do see your whole life passing in front of your eyes.

I saw myself in the bathroom at the family farm, just out of the bath and wrapped in a warm towel and sitting on my mother’s knees. Then I was in the orchard, the long grass lush with dew. Then my first day of school, my father tying my shoelaces, the horrid milk we were forced to drink each day at break time, the tinned sardines for lunch every Friday, the school test that I didn’t think I would have to do on my birthday, the itchy collar and tie of my first school uniform, my last day at school, my graduation from university, my voyage through Turkey to Egypt, my journey back in time, Gee’s conversion to Islam and her funeral shortly afterwards in Minneapolis, my long search to find Mary and my joy when I found her, my proposal and then our wedding, the birth of the twins.

I felt the car’s steering wheel turn to the right. I looked down and saw Mary’s hand on the wheel. I waited to hear the scrunch of metal on metal as we moved across the lane and into the truck on the right. I felt her hand turning the wheel again, moving the Toyota farther to the right. There was still no scrunch.

The car that was blocking my lane was just a few metres away. It had been hit on the side, and both passenger doors had been knocked inwards. A child, a boy of about ten, was in the backseat trying to open the door from the inside. He was trapped inside the car, and the light of our headlights caught the look of terror on his face. He realised that we were going to hit him, and I wondered whether his own too-short life was also passing in front of his eyes.

I felt Mary jerk the steering wheel farther to the right. The Toyota lurched sideways and we missed the car by centimetres. The truck that had been on my right had stopped on the side of the road, allowing us to move over and avoid a terrible accident.

I stopped our own car, and my legs went into spasms, shaking uncontrollably. I went to open my door to get out; I wanted to see if I could help. Mary put a restraining hand on my shoulder and pointed out of my side window.

A man was standing ten metres from our car. Despite the poor light, I saw the burn scars on the side of his face, scars that he must have received during the hotel fire in Kaz. He looked at me and smiled, a chillingly sinister half-smile.

“Drive!” Mary shouted at me. I already had the Toyota in gear, the wheels spinning slightly on the loose gravel. My legs were still shaking uncontrollably. I looked in the rear-view mirror.

Salim was standing in the middle of the road, watching us drive away. He didn’t move.

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