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Doctor Crumberg and the Pursuit of HungrinessPage 1He
had his work cut out for him of course. Any doctor worth his
synthesised pepper substitute did these days or he wasn't a doctor for
long. The World Organisation for Sustainable Foodstuffs, his employer,
had abolished global hunger. Almost, anyway. It was down to the likes
of Crumberg to fulfill WOSF's mission of providing nourishment to the
entire world.
"I know they're still 'out there'. What I want to know is where exactly,"
he was shouting into the transceiver. He'd have looked it up himself,
only he didn't have remote access to the WOSF database from where he
was, which at a Varied Foods corporate conference. He didn't need
remote access: that was what aides were supposed to be for.
"But
what difference does it make, sir? You can speak to them from anywhere
in the world, just like we are now," came the reply. The research
aide's habit of not doing his job until he'd had every detail and
contingency explained to him was beginning to wear thin. Before the
sentence had finished being said Crumberg had jotted himself a memo to
recommend this one for a transfer.
"The difference is so that I can go and see them myself. I can't do that from anywhere in the world."
Surprising
himself with a personal best in self control he added patiently, "So
perhaps you now understand why I need the information I have spent this
morning asking you to provide. Would you be so kind as to now provide it, please?"
A
moment later he received geographical coordinates and an address which
he entered into his vehicle's computer. The car lurched back and up,
giving him the stomach dropping sensation he'd not yet gotten used to,
despite seven years using the same model of company-jetcar. As it
whisked him up, up, up above the city he reflected that while WOSF had
been all but obliterating world hunger through the painstaking
integration of laboratory designed SuperFoodsTM into every mainstream
society on Earth the manufacturers of personal aircraft had not
yet found a way to ensure the aforementioned food stayed where it
belonged, which was to say in the stomach. He shrugged dismissively as
he leaned over into the stock standard VomBasin and gave up the pitiful
brunch he'd been able to fit in between meetings.
That part he'd gotten used to.
It
was only a few hours until he reached his destination, enough time to
watch the morning's newscasts and find out a bit about those to whom he
was paying a visit. Crumberg was steadfastly against making
appointments. This was based on personal experience - the types of
people who wanted appointments with him
were always unscrupulous types wanting something from him or his
organisation, usually for nothing in return. He held strong beliefs on
the virtues of a good first impression, and so he made it a rule to
make visits unannounced so he could at least fit in a handshake and a
bit of eye contact before the initial assessment could be made.
The
Farmers Enclave was supposedly a myth. The WOSF database described it
as a secret society of backward, guerrilla agriculturalists undermining
global initiatives in the name of vague ideals and questionable ethics.
Crumberg knew better, having been tasked with bringing their influence
under that of the regulation of WOSF. They'd recently made news on
some human interest story or other, which had caused them to come to
the attention of Crumberg's employers.
In the newscast
they'd seemed like harmless, if a little low-tech, country folk. That
was, until one understood their way of life which was where the problem
lay. Growing their own food! Crumberg had first simply stared. Then
he'd scoffed. Then he'd raged. There was no need to grow crops.
SuperFoodsTM were in abundant supply, worldwide, available to anyone at
any time, for next to (or in some cases literally) nothing. Food, grown
from a nameless plant which had been genetically tailored to meet every
known human nutritional requirement with its numerous positive
side-effects and ever expanding library of flavours was simply the end
of hunger. Growing crops, on even the minutest scale, was madness! Food
that was made of rude, naturally occurring cells, the eating of which
equated to mere guessing in
terms of nourishing the body was beyond belief. Moreover it was a risk
to the environment which had only lately begun to recoup from the
devastation wrought throughout the nineteenth, twentieth and
twenty-first centuries.
Crumberg intended to have it out
plainly. A simple explanation, from a dedicated specialist no less,
would surely suffice. If not, he would explain WOSF's legal position
after which they would be cowed into agreement. If they still refused
to yield to reason the resulting legal battle would leave them,
financially, without the means to pursue their agricultural madness. He
had it all planned out.
Touchdown went almost unnoticed,
the usual smoothness that was apparently impossible to duplicate for
takeoff. The door hissed open at his impatient hand signal and he
stepped out onto-
Mud?
The
shoe containing the weight bearing foot slid a little and he flailed
his arms to regain his balance, wanging his elbow a good one on the
open gull wing door in the process. Recoiling, he shifted his weight to
his other foot which in turn slid out from under him, toppling him
completely. Before his bottom reached the wet ground to ruin the pants
of his ivory suit, two strong hands gripped him under the armpits and
he was hauled mercifully back up to his feet, and set there with
deliberate care.
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