integrated agro-industrial concept is on trial here. You know what happens if you're on your own better than I do . . . ."
They were interrupted by a knock. Courtney Graves came into the room, her long blonde hair in a tangled swirl, her white blouse soaked. "It's hot out there. Hello, Mr. Franklin."
"Hi, Courtney . . . . Look, Bill, if Farbenwerke and Krupp bail on us, we're dead. It takes about a grand an acre to develop the farms, and sure, some of that's fixed cost we've already hacked, but it's still about $750 an acre from here to the end."
"A hundred and sixty million dollars," Courtney said quickly before Adams could take out his calculator. He never could do figures in his head. "But that's not the real problem, is it, Mr. Franklin?"
Jefferson Franklin shook his head. "No. The chemical works, fertilizer production, electrolyzers—everything was built modular, and we're just about to capacity with what we've got. We need the new units the backers were sending in. I'm not even sure Nuclear General can recover the investment if we can't finish the project . . . . It all depended on the integration, power and heat and water and everything phased in just right, and it takes a damn big scale for it to be economical . . . ."
"Instant industrialization," Courtney finished. "The only industry in this country. It's just got to work! These people have nothing without us . . . ."
"This is not a venture in altruism," Adams reminded her.
"It is for the World Mission Society," she retorted.
"We're trying," Franklin said. "When the World Court made South Africa turn Namibia loose, the SAs were pretty generous by their lights. Gave Namibia twenty-four million bucks, that's about forty dollars a head, just about the annual income. Loaned them another ten million on a long-term low-interest deal. And that's all these people have got. They sunk every penny in Otjiwar, no wonder they worry about Ifnoka. And look, even in the fertile parts of this country it takes fifty, a hundred, sometimes two hundred acres to feed a man."
"How're you doing here?" Adams asked.
"Current production, we can feed ten people an acre. That's using two thousand gallons of water per acre a day. We've also got enough power to make the fertilizers, and some chemicals and cement for construction and export. I can feed the whole population of Namibia and still have surplus cash crops to sell Israel . . . I could before this mess started, anyway."
Adams found the coffee pot behind the drafting table's console. "Tell me about this refugee situation."
"Over a hundred thousand have come in. Ifnoka encourages them, tells them they'll get jobs, the good life, money—and we can't give it to them. They stream into the cities and make trouble for the government. Even though they get more here than where they came from, it's not enough . . . ."
"Yeah." Adams was grim. "That's when people usually riot, when they're getting more but not as much as they expected." He poured coffee.
"Where do they come from?" Courtney asked.
"God knows," Jeff told her. "The Republic. Botswana. Rondidi. All over Africa, I think. Jesus, Bill. I don't know what to do, and Father Percy's no help. He says feed them, never mind the cost."
"You can't solve famine by feeding people," Adams intoned. "First principle of ecology. If you can't make people self-sufficient, your relief does more harm than good. OK, that's about ten thousand acres, another ten million bucks investment to expand—can you do it?"
Franklin went to his desk and moved a lever. A console pivoted up from the desk top, and he punched at its buttons for a moment. "Won't take ten million," he said. "I can expand another ten thousand acres for about seven. Costs us up to three percent of our chemical export capacity, though, and there'll be no reserve power left at all. And what good is it, Bill? There'll just be more of 'em. Ifnoka makes it sound like this is paradise."
"Leave that to
They were interrupted by a knock. Courtney Graves came into the room, her long blonde hair in a tangled swirl, her white blouse soaked. "It's hot out there. Hello, Mr. Franklin."
"Hi, Courtney . . . . Look, Bill, if Farbenwerke and Krupp bail on us, we're dead. It takes about a grand an acre to develop the farms, and sure, some of that's fixed cost we've already hacked, but it's still about $750 an acre from here to the end."
"A hundred and sixty million dollars," Courtney said quickly before Adams could take out his calculator. He never could do figures in his head. "But that's not the real problem, is it, Mr. Franklin?"
Jefferson Franklin shook his head. "No. The chemical works, fertilizer production, electrolyzers—everything was built modular, and we're just about to capacity with what we've got. We need the new units the backers were sending in. I'm not even sure Nuclear General can recover the investment if we can't finish the project . . . . It all depended on the integration, power and heat and water and everything phased in just right, and it takes a damn big scale for it to be economical . . . ."
"Instant industrialization," Courtney finished. "The only industry in this country. It's just got to work! These people have nothing without us . . . ."
"This is not a venture in altruism," Adams reminded her.
"It is for the World Mission Society," she retorted.
"We're trying," Franklin said. "When the World Court made South Africa turn Namibia loose, the SAs were pretty generous by their lights. Gave Namibia twenty-four million bucks, that's about forty dollars a head, just about the annual income. Loaned them another ten million on a long-term low-interest deal. And that's all these people have got. They sunk every penny in Otjiwar, no wonder they worry about Ifnoka. And look, even in the fertile parts of this country it takes fifty, a hundred, sometimes two hundred acres to feed a man."
"How're you doing here?" Adams asked.
"Current production, we can feed ten people an acre. That's using two thousand gallons of water per acre a day. We've also got enough power to make the fertilizers, and some chemicals and cement for construction and export. I can feed the whole population of Namibia and still have surplus cash crops to sell Israel . . . I could before this mess started, anyway."
Adams found the coffee pot behind the drafting table's console. "Tell me about this refugee situation."
"Over a hundred thousand have come in. Ifnoka encourages them, tells them they'll get jobs, the good life, money—and we can't give it to them. They stream into the cities and make trouble for the government. Even though they get more here than where they came from, it's not enough . . . ."
"Yeah." Adams was grim. "That's when people usually riot, when they're getting more but not as much as they expected." He poured coffee.
"Where do they come from?" Courtney asked.
"God knows," Jeff told her. "The Republic. Botswana. Rondidi. All over Africa, I think. Jesus, Bill. I don't know what to do, and Father Percy's no help. He says feed them, never mind the cost."
"You can't solve famine by feeding people," Adams intoned. "First principle of ecology. If you can't make people self-sufficient, your relief does more harm than good. OK, that's about ten thousand acres, another ten million bucks investment to expand—can you do it?"
Franklin went to his desk and moved a lever. A console pivoted up from the desk top, and he punched at its buttons for a moment. "Won't take ten million," he said. "I can expand another ten thousand acres for about seven. Costs us up to three percent of our chemical export capacity, though, and there'll be no reserve power left at all. And what good is it, Bill? There'll just be more of 'em. Ifnoka makes it sound like this is paradise."
"Leave that to
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