Mother of Demons by Eric Flint

She had interrupted at that point.

“I’d like to butt in, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all!” said Julius, waving his hands.

She leaned over, extending her hand.

“I’m Indira Toledo. Historian.”

“Julius Cohen. Paleontologist.”

Her slender hand had been engulfed in Julius’ vigorous handshake. He was a large man, fat in a healthy-looking sort of way. His complexion was ruddy, and his features were round and pudgy. Except for the kinky black hair, and the lack of a beard, he was the spitting image of Santa Claus.

Despite his harmless appearance, she was tense with anger. She tried to relax, because she knew that her thin, sharp features (normally quite attractive) were extremely intimidating when she was mad. But she couldn’t help herself.

Arrogant bastard.

“Tell me, something, Mr. Cohen—”

“Please, please! Julius!”

“All right, then. Julius. I was born on the Altiplano. My father’s Latin American. But I’m descended from Bengali immigrants, and I still have lots of relatives living in Calcutta. It’s only been in the last generation or so that the Bengalis have finally been able to pull themselves out of some of the worst poverty the human race has ever experienced. They’ve even managed to limit the destruction during the monsoon season. But it’s still a hard life, for most of them, and they’re still packed together like sardines. What are those millions—millions, Mr. Cohen—of people supposed to do after you raise the sea level? Learn to swim? Or will you take them into all the extra space you’ve got in New York City?”

He shook his head ruefully. “Damn, my accent always gives me away.” He stared at her thoughtfully, and she couldn’t help but notice the intelligence in his eyes. Then, with a warmth that struck her like a great wave, his eyes had crinkled and a huge grin had spread across his face.

“Hey, lady, I really don’t wanna drown a lot of cute little Bengali kids. Honest, I don’t.”

He made a self-deprecating gesture. “You’ve got to forgive my big mouth. I have a bad habit of fixing on a point and taking it to its logical conclusion. But I’m really not a stupid jackass, honest.”

Then, more seriously: “I know we’ve got to maintain the earth’s temperature where it is. The human race has only finally—barely—managed to carve out a decent enough life for everyone. The last thing we need to do is shatter all that hard work by upsetting the climatic apple-cart. It’s just—oh hell, the thing that irritates me about these ecofreaks isn’t what they call for, it’s their goddammed self-righteousness. For all their claims to being the guardians of life, the truth is that they’re at least as homocentric as anyone else. They just won’t admit it. It’s not `life’ they care about, it’s the way life affects humans.”

“I think you’re being unfair.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But as a professional biologist I’ve always found that people have the screwiest ideas about life. Let me ask you something. Where would you rather spend a week’s vacation—next to a beautiful clear blue lake in the mountains, or next to a swamp?”

She snorted. “What do you think?”

“Of course—at the lake. And while you were there, I’m sure you’d gaze out over that beautiful stretch of bright blue water and think serene philosophical thoughts about the glories of nature. But are you aware that cold mountain lakes are one of the most inhospitable conditions for life? It’s true. That lake is a sterile desert. There are a few life-forms that have managed to adapt to those conditions—trout, for instance. But the biomass in that lake is a pittance compared to the life that thrives in a swamp.”

He waved his arms about enthusiastically.

“Swamps are great! They’re wonderful! Life adores a swamp! You don’t believe me? Try walking around in a swamp sometime without stepping all over all kinds of juicy life-forms. Really juicy—soft, and slimy, and wriggly, and crawling all over the place.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Ugh! No thanks.”

He grinned. “See? You’re just another bigot. And that’s my point. People will get all worked up over pollution in a mountain lake. Trout are pretty; tasty, too. But who cares about a swamp?”