"I remember a few generations ago
when you started fining people for littering our roadsides and lands. We can't thank you enough for that," he
assured me. "But now you say you're
littering the sky--and warming the entire planet in the process?"
"We have air conditioners to keep us
from getting too warm," I boasted.
"Those machines that pump heat from
your houses?" he asked, obviously annoyed.
"What about us? There's only so
much wing flapping we can do to lower our body temperatures." I could sense he was becoming angry. "And seventeen years from now, and another
seventeen? You're an intelligent
species. Can't you limit this warming?"
I explained to him that many
countries had agreed to limit their emissions at Kyoto, about the last time his
brood emerged.
"And how's that been going?" my
insect friend asked, with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
"No overall reduction . . ."
"None at all?" he queried.
"We've had more international
meetings and more are planned," I explained.
"But most conferences are known more for their failures than their
successes."
"What do I report to my brood?" he
asked finally. "That I've communicated
with a member of a species that isn't exhibiting the signs of intelligent life
we've been hearing about over generations and generations?"
"We are intelligent," I
answered. "We make millions of weather
measurements that we process using giant "out-of-body brains' that Moore's Law
predicts will be 2000 times more powerful the next time you emerge. In the meantime, you can warn your brood
their soil will warm and its microbial composition will change, spring will
come sooner each year, you'll probably experience extreme downpours, storms and
flooding, and many of the trees you depend on will keep moving north."
This was harsh, but since his brood
would be underground for another seventeen years it deserved to be told the
truth. His wings sagged as reality sank
in. "Do you realize what you and your fellow humans are doing to us?" he asked.
I had had enough of his droopy-winged
complaining. "Humans will suffer from
climate change too--experts estimate up to one-hundred million additional deaths
by the time you emerge again."
His wings shot up and he made the
loud screeching sound cicadas are known for.
He was mad, and letting me know it.
"A hundred million? That many
will die around here in the coming weeks to provide for our next
generation. Doesn't your species make
similar sacrifices for future generations?" he asked, his wings fluttering
angrily.
"Maybe if your brood changes and
returns every seven years you'll have a better chance of surviving," I said, trying
to be helpful.
"Seventeen years is the way we've
evolved," he responded. "We can't change
that. Wouldn't it be easier for you
transform your polluting ways?"
"Like you, we've evolved the way we
have, and may not be able to change our ways," I concluded.
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