The Spot Writers – “An Offer We Couldn’t Refuse” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt: write about a memorable gift.

This week’s story was written by Phil Yeats. In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. Book three should be out soon. For information about these books, visit his website–https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

An Offer We Couldn’t Refuse

by Phil Yeats

I rushed home after the Environmental Conservation League’s extraordinary meeting. The ECL was the largest and most influential environmental group in the province. This evening’s meeting was remarkable. It wasn’t a meeting to discuss something mundane that couldn’t wait for a scheduled meeting. It was a discussion of an extraordinary opportunity.

Landscape painter Clary Franklin, a League member who recently joined the executive, offered us an equity stake in a carbon dioxide sequestering project. Clary, an ardent environmentalist and artist in the tradition of Tom Thomson, was the youngest son of oil baron Harold Franklin. It was an undeniable fact, and Clary acknowledged Franklin Petroleum’s ownership of the idle carbon sequestering project.

The executive and most of the audience favoured acceptance of Clary’s proposal. I, with a few others, recommended caution. We wanted to do our homework and investigate the details. After much discussion, our guarded approach prevailed. A quick decision was postponed.

I went away happy. They’d seconded me to a group tasked with looking into the chemistry of the process that converted CO₂ into simple organic molecules like ethanol. That made sense. I was a graduate student in chemistry and knowledgeable about the subject.

At home, I began digging into the chemistry.

Darnell Dodd was a graduate student wunderkind at our university who published two pivotal papers in super acid chemistry before abandoning his studies. He didn’t graduate, but maintained a small bunker-like laboratory behind the chemistry building. He was seldom seen around campus, but he maintained an ongoing association with the department. His current interest, according to departmental scuttlebutt, was photosynthesis.

My search found the master’s thesis of an engineering student at one of the university’s satellite campuses. He’d designed and built a three-reactor test facility that produced ethanol from the super-acid-catalysed gas-phase reaction of carbon dioxide with water vapour. The energy source for the endothermic reaction was sunlight.

At 11:30, when someone hammered on my door, I was lost in the oft-quoted thesis. I opened the door and Minerva Hastings stormed into my room.

Minnie was a fellow member of the ECL. When I left the meeting, the Poli-Sci student was discussing the unexpected offer with other political-economists. Had that discussion just broken off?

“Why the skepticism?” she demanded. “Isn’t it a wonderful opportunity? A magnificent gift for the ECL, and the world’s golden opportunity to tackle carbon sequestering?”

“At first, I was worried we were jumping aboard too quickly. I figured we should step back and give the idea a chance to gestate. Then I asked myself, ‘why do I know so little?’ I mean, it’s a chemistry story. I should have known about it.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Don’t know. Looks like a respected chemical researcher took a side road into chemical engineering, and I missed it entirely.”

She smiled, one of her trademark mischievous grins. “Sounds like an academic scientist ignoring work in applied fields.”

“I suppose, but this must be important. Why wasn’t it reported in New Scientist and the mainstream media?” I paused, scratching my head. “I dunno. Did someone squashed this story, kept it from the press?”

“You suggesting there’s something wrong?”

“You suggested a minute ago that this may be the world’s golden opportunity to solve the climate change problems. That’s what you suggested, isn’t it?”

“More or less. But you’re not explaining the problem you foresee.”

“A breakthrough of this magnitude should’ve caused a sensation. Oil companies should’ve been jumping on the bandwagon, and governments should be climbing all over it, claiming it solves the national carbon emission problem.”

“But Clary says they need support, specifically support from our major environmental group.”

“See. That says there’s a problem. We need to discover what.”

“Okay, you start. What’s wrong with the science?”

“The basic chemistry described in Dodd’s papers is both solid and breaks important new ground.”

“Give me the layman’s version of his discovery.”

“It goes something like this. He used super acid molecules stabilized on solid surfaces to catalyze interesting gas phase reactions—a new sub-field of gas phase chemistry.”

“Carbon dioxide’s a gas. Does that mean he learned something new about CO₂ chemistry?”

“Not in his papers, but I presume he did. That’s the problem. I can’t find anything that links Dodd’s initial papers and the engineering study showing details of energy costs and product yields for the process Clary described this evening. There’s nothing about the chemistry or how the catalyst works.”

“Okay. there are gaps, but we’re talking about a commercial venture. Presumably, the proponents are keeping the details from their competitors.”

“Yeah, yeah, know about that. But there’s something that doesn’t ring true.”

“For God’s sakes, Liam. What?”

“Two things, actually. First, Clary said the other oil companies are opposed—”

“Don’t see why not? They see a new competitor—an industrial processor that would compete with them.”

“Because they will produce ethanol for gasoline and a feedstock for the plastics industry?”

When Millie nodded, I continued. “Nothing new. They already compete with biofuel ethanol, and a way to sequester carbon dioxide must be in their interest.”

“And your other problem?”

“Why are governments standing in their way?”

“Because they’re afraid of being sucked into another industrial greenwashing scam?”

“Strong possibility, and it would explain why Clary wants us onboard. But I have an alternative explanation. The oil industry and governments, federal and provincial, are in this together. They’re protecting the oil industry at all costs.”

“That’s paranoia, nothing more. Everyone agrees with you. We should proceed carefully, checking for all the pitfalls. But the bottom line is we’re on the cusp of a great opportunity. We’ll provide the world with a marvellous gift—a commercially viable way to sequester carbon dioxide.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. “I hope you’re right,” I said as I drew her into a hug.

*****

The Spot Writers – Our members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “A River of Deadly Gas” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

The task this month is to write a story where something yellow is important.

This week’s story is written by Phil Yeats. Last fall, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared last month. For information about these books, visit his website–https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

*****

“A River of Deadly Gas” by Phil Yeats

On Tuesday morning, in the middle of a major heat wave, I noticed the yellow tape as I walked to work. It reminded me of crime scene tape in police dramas, but this stuff was there for pedestrian traffic control. The tape stretching across the sidewalk between pylons said, ‘Caution. Sidewalk closed. Use opposite side.’ in stark black letters.

I’d been seconded to our environmental engineering firm’s regional office. We were cleaning up an industrial site near a small city on the Canadian prairie. Mosquitos and horse flies in a cow town where everyone drives overpowered pickup trucks was not my idea of a dream assignment, but such was life. My job was well paid, but it took me to industrial cesspools, not pristine beaches. And I wasn’t the world’s best traveller. I focused on getting back to the comforts of home rather than searching for interesting new experiences.

“Bloody nuisance,” I muttered as I watched the traffic barrelling down Main Street at something approaching highway speed. I could retreat two blocks to the nearest traffic light, or challenge the cowboys in their pickups.

Miracle of miracles, a gap like the Dead Sea parting appeared, and I dashed across.

I wondered, as I hurried along the busy street, why two downtown blocks, and the side street separating them, were cordoned off.

That evening on the way to my temporary digs, I diverted when I reached the cordoned off area. It now extended another block north along Main Street and two blocks east along the side street between Main and the river. I walked to the river, then south along the riverfront. I couldn’t easily return to Main because the structure for a bridge across the river separated the cordoned-off northern sidewalk from the southern one. I strode under the bridge approach and back to Main without having a good view of the six-block area isolated by the yellow warning tape.

During my perusal, I noticed two things. First, I saw very little activity inside the cordon. Second, workers were constructing a more substantial barrier along the outside edge of the sidewalk at the northeast corner.

At home, I searched the town website, the local news outlets, and social media for insights, but found nothing. I went to bed annoyed that I hadn’t learned more, but couldn’t pursue it. I was leaving the next day for a three-day trip to review sampling protocols at our active remediation sites.

Friday afternoon, as I drove the company SUV along Main Street, I noticed the changes at the construction site. The entire site appeared to be surrounded by a bright yellow wall. I parked on the next block and strode back to investigate.

The bright yellow wall was three metres high. Its colour reminded me of elemental sulphur, and when I got as close as I could to it, I thought I could detect the odour emitted by impure samples of natural sulphur. The wall was fifty centimetres from the edge of the sidewalk and cantilevered outward at the top. A vertical metal screen that extended from the top to the ground protected its outer surface.

Seconds after I approached the wall, a security guard accosted me. He refused to explain anything and insisted I move along if I wanted to avoid arrest. I abandoned my investigation and returned to my vehicle.

In our regional office, I was swept into the pandemonium that too often accompanies serious crises. I joined a lively discussion led by the company CEO. He apparently arrived from headquarters earlier that day. As the conversation jumped from one topic to another, I pieced together the story.

Extreme heat in the tundra released toxic heavier-than-air gas that was flowing south. We were in the path of the river-like flow. Animals and a few humans succumbed to the river of gas in the remote regions it traversed. It was now approaching more populated areas. The barricade around several downtown blocks was an attempt by the local civic authorities to provide a sandbag-like barrier that would protect the city core.

“And the coating of sulphur on the outer wall?” I asked.

“Not clear,” our CEO replied. “A concoction of elemental sulphur and ground pyrite.”

“What!” someone exclaimed.

The CEO cracked a smile. “The city acted without informing provincial officials or consulting federal partners. No explanation of what they’re doing or why.”

“Utter chaos,” the intervener added. “Where do we stand?”

“Part of a joint federal provincial task force. They need our expertise in remediation and clean-up.” The CEO paused, gazing around the room. “Time to shift from the general discussion and to our specific tasks.”

Three hours later, I headed home. My responsibilities were clear and my work schedule for the next weeks was laid out. We faced a month-long effort that would start in the morning at 8 a.m. I stopped at a pub for a late supper and a chance to think.

We faced a mountain of unknowns starting with the nature of the colourless dense gases comprising the flow. Increasing release of methane from melting permafrost was a well-known global warming problem. We’d also expect lower concentration releases of ethane and other alkanes. Methane and ethane were lighter than air, so they’d escape to the upper atmosphere. Propane and butane were not. They could be responsible for the ground level flow.

Someone suggested release of noble gases could be part of the problem. Helium from the melting permafrost was inevitable, but it was so light it would escape to outer space. Neon was also lighter than air, so it would escape to the upper atmosphere. Argon was the most common noble gas. It comprises one percent of the air we breathed. It’s denser than oxygen and nitrogen, but not dense enough to form a separate ground-hugging layer. Krypton and xenon were dense enough, but their global concentrations are far too small.

Nope, I thought as the server arrived with my dinner. Propane and butane are the only likely candidates. I couldn’t understand why their role wasn’t already established, but I put that question aside. Next problem. How could we trap a near-ground flow of pentane and butane? It should be simple, but the gas was thinly spread over a large area. And why did they plaster bright yellow sulphur on the outside of the barricades? I had no answer for that one.

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/