Anthony Wall - The Eden Mission

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The Eden Mission by Anthony Wall

National Library For the Blind,

Far Cromwell Road,

Bredbury,

Stockport,

SK6 2SG.

Tel: 0161 3552000.

Fax: 0161 3552098.

e-mail: enquiries@nlbuk.org

Registered Charity No: 213212. 1998 extension

For my dear seer, Vicky The Robinswood Press Stourbridge 1995

This work is copyright and permission to copy for the use of braille readers

and those using the NLB web site has been given by the copyright owner. This

permission is gratefully acknowledged. No unauthorised broadcasting, public

performance or copying is permitted.

"If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of spirit.

For whatever happens to the beasts soon happens to man. All things are

connected ... The earth does not belong to man: man belongs to the earth. All

things are connected like the blood which unites one family ... Whatever

befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. Man did not weave the web of

life: he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to

himself."--Red Indian Chief Seathl in a letter to Franklin Pierce, President

of the United States, 1855. extension

The book's background details are as accurate and authentic as I can make

them. But, here and there, I have "played" with the facts for the sake of

telling a dramatic story. For example, there is no Marine Mammal Center in

Santa Barbara, though similar institutions do exist elsewhere. The ship Sea

Shepherd is an invention, in no way linked to the conservation charity of that

name or any of its vessels. A.W. extension

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to Curt Marlin for his constant encouragement during the writing

of this book.

My research for The Eden Mission was greatly aided by many generous experts.

Space permits me to name only a few. They are Professor Sir Ghillean Prance,

Director of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew; Jonathan Shanklin, of the British

Antarctic Survey; Dr. Bernard Stonehouse, of the Scott Polar Research

Institute; Tim Inskipp, of the World Conservation Monitoring Centre; Amanda

Hillier, of the Fauna and Flora Preservation Society; Carol McKenna, of

Respect for Animals; marine engineer Keith Norledge.

I must also acknowledge invaluable help from staff of the following: the World

Wide Fund for Nature, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth, the Environmental

Investigation Agency, BirdLife International, BBC Bristol, the Natural History

Museum, the Geological Museum, the Meteorological Office, the Foreign and

Commonwealth Office, the University of East Anglia, the American Cetacean

Society, the Florida Department of Commerce, and Orlando's Sea World.

extension

FOREWORD

The world--and it's the only one we've got--is in a terrible mess from misuse

and neglect. Eco-terrorists and vested interests abound, polluting rivers,

lakes and seas, draining wetlands, destroying ancient forests and trading in

endangered species.

The Eden Mission, though a work of fiction, brings the real live world of

conservation and the fight to save the planet to a whole new audience.

It also proves that it is not too late for us all to do our bit to save the

Earth. David Bellamy The Conservation Foundation extension

PREFACE

Not so long ago, the term "greenhouse effect" meant little to most people.

Something to do with gardening ...? How different now! Now that the

environment is a matter of major concern, now that we are becoming

ecologically educated.

But how much has changed, really changed, in recent years? Certainly

politicians and scientists have made a start on trying to curb the worst

abuses to our world. And, happily, some of those mentioned in my novel are

declining. Others, though, are on the increase. So, far from being able to

relax, conservationists are busier than ever.

Underlying all this are enormous problems: the widening gap between rich and

poor, the fact that four-fifths of global resources are consumed by one-fifth

of the population, the arrival each second of three new mouths to feed.

What of the solutions? Perhaps the main hope, idealistic though it may seem,

is that humanity will see sense. The Earth, not money, is the only true

wealth. It's our collective home to be shared with our fellows and fellow

creatures.

Maybe the rich must become poorer, accept a lowering of their material

standards, so that the poor can become richer. Maybe the technology that

helped get us into this mess cannot get us out, and humankind will have to

return to a simpler way of life. Maybe ...

What do you think? What you think matters--yours is the generation that will

need to be wiser and more responsible than previous generations. In your hands

may rest the fate of the whole planet. Anthony Wall, 1995

The Eden Mission

1. Victims

Suddenly the grasses shivered, but there was no wind. Silence, stillness, then

more movement and the sound of a soft, gargling growl. The tall stems parted

... and a fiery face thrust forward. Orange and white and black-barred, it was

a face to strike terror into man and beast, a face like a warrior's daubed

with war paint. A hungry tigress on the prowl. As fast, as fierce, but bigger

and more beautiful than her tan-coloured cousin the lioness.

The great striped cat, perfectly camouflaged, crouched and stared intently at

the lake. Her pale yellow-green eyes did not blink. Out there, under the

water, lay the body of a deer she had chased, caught and killed. But then she

had been robbed of her prize. She intended to get it back.

An hour earlier, just before dawn, the tigress had stalked a group of sambur

deer filing down from the hills to drink at the cool lake and munch the green

feast of water lilies spread over the surface. For twenty minutes the tigress

crept closer and closer, soundlessly placing one huge paw in front of the

other. Then, when she was forty feet away, she tensed her haunches like

springs and exploded into a bounding charge.

Tail erect, ears forward, she crashed through the reeds, splashed through the

water. Deer darted to right and left in a frenzy of white spray. But one stag,

blindly panicking, turned towards the tigress. A fatal mistake. With a flying

leap she brought the deer down, breaking his neck in a single bite.

The stag weighed 500 pounds, the tigress only 350, yet she would wade to land

with him. She hauled her prey shorewards.

Then it happened. The tigress felt a sudden tug. The sambur slipped from her

jaws ... and was dragged under water. Crocodile snouts nudged her heels.

Wasting no time, she fled to the lake's edge--minus her meal.

Twice in the hour since then, she had paddled back to try to retrieve the

deer, snarling and swatting the water. But on each occasion she had lost her

nerve. Finally, with an echoing roar of fury and frustration, the tigress

retreated to the high grass.

Now she watched and waited. She refused to surrender the hard-won meal, her

first catch in many tries. The tigress was very hungry. But her three cubs,

fidgeting beneath a saja tree, were hungrier.

Once, there had been four of them, born blind in a cave six months ago. They

grew sleek and fat on their mother's milk until the day they were ready to

venture out with her and start learning how to hunt for themselves. It was

then that their father, a swaggering giant of 550 pounds, seized one of the

cubs and devoured it behind a bush. He tried again--but the tigress was alert,

and spat a challenge that froze him in his tracks. Though he outweighed her by

200 pounds, he knew she would fight to the death to defend her young. The

tiger had backed down and slunk off.

Turning from the lake, the tigress checked that the three cubs were safe

before resuming her long vigil. The sun was high and hot, and she panted

heavily. All around could be heard the buzz, hum, click, fizz and rattle of

insects.

Ranee, as she was known by the wardens of this Indian nature reserve, was a

splendid specimen. Nearly nine feet long, seven years old, in her prime. She

should live to the age of eleven, maybe twice that. For the next seventeen

months she would devote herself to rearing and teaching the cubs. The wardens

could easily recognise Ranee by the stripes and squiggles on her cheeks and

eyebrows--as distinctive as human fingerprints--quite different from those of

her massive mate and the five other tigresses in his scattered harem.

By now the temperature had soared to 110 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.

Ranee still watched and waited. A snake slithered past her paw. She recoiled

slightly, remembering a painful incident as a cub, but the snake trickled away

through a crack in the ground and was gone.

In the late afternoon Ranee's patience was rewarded. The sambur buck floated

to the surface. But it was surrounded by crocodiles --their teeth, ideal for

gripping, could not tear off the firm flesh. Ranee glared, summoning her

courage. The deer's body beckoned, fifty yards from the rim of the lake.

Quivering with anticipation, Ranee dashed forward. She swam strongly, ignoring

the crocodiles, grabbed the sambur by the throat and began her return journey.

Their two heads bobbed up and down between the water lilies. At last Ranee

landed her catch.

Laboriously she hauled the deer towards her cubs.

Crack!

Three small striped faces grimaced in alarm.

The bullet from the high-powered rifle entered through Ranee's right eye,

ploughed on and shattered her brain. She moaned once, then collapsed over the

body of the sambur. Suddenly she was devoid of grace and strength, her life

switched off like an electric current.

The poacher lowered his gun. A pity to spoil the pelt with a second shot. He'd

wait until he was sure the big cat was dead. But not too long--the wardens

might catch him. Still, it was worth the risk when a tiger-skin coat could

fetch £63,000 in a Tokyo shop.

That same day, eight thousand miles away, another armed man was preparing to

pursue his quarry. He was perched on a boat's seesawing bow. Cursing the cold,

he stared ahead at the sullen blue-black swell of the Southern Ocean. Sooner

or later he would spot what he was looking for--a tell-tale spout that

signalled the coming battle. Then there would be no time to feel cold, no time

to feel at all. Meanwhile he should give thanks that he wasn't on the

Antarctic mainland, where the temperature had been known to fall as low as

minus 130 degrees Fahrenheit.

Far to starboard an iceberg loomed. Miles long, a hundred feet high,

glittering like a gigantic diamond. The man still scanned the horizon. To help

him locate his target, the boat had echo-sounders and a look-out up on the

masthead, but the man trusted his own eyes and instincts more than anything

else.

On a nearby ice-floe thousands of Adelie penguins, like spectators, stood in

rows.

A shout came from the look-out. Already the gunner below was manoeuvring the

harpoon cannon into position, his attention focused on the slanting jets that

rose from the sea half a mile ahead. The whale had just surfaced and was

spouting, at fifteen-second intervals, before taking breath for another deep

dive.

With engine racing, the catcher boat closed in ... 800 yards, 400, 200. The

gunner licked his lips. One good clean shot should do it. He looked down on

the enormous wrinkled body, took aim--behind the head--and fired. A loud

report was followed by a whine of running rope as the six-foot, 160-pound

steel harpoon arrowed through the air at sixty miles an hour. It hit home with

terrific force. The tip exploded deep inside the creature, sending out barbs.

Threshing its tail flukes, the whale began an ordeal of panic and pain.

The gunner surveyed the red streamers trailing from his tethered victim. It

would die soon enough.

But not everyone who witnessed the gory spectacle remained as unmoved as the

harpoonist. The medical officer, watching from the factory ship where the

carcass would eventually be processed, felt shame and disgust. A sperm whale,

he noted, adjusting his binoculars. Officially protected by international

agreement. That didn't stop these men. The whole business of whaling sickened

him. As a doctor he was trained to save life, not take it, and he sympathised

more with the whales than with the whalers whose health he was employed to

safeguard.

The medical officer frowned, reflecting on what he knew about whales. Not fish

but mammals: air-breathing, warm-blooded, bearing their young live, nourishing

them on milk. A sperm whale had the heaviest brain of any animal--six times

the weight of a human's. Did this mean high intelligence? Some scientists

believed so. Certainly sperm whales were socially responsible creatures. When

a calf was born, females would lift it to the surface for its first breath.

They would guard the mother from attack during the birth, "baby-sit" the

youngster while she went diving for food, even suckle a strange calf. If a

whale had a deformed jaw and couldn't catch prey, other whales would feed it.

Peering through his binoculars, the medical officer grimly observed that the

harpooned sperm whale kept up its hopeless fight.

What a cruel waste! he thought. Science could learn so much from an amazing

mammal like this. How was it able to dive two miles deep and stay under for as

many hours? The pressure down there would crush a man beyond all recognition.

How did the whale communicate over hundreds of miles? How did it use echoes to

find its prey in the ocean gloom, to stun fish, diagnose illness in another

whale? Questions--to which the answers could prove invaluable. But instead of

learning, men threatened to wipe the species out.

Aboard the catcher boat no such thoughts crossed the gunner's mind. He was

busy trying to solve a sixty-foot, sixty-ton problem: a sperm whale that

refused to give up. The harpoon had not found the vital spot--the gunner

blamed the choppy sea for spoiling his aim--and now the whale was towing the

110 ton boat behind it. Even with the engine reversed, the craft kept moving

forward. The gunner got ready to fire a second harpoon.

In the blood-stained water the mammoth beast continued its agonising struggle.

He was a mature male, a bull. His slate-blue body bore scars, souvenirs of

epic battles with giant squid he had hunted in the dark depths. The biggest of

these pink monsters, whose human-like eyes were more than fifteen inches

across, weighed 42 tons and measured 66 feet. But even their powerful beaks

and ten suckered tentacles were no match for the whale's eight-inch teeth.

The gunner fired the second harpoon.

The whale gave a convulsive shudder. His life was nearly over. A life that had

begun thirty years ago as a tiny calf in the sparkling Indian Ocean. At the

age of five he had left his mother and joined other young males in a bachelor

group. When his blubber thickened, he migrated to colder waters where food was

more plentiful. At 25 he became master of a "pod" of twelve cows which

remained with their calves in tropical seas.

Although he was dwarfed by the hundred-foot blue whale, could not sing like

the sweet-voiced humpback whale--both of which fed on plankton--his sort were

the largest of the toothed whales, the same majestic breed as Moby Dick.

Each year he made the long journey back from the Antarctic to mate. But not

this year. For three decades, the bull had eluded harpoons. Now he died,

spouting thick blood.

The gunner nodded with satisfaction. Soon the vast corpse was winched

alongside. Then, swinging slowly, the catcher boat chugged towards the factory

ship whose stern gaped open like a mouth to swallow the whale. Once inside, it

was hauled up a ramp.

The whale was efficiently disposed of. Its domed head yielded fifteen barrels

of spermaceti oil for use in cosmetics; its body, oil for lubricants and

leather softening; its belly, ambergris (the residue of squids' beaks) for

perfume. Other products would later include crayons, candles, soap, pet food,

fertiliser, glue. All these could be obtained from vegetable sources. But as

long as unscrupulous people paid, whalers would go on breaking the law.

Sadly, as he saw the mighty animal disappear, the medical officer walked away.

Behind him a helicopter lifted off with a swish and swirl of blades.

Whale-spotting? He wondered, not for the first time, what was really happening

aboard the factory ship. Whaling was bad enough--but he suspected something

still more sinister. However, he had learned that it wasn't wise to ask too

many questions round here.

In the Antarctic, you could vanish without trace.

Far, far to the north, off the coast of Norway, an oil-tanker crawled through

fog. Usually the captain loathed such conditions. But today he was

pleased--for the clammy cloud would conceal his activities. Leaning forward on

the bridge, he gave orders to wash out the ship's tanks. Within minutes a

sticky stinking stream of brown liquid was gurgling into the sea. Even when

unloaded, a tanker retains about 2,000 tons of oil at the bottom of its tanks.

That sludge has to be removed before a new cargo is taken on. Why pay to have

the tanks cleaned in port if you could do it for nothing yourself? The

captain's action was irresponsible, illegal and punishable with a heavy fine.

But who can arrest an invisible culprit? He blessed the fog as the ship stole

away from the scene of the crime.

Hours later a violent storm blew up, clearing the fog. Buffeted by wind,

sea-birds sought refuge on the calmest water--which was those patches slicked

with oil. Not long after, the first grease-caked casualties started to stagger

ashore. Guillemots, gannets, puffins, razor-bills, little auks, kittiwakes.

The final death toll would be fifty thousand.

News of the pollution spread fast. People gathered on the beaches, but they

were unable to help the birds--except by putting them out of their misery. As

a naturalist explained to a tearful woman onlooker, oil often blinded birds.

It burnt their skin, stomachs and livers. It also removed the waterproofing

from their feathers, which insulated them against cold and wet, so they

couldn't float properly or catch fish. And if the birds weren't poisoned by

swallowing oil after preening, they would probably die of pneumonia.

Singly or in small groups the bedraggled creatures stumbled to land. A

three-foot gannet, normally brilliant white, pecked feverishly at its ruined

plumage until a rifle-shot rang out.

By nightfall a two-ton pile of dead sea-birds had been collected on the shore.

Someone set it ablaze. Sparks crackled amid whirling smoke. Excited,

cherry-cheeked children ringed the bonfire; only the older ones understood

that this was no celebration. For several nights to come there would be plenty

of bodies to feed the flames.

Ninety miles inland, nothing broke the forest hush. A full moon silvered the

treetops and light leaked down to the snow-covered floor beneath. Scraps of

mist seemed caught on prickly branches.

From the shadows, a ghostly shape glided into a clearing. Two amber eyes

searched the dappled darkness. Stealthily the wolf advanced. Hunger had driven

him from his snug den. He knew where to find a good meal. Not the mice and

birds he had lived on lately, but a hare he had killed and buried in the

frozen ground to keep it fresh and safe from crows and ravens.

As the dog-wolf wound through the trees at an effortless lope, which could

carry him as far as 120 miles in a single day, his thick brown-grey-yellow fur

gleamed in the moonlight. He was a fine big dog: 5« feet from nose-tip to

tail-tip, weighing a hundred pounds. In a pack he would have been leader. But

there are no packs now--men had seen to that.

Wolves were regarded as enemies. Yet, like other predators, they performed a

useful service by controlling the numbers of animals which destroyed farmers'

crops. They made loyal pets if raised from cubs, and led a communal life that

was a model of harmony and co-operation.

The wolf trotted on, nearing his food store. Strangely, since he was capable

of detecting a smell from 1« miles and could hear loudish sounds more than

four miles off, the wolf failed to notice a figure fifty yards away.

The man was half drunk, angry after a quarrel with his wife. He had stormed

out of the house, taking a gun. He felt like shooting something. Suddenly the

wolf appeared in front of him. The law said he must not pull the trigger. But

he did--again and again. At that moment a cloud smothered the moon. The big

dog dropped dead ... leaving just four wolves alive in the whole of Norway.

Five thousand miles to the south-west, on the edge of Newfoundland, great

glistening rafts of ice jigsawed the Atlantic. From above, each piece revealed

a pattern of dark clots. Harp seals. Mothers and babies.

At birth the pups had seemed too small for their baggy yellow coats. But a

diet of rich, mayonnaise-like milk soon filled them out. Then they had changed

their fur - to a dense woolly white. Dazzling. In all nature there could be

few prettier, more appealing sights. The pups were curious and trusting.

Now hunters came, wielding wooden clubs, battering the babies senseless.

Plaintive cries reached their helpless mothers. The clubbing continued for

weeks. This yearly slaughter of tens of thousands must be finished

quickly--before the "whitecoats" shed their beautiful fur. Sometimes, in the

rush, pups were only wounded. They were skinned alive on the red ice.

The high price of unnecessary fur goods.

1. The Eden Mission

At the English port of Southampton it was raining, and had been for hours. A

steady, soaking downpour. Water dripped from the dockside cranes; ran from the

roofs of warehouses; washed the decks of liners, freighters, tugs and

trawlers; spattered the windscreens of lurching launches. Seagulls sulked on

the quay, or searched half-heartedly for food. The dingy sky showed no sign of

brightening.

Not a day that promised excitement. Unless you happened to be young and about

to set sail for faraway places and the adventure of a lifetime. Unless you

were one of the lucky ones chosen to take part in The Eden Mission.

Sea Shepherd stirred at her moorings. The ship's steep side towered like a

white wall above the clustering figures. A sailor peering down from the deck

beheld a picture of marching mushrooms, as umbrellas formed into a line and

began to advance. Now people were trooping up the gangway. Once on board they

were conducted to a spacious, brightly lit lecture hall.

Wet umbrellas were put aside--and all thoughts of the weather. Parents,

teenagers, teachers, ecologists and journalists settled in their seats. Press

and TV cameramen took up position. Everyone's attention turned to the

platform, still empty, at the end of the hall.

Elsewhere on the ship, bustling crew members made final preparations for a

long voyage. Research vessel Sea Shepherd, clean-cut 5,000-tonner, looked like

a small cruise liner. But she was equipped to carry out a special task, a

serious task. Her reinforced bow could carve through ice, her diving-bell and

miniature submarines explore the underwater world, her laboratories analyse

everything from sea snake venom to marine nuclear contamination.

In the lecture hall, fifteen-year-old Susan Jenkins shifted impatiently. Why

don't they get on with it? Susan's eyes roamed the walls. A black-and-white

panda chomped a bamboo shoot, a gorilla pounded his chest, a leopard lolled on

a tree branch. There were other posters too. She smiled at her friend Gary,

sitting beside her, then started to read the names on a banner above the

platform: The World Wide Fund for Nature, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth,

The Fauna and Flora Preservation Society, The People's Trust for Endangered

Species ...

"Ladies and gentlemen."

At last!

The booming voice of Ben Bellingham, Britain's most famous naturalist. Susan

stared in awe at the big burly man she had seen so often on television. His

curly hair and beard were redder than she remembered.

"Sorry for the delay," Bellingham went on. "But at least it's given you a

chance to dry off."

There was a ripple of laughter in the audience.

"Right," said Bellingham briskly, "down to business, the reason you and I are

here. The Eden Mission."

Gary and Susan exchanged an amused look--they liked his no-nonsense approach.

The naturalist continued: "For those of you who don't know, I'll outline the

mission's aims. Then I'll explain why it's vitally important, and I'll also be

talking about the young people who are joining in this conservation crusade."

Susan felt a tingle run up her spine.

Bellingham strode across the platform to a huge colourful globe. He spun it

vigorously and launched into his speech.

"Around the world, each day, at least fifty species of animal or plant

disappear for ever. By the year 2000, it may be a hundred a day. Some thirty

per cent of all land is desert or semi-desert--the Sahara, for example, is

spreading like an incoming tide--and more and more of the earth is crumbling

to dust. The sea, which covers nearly three-quarters of our planet and on

which we depend in countless ways, could become sterile."

Pausing, he took a sip from the glass in front of him, then added: "Who's to

blame for all this? We are. Human beings. Greedy, ignorant, short-sighted

humans. We're wrecking the world, robbing it, poisoning it, turning it into a

rubbish dump. Unless we stop--and start respecting nature--there won't be much

of a future for any of us ..."

Bellingham came to halt, as though he had been interrupted. After a moment's

hesitation he resumed: "Er ... sorry. This is sounding like a sermon, I'd

better get off my soap-box.

"The Eden Mission is an international campaign," he told his audience. "An

all-out effort to save the environment from further destruction. Throughout

Europe, America, Africa, Asia, Australia, teams of

conservationists--professionals and volunteers--are working in round-the-clock

relays. They have a tremendous fight on their hands, an army of enemies. Oil

and atomic pollution, acid rain, pesticides--now found even in Antarctic

penguins--the mindless felling of rain forests, whaling, the illegal wildlife

trade ..."

A deep silence had fallen over the audience. Ben Bellingham concentrated on

the rows of attentive faces. "This is the most urgent project of our time. A

matter, literally, of life and death. The Eden Mission must succeed.

"And Sea Shepherd's role in the global operation? Crucial. The ship serves as

an ocean-going headquarters - gathering data, via satellite, about the

mission's many activities and acting as a link between the various task

forces."

Besides that, Bellingham explained, the experts aboard Sea Shepherd were

conducting their own research and protection programme ... "a programme our

younger passengers can help with." Gary caught Susan's eye and grinned.

"Sea Shepherd sails in an hour," Ben announced. "She'll be gone for a year.

First stop Florida, then on to the Amazon, then Antarctica."

He crossed the platform. "Ladies and gentlemen, I want to show you some slides

which illustrate why The Eden Mission cannot be allowed to fail. First,

though, we'll take a short break ..."

Susan's cheeks were flushed, Gary noticed. He felt it too--exhilaration.

They'd soon be off!

The dark-haired boy, a few months older than his blonde friend, tended to make

rather a point of appearing cool. Unlike Susan. Her blue eyes shone now as she

enthused. The voyage, Ben Bellingham, the other teenagers travelling with

them, the cabin where her luggage had already been stowed ... it was all so

exciting. Gary nodded eagerly, swept along by Susan's happy chatter.

A journalist in front of them mumbled to his colleague: "Why's it called The

Eden Mission anyway?" Susan, who had just finished a sentence, answered before

she could check herself. "Easy. After The Garden of Eden. The perfect place

for people and animals and plants--living together." The journalist didn't

respond.

Suddenly the lights in the lecture hall dimmed. "Your attention, please."

Bellingham again. Time for the slides. Up on the screen came a picture of a

spotted ocelot fur coat, an elephant-ivory ornament, an ostrich-feather hat, a

striped zebra rug, a crocodile-skin handbag and snake-skin shoes.

"A few of the frivolous luxuries we make from wild animals," he commented.

The next slide showed a selection of poachers' weapons: rifles, machine-guns,

poison arrows, wire snares. "An arrow can kill an elephant in twelve

hours--but sometimes death takes months. Poachers may even poison the beast's

food with sulphuric acid from car batteries, causing slow and agonising

torture. Wire snares often catch large antelope. If they do break free, the

wire cuts into their flesh and they die later of infection."

The screen went blank and a spotlight fell on Ben. "We should all be ashamed

of ourselves for letting this happen. More than a thousand animals--including

leopards, gorillas and rhinos--face the threat of extinction today because of

human callousness. Not only do we slaughter our fellow creatures for pleasure

and profit, we also destroy their habitat and capture them for zoos, the pet

trade and vivisection ..."

The spotlight faded and another picture appeared on screen. A rhinoceros.

One of fewer than 10,000 left alive, Bellingham reported. In 1970 there were

100,000. But ruthless hunting drastically reduced the population ... and the

carnage was continuing. Poachers killed rhinos for their horn. Some of it went

to North Yemen to make dagger handles, the majority to East Asia to be ground

into medicine. The Chinese believed that powdered horn cured colds, measles,

nosebleeds, vomiting, heart weakness. The Japanese claimed it fought fever.

Certain people even swore by it as a love potion.

"Most poachers are poor. So the temptation to earn money by any means, however

risky, is very strong. They may work as farmers for £400 a year - less than

they'd be paid for a single horn. A merchant will sell it to consumers for

£95,000 and upwards."

Anthony Wall - The Eden Mission

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