Trabalho feito

Chairman Warren M. Anderson, Union Carbide Corporation, ducked his head as he emerged through the open doorway of the jet plane and stepped purposefully down the slippery metal stairs, one hand clutching the rail. It had been a very long day, and he was determined not to slip in front of the spectators and TV cameras. The last step down was the one onto the solid and seemingly reassuring gray asphalt of the airport tarmac. A slight breeze drifted by .and his attention shifted involuntarily to the horrid stench in the air. It was a putrid mixture of involuntarily fumes, industrial effluent, animal waste, and humanity; the smell of a living nightmare. Yet, there he was, right in the middle of it all.

The flights had taken him from the solace of wintertime Connecticut to this dirty and troubled city in central India, halfway around the globe. Images were more important now than ever before, but somehow the scene was not unfolding as planned. He flew here to demonstrate Carbide's concern, but it was not coming across well. There stood the wealthy American executive with his entuurage in tow, intent on conveying his empathy to the residents of this sprawling third-world city, most of whom lived in abject poverty. His tailored clothes, gray hair, and heavy black glasses were just the finishing touches to the picture. He could not have looked more out of place, and he was not fully prepared to face what were to be perhaps the worst moments of his 63 vears of life.

Everywhere, on the other side of the wire fence surrounding the field and through the windows of the buildings, were the small dark faces of people, hundreds and hundreds of people. They all looked alike, and they were all staring straight at him. There were no shouts or signs, but the indignation and infernal hatred of every person in the crowd was more than obvious.

His two foreign associates from the firm's subsidiary, Union Carbide of India Limited, stepped down off the stairs behind and joined him