Would nature still matter in a world without people?

How a story about the end of the world can reveal our true feelings about nature.

You step into the rocket, wave goodbye, and leave Earth for what will be the final time.

Not that you realise. It’s just a few months, say mission control, you’ll be back before you know it.

You like being in space. It’s peaceful, just you and the gently humming engines orbiting the sun-speckled planet below. Besides, your mission is easy: on receiving a message from mission control you’re to float over to the computer and enter the emergency code. The missiles nestled in the space station’s hull will jolt to life and- Well, you don’t like to think about that. It’ll never actually happen, it’s just an insurance policy.

But you know what world leaders are like.

You see the mushroom cloud at breakfast time, just as you’re finishing the last hot spoonfuls of rehydrated porridge. You rush to the window. Another explosion. And another. Soon the earth’s surface is erupting with a rash of flames and smoke. You await the emergency signal, poised to add to the frenzy with your own tools of destruction. But there’s only silence. So you do nothing.

In the months and years that follow you send hundreds of unanswered messages to the earth below. You scan and scan the planet with your most advanced instruments for any signs of human life. Nothing.

Gradually you come to terms with the fact that you’re the last human being in the universe.

You develop a hobby. The humans may be gone forever, but nature is holding on despite the firestorms and continent-spanning ashclouds. You spend hours with your telescopes and cameras, watching saplings twisting from the rubble, a few cautious sparrows roosting in their branches. You zoom in on clumps of bright flowers arching over soot-darkened streams and lose yourself in dreams of inhaling their sweet scent.

You have one job left: you need to disarm your missile system. If it’s still active when the space station eventually loses power, every single unspent bomb will launch to the earth’s surface and tear what’s left of the planet apart. Nothing will survive.

But you have time. For now, you can’t tear yourself from the wonder unfolding below.

Now the space station is on its last legs. You’re running out of oxygen. A few days left, at most. You still haven’t disarmed the missiles.

I still have time, you tell yourself.

The days pass. You begin to feel drowsy. You need to disarm the missiles, before it’s too late. But you prefer to stay by the window, and watch life reclaim the earth.

The thought of dragging yourself to the computer terminal seems like an unbearable effort. You ask yourself if it really matters whether you disarm the missiles or not.

After all, you’re the last human left. The earth and everything still living on it will be torn apart, but nobody will be around to notice. Sure, the plants and animals thriving on the surface have made your lonely days bearable. But when you’re gone there’ll be nobody left to appreciate them. Would it really be so wrong to let the missiles loose?

So there you sit. Even as your breath grows short and you sink into a dreamless sleep you hear the launch alarms. You can just make out the missiles snaking down to the surface. The trees, the hills, the birds — they’ll all be gone. But who’s around to care? Nobody will ever miss them. So you didn’t do anything wrong.

Did you?