"Thermonuclear war may destroy human life--indeed, all life--over the planet, but not necessarily so. In fact, the solutions to the equations indicate that the outside parameters for our existence may be as much as three or four hundred years. But no more. The means by which we destroy ourselves cannot be predicted mathematically--and are, in any case, irrelevant. It is of no value to look around for the catastrophe that will come; in an evolutionary sense, we are the catastrophe, a unique species of self-aware, intelligent creatures that are, as an entire species, quite insane. We are, as the Triage Parabola makes quite Clear, simply an evolutionary dead end. Nature, as is well-known from even the most casual observation, is unforgiving and implacable in erasing her mistakes. On an evolutionary scale, we rose with lightning speed; we shall disappear with lightning speed. In four hundred years, or maybe only four hundred months or days or hours or seconds, there will not be a single human being left on the face of the earth. In four thousand years--a snap of the fingers in evolutionary time--there will probably not even be a trace left of our existence."
Ironically, this passage is from Chesbro's rather unusual detective novel. The hero is a dwarf of unusual intelligence, with a doctorate in criminology and experience as a flying trapeze artist in the circus. He and his brother, a New York City policeman, investigate the death of their nephew and discover a worldwide environmental plot. It is impossible to say more without giving away the story. A good, fast, fun read. By the way, this is a classic example of a cover having absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the contents, unfortunately?