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No, I’ve not read the books you mention, but I’m definitely aware that these arguments exist. They’ve been around for some time, in fact. I wouldn’t say that they’re “Obvious even to children.” Yes, the scientists were our “elders” as you say, but really it would be more accurate to say that we didn’t have elders. In the way that you describe.

Shackleton – music for the quiet hour
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Things which are alike, in nature, grow to look alike,
and the speaking stones have lain a long time lookin’ at the sun.
The speaking stones?
Some believe they descend with the lightning,
but I believe they are on the ground and are projected downward by the bolt.
Did you kill the white man who killed you?
I’m not dead.
What name were you given at birth, stupid white man?
Blake.
William Blake.
Is this a lie? Or a white man’s trick?
– No, I’m William Blake. –
Then you are a dead man.
I’m sorry. I d— I don’t understand.
Is your name really William Blake?
Yes.
Every night…
and every morn’,
some to misery are born.
Every morn’ and every night,
some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to endless night.
I really don’t understand.
But I understand, William Blake.
You were a poet and a painter.
And now, you are a killer of white men.
You must rest now, William Blake.
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to endless night

Nessuno – Dead Man
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Un’ultima cosa” disse ancora Beatty, “almeno una volta nella sua carriera, ogni milite del fuoco, sente un prurito: che cosa dicono i libri? Si chiede. Oh, la voglia di grattarsi per amor di quel prurito, eh Montag? Ebbene, ti do la mia parola, Montag, ne ho letto qualcuno, ai miei tempi, per sapere che cosa dovessi combattere, e ti posso assicurare che non dicono nulla! Nulla che tu possa credere o insegnare. Parlano di persone che non esistono, frutto dell’immaginazione, quando si tratta di narrativa. E se non si tratta di narrativa, sono cose ancora peggiori, diatribe tra professori che si danno reciprocamente dell’idiota, urla di filosofi alla gola l’uno dell’altro. E tutti corrono affannati qua e là, a spegnere le stelle e ad offuscare il sole. Ne esci, alla fine, perduto.

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451