Fifty Degrees Below sitc-2

by Kim Stanley Robinson

  Diane watched the scene with her nose almost on the glass, deeply hooded in a blue heavy jacket. She smiled at Frank. “You can smell the salt.”

  “The ocean always smells like this.”

  “It seems like more today.”

  “Maybe so.” She had grown up in San Francisco, he remembered. “It must smell like home.” She nodded happily.

  They followed their hosts up a metal staircase to a higher deck of the bridge, a room with windows on all sides that had a view like that from an airport control tower. It was this room that made the Hugo Chavez the designated visitor or party ship, and now the big glass-walled room was crowded with dignitaries and officials of all kinds. Here they could best view the long ships on all sides of them, all the way out to the horizon, where more ships were visible only at fore and stern, or by the white jets of salt. Each ship cast two long curving jets out to the sides from its bow, like the spouts of right whales; and every element was repeated so symmetrically that it seemed as if they had fallen into an M. C. Escher world.

  The tankers flanking theirs seemed nearer than they really were because of their great size. They were completely steady in the long swells. The air around the ships was filled with a white haze that drifted down the wake for a kilometer or so before sinking away. Diane pointed out that the diesel exhaust stayed in the air while the salt mist did not. “They look so dirty. I wonder if we couldn’t go back to sails again someday, and just let everything go slower by sea.”

  “Labor costs,” Frank suggested. “Uncertainty. Maybe even danger.”

  “Would they be more dangerous? I bet you could make them so big and solid they wouldn’t be any more dangerous than these.”

  “These were reckoned pretty dangerous.”

  “I don’t hear of many accidents, given that there are thousands of them out all the time.”

  They moved from one set of big windows to the next, taking in the views.

  “It’s like the San Joaquin Valley,” Frank said. “There are these huge irrigation rigs that roll around spraying stuff.”

  Diane nodded. “I wonder if this will work.”

  “Me too. If it doesn’t…”

  “I know. It would be hard to talk people into trying anything else.”

  “True.”

  Around and around the bridge they walked. Everyone else was doing the same, in a circulation like that at any other party. Blue sky, blue sea, the horizon ticked by tiny wavelets, as in a pattern on wallpaper; and then the fleet, each ship haloed by a wind-tossed cloud of white mist. Frank and Diane caught each other by the shoulder to point things out, just as they would have in Optimodal. A bird; a fin in the distance.

  Then another group arrived in the room, and soon they were escorted to Diane: the Secretary-General of the UN, Germany’s environmental minister, who was the head of their Green Party and a friend of Diane’s from earlier times; lastly the prime minister of Great Britain, who had done a kind of Winston Churchill during their hard winter, and who now shook Diane’s hand and said, “So this is the face that launched a thousand ships,” looking very pleased with himself. Frank couldn’t be sure Diane caught the reference; she was already smiling, and distracted by the introduction of others in the new group. They all chatted as they circled the room, and after a while Diane and Frank stood in a big circle listening to the others, their upper arms just barely touching as they stood side by side.

  Alter another hour of this, during which nothing varied outside except a shift west in the angle of the sun, it was declared time to go; one didn’t want the helicopters to get too far from Reykjavik, and there were other visitors waiting in Iceland for their turns to visit; and the truth was, they had seen what there was to see. The ship’s crew therefore halted the Hugo Chavez’s prodigious launching of salt, and they braved the chilly blast downstairs and got back in their helo. Up it soared, higher and higher. Again the astonishing sight of a thousand tankers on the huge burnished plate spreading below them, an astonishing sight, instantly grasped as unprecedented: the first major act of planetary engineering ever attempted, and by God it looked like it.

  But then the helo pilot ascended higher and higher, higher and higher, until they could see a much bigger stretch of ocean, water extending as far as the eye could see, for hundreds of miles in all directions—and all of it blank, except for their now tiny column of ships, looking like a line of toys. And then ants. In a world so vast, could anything humans do make a difference?

  Diane thought so. “We should celebrate,” she said, smiling her little smile. “Do you want to go out to dinner when we get back?”

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  * * *

  Election day saw winter return to Washington in force. It was icy everywhere, in places black ice, so that even though everything seemed to have congealed to a state of slow motion, cars still suddenly took to flight like hockey pucks, gliding majestically over the roads and looking stately until they hit something. Sirens dopplered hither and yon, defining the space of the city that was otherwise invisible in its trees. Again there were scheduled brownouts, and the wood smoke of a million fireplace fires rose with the diesel smoke of a million generators, their gray and brown strands weaving in the northwest wind.

  The polls were open, however, and the voters lined up all bundled in their winter best—a best that was much better than it had been the year before. The story of the day became the story of the impact of the cold on the vote, and which party’s faithful would brave it most successfully, and which would benefit most from this clear harbinger of another long winter. The first exit polls showed a tight race, and as no one believed in exit polls anymore anyway, anything was possible. It felt like Christmas.

  And in fact it was the Buddhist holiday celebrating Dorje Totrengtsel, as it turned out. To celebrate it, and perform a dedication ceremony for their new home in the country, the Khembalis had scheduled a big party for that very day.

  Possibly some of those they invited did not make it, because of the meteorological or political complications; but a couple hundred of them did. They gathered in a big crowd under a large unwalled pavilion tent, set up next to the old farmhouse, still empty and in need of renovation.

  It took well over an hour for the Quiblers to drive out to the farm, Charlie at the wheel of their Volvo station wagon inching along, Anna in the back with the boys. Joe declaimed a long monologue remarking on the snowy view, and his displeasure that they were not stopping to investigate it: “Look! Stop! Look! Stop the car!”

  When they got to the farm they found Frank was just arriving himself. They parked next to his van and walked around the farmhouse.

  Drepung and Rudra were out back on the snowy lawn, steam pouring from their mouths and noses. They were kicking patterns of frosty green out of the thick flock of new snow on the grass. At the center of this improvised mandala stood a blocky shapeless snowman with a demon mask hung on its head, grinning maniacally into the wind. Before it lay a lower block of snow, like the altar stone at Stonehenge. On the flattish top of this mass some of Joe’s building blocks were stacked, in two little towers. Two red then green, two red then yellow.

  The two men waved cheerily when they saw the Quiblers. They pointed at their handiwork, and watched with pleasure as Joe in his thick snowsuit and boots trundled over ahead of the rest to investigate. They lifted him between them the better to see the two towers his blocks now made. He kicked reflexively at the stacks, and Rudra and Drepung laughed and swung him back and forth, each holding with both hands one of the toddler’s mittened fists. When he kicked over one of them, they put him down with many congratulations. “Ooooh! Karmapa!”

  Frank went inside to check on lunch, and came back out carrying two paper cups of a hot mulled cider that he reported had no yak butter in it. He gave one to Anna, who wrapped her hands around it gratefully. Charlie sniffed the steam pouring off it and went in to get one of his own. He spent a while in there talking to Sridar, his old lobbying part
ner, who had taken on the Khembalis as a client the year before, and was now representing them to Congress and other powers in the capital, with some success and a great deal of amusement. They exchanged the usual sentiments on the election taking place, shaking their heads in the attempt to pretend they did not hope very much.

  When Charlie went back outside, he felt again how frigid the day was. Anna huddled against him, nearly shivering despite her bulky coat. The Khembalis and Joe did not seem to mind. Now they were walking around the snow figure in a little march, chanting nonsense together, a string of syllables followed by a big “HA,” repeated again and again. Joe stomped into the snow as deeply as Drepung, his eyes ablaze under his hood, his cheeks bright red.

  “He’s getting too hot in his suit,” Charlie said.

  “Well, he can’t take it off.”

  “I guess not.”

  “They’re having fun,” Frank observed.

  “Yes.”

  “Joe must be heavy the way he sinks into that snow.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “He’s like made out of lead.”

  Frank saw Nick standing off to one side and called, “Hey Nick, do you want to go down to the river and see if there are any beavers or anything?”

  “Sure!” They took off down the lawn, talking animals.

  Now Rudra stood still, facing Joe. Joe stopped to peer up at him, looking surprised that their march had halted. “Ho,” he said.

  Rudra leaned down and gently rubbed a handful of snow in Joe’s face. Joe spluttered and then shook his head like a dog.

  “Hey what is he doing?” Anna demanded.

  “He’s helping him,” Charlie said, holding her arm.

  “What do you mean helping? That doesn’t help him!”

  “It doesn’t hurt him. It’s part of their little ceremony.”

  “Well it’s not okay!”

  “Leave them alone,” Charlie said. “Joe doesn’t mind it, see?”

  “But what are they doing?”

  “It’s just a little ceremony they have.”

  “But why?”

  “Well you know. Maybe he’s just trying to lower his temperature.”

  “Oh come on!”

  “Come on yourself. Just let them do it. Joe is loving it, and they think they’re helping.”

  Anna glowered. “They’re only going to give him a cold.”

  “You know perfectly well being cold has nothing to do with catching a cold. What an old wives’ tale.”

  “Old wives’ tales usually contained real observations, smart guy. It turns out when you get cold your immune system is suppressed, so if there happens to be a virus around you’ve got more of a chance of catching it, so there is a connection.”

  “But he’s not getting too cold. Leave them alone. They’re having fun.”

  Except then Joe howled a quick protest. Rudra and Drepung looked star-tied; then Drepung turned Joe by the shoulder, so that he faced the snowman. Seeing the mask again Joe quietened. He tilted his head, scowled hideously at the snowman, gave the mask back vibe for vibe: no mere piece of wood was going to outscowl him.

  Straightening up beside him, Rudra pointed at the demon mask, then up at the low clouds purling overhead. Suddenly he twisted and as it were corkscrewed upward, thrusting himself up and back until he looked straight up at the sky. He shouted, “Dei tugs-la ydon ysol! Ton pa, gye ba! Ton pa, gye ba!”

  Startled, Joe looked up at Rudra so quickly that he plumped onto his butt. Rudra leaned over him and shouted “Gye ba!” with a sudden ferocity. Joe scrambled away, then jumped up to trundle down the slope of the lawn as fast as he could.

  “Hey!” Anna cried.

  Charlie held her arm again. “Let them be!”

  “What do you mean? Joe!” And with a quick spasm she was away and running through the snow. “Joe! Joe!”

  Joe, still running for the river, did not appear to hear her. Then he tripped and fell in a perfect faceplant, sprawling down the snow slope and leaving behind a long snow angel. Anna reached him and slipped herself trying to stop. Down she went too; then Drepung joined them and helped them both up, saying “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  Rudra stayed up by the snowman, swaying and jerking. He staggered to the snowman, pulled off its demon mask, threw it at his feet and stomped on it. “HA! TON PA! HA! GYE BA! HAAAAAA!”

  Hearing this Joe wailed, beating at the snow and then at Anna’s outstretched arms. Drepung ventured to touch him once lightly on the shoulder. Joe buried his head in Anna’s embrace. Rudra, now sitting on the ground next to the flattened mask, watched them; he waved at Joe when Joe looked over Anna’s shoulder. Joe blinked big tears down his cheeks, shuddering as he calmed. For a long time Joe and Rudra stared blankly at each other.

  Charlie walked over to help the old man to his feet. Both Rudra and Drepung seemed satisfied now, relaxed and ready to get on with other things; and seeing it, Charlie felt a certain calmness fill him too. He and Rudra went down and flanked Joe and Anna, took Joe’s mittened and snow-caked little hands, squeezed them. Joe looked around at the farmhouse and the tent filling with guests, the expanse of snow falling down to the river. Charlie clapped Drepung on the shoulder, held it briefly.

  “What?” Anna demanded.

  “Nothing. Nothing. Let’s go in and see what they have to eat, shall we?”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, when the Khembalis’ party was breaking up, and they had heard all about the trip out to see the salt fleet, the Quiblers asked Frank if he wanted to come over for dinner and watch the election returns.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I’m going to go to dinner with Diane.”

  “Oh I see.”

  “Maybe I can drop by afterward, see the late returns.”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  Frank went to his van, drove carefully back to the Khembali house in Arlington. Out in the cold garden shed he changed clothes, trying to think what would look nice. He was going out to dinner with his boss, who would not be his boss for much longer, so that different kinds of hypothetical possibilities might then open. It was interesting, no matter how uneasy he felt whenever he thought of Caroline.

  Then one of the kitchen girls called out to the shed from the house door: phone call. He went inside, picked up the house’s phone apprehensively. “Hello?”

  “Frank is that you?”

  “Yes. Caroline?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything is not okay. I need to see you, now.”

  “Well, but I’ve got something, I’m really sorry—”

  “Frank, please! I think he found out about me taking that disk. So I’ve only got a little time. I’ve got to initiate Plan B or else. I need your help.”

  “You’re leaving him?”

  “Yes! That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve left already. That’s done. But I need help getting away and—you’re the only one I trust.” Her voice twisted at the end, and suddenly Frank understood that she was afraid. He had never heard it like that in her before, and had not recognized it.

  Frank clutched the phone hard. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Chevy Chase. I’ll meet you at your tree.”

  “Okay. It’ll take me half an hour or so. Maybe longer with the ice on the roads.”

  “Okay good. Good. Thanks. I love you Frank.” She hung up.

  Frank groaned. He stared at the embassy’s phone in his hand. “Shit,” he said. That someone as bold and competent as her should be afraid… “I love you too,” he whispered.

  His stomach had shrunk to the size of a baseball. What would this husband of hers do? He picked up the house phone and called Diane’s cell phone number.

  Maybe she was bugged too. She was doing the same kind of thing Frank was, wasn’t she?

  “Hello, Diane? It’s Frank. Listen I’m really sorry about this, but something has come up here and I just have to help out, it’s a kind of emergency. So I need to, I mean c
an we take a rain check, and do our dinner tomorrow or whenever you can?”

  Very short pause. “Sure, of course. No problem.”

  “Thanks, I’m really sorry about this. See there’s this,” but he hadn’t thought anything up, a stupid mistake, and he was going to say “something at the embassy” when she heard the pause and cut him off:

  “No it’s fine, don’t worry. We’ll do it another time.”

  “Thanks Diane. I appreciate it. How about tomorrow then?”

  “Um, no—tomorrow won’t work, my daughter is coming in. Here—oh, wait. I don’t see my calendar. Tell you what, let’s just say soon.”

  “Okay, soon. Thanks. Sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  End of call. He put the receiver down, stood there.

  “Ah fuck.”

  He drove over to Van Ness, parked in one of his old spots on Brandywine, walked east into the forest. Slowly he approached his tree, coming to it on the remains of Ross Drive. He saw no one. But then there she was, stepping out from behind a thick oak between site 22 and his tree. He went to her and they hugged hard, clinging tightly to each other.

  She pulled back and looked at him. Even in the dark he could see that her nose was red, her eyes red-rimmed.

  She sniffed, shook her head. “Sorry. It’s been a very bad day.” She handed him another paper sleeve of CDs. “Here. This is more of their shit. It’s a new superblack, working between Homeland Security and DOD. Another strategic support branch.”

  Frank took the disks, put them in his jacket pocket. “What happened?”

  “We had a fight. I mean that used to happen a lot, but this time it was—I don’t know. Bad. Scary. I’m sick of feeling this way. Really, being around him— it’s bad for me. I know better. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  “He didn’t find something out?”

  “He didn’t say anything directly, but I think he did, yes. I don’t know. If he found out about me taking the election program …” She shuddered, thinking about it. Then: “It might explain some things. I mean he chipped me again, since I last saw you. New kinds that he thought I didn’t know about. They hop on you. When I found them I left them in until today, but I took them out, and then I used his code to get what I could about this superblack onto disk. I don’t know how much it’ll tell anyone. Then I left.”