“We walked you up. You were okay, just bleeding a lot.”
“I don’t remember that part.”
“Concussion, I’m sure. You got hammered.”
“Did you see what hit me?”
“No, I was tucked down in a lay-by during the fight. Zeno and Andy found you afterward and we took you on up. You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“That’s concussion for you.”
One day at NSF he worked on the photovoltaic cell trials. Department of Energy was now squawking that this was their bailiwick. Then his alarm went off and he went down and sat in his van.
He couldn’t figure out what to do next.
He could taste blood at the back of his throat.
What did that mean? Was something not healing right, some ruptured blood vessel still leaking? Was there pressure on his brain?
Blood was leaking, that was for sure. But of course there must still be swelling inside; he still had a fat lip, after all, and why should swelling inside go away any faster? His black eyes were still visible, though they were turning purple and brown. Who knew? And what now?
He could go to the doctor’s. He could visit the Quiblers, or the Khembalis. He could go to his tree house. He could go back up to work. He could go out to dinner. He could sleep right there in the NSF basement, in the back of his van.
The sense of indecision hadn’t been like this for a while. He was pretty sure of that. Recalling the past week, it seemed to him it had been getting better. Now worse. The stab of elevated heart rate galvanized him again. Maybe this was what they meant by the word terror.
He felt chilled. And in fact it was freezing in his van. Should he put on his down jacket, or—but stop. He grabbed the down jacket and wrestled his way into it, muttering “Do the obvious things, Vanderwal, just do the first fucking thing that pops into your head. Worry about it later. Leap before you look.”
Indecision. Before his accident he had been much more decisive. Wait, was that right? No. That could not be quite true. Maybe it was before he came to Washington that he had been sure of himself. But had he been? Had he ever been?
For a second he wasn’t sure of anything. He thought back over the years, reviewing his actions, and wondered suddenly if he had ever been quite sane. He had made any number of bad decisions, especially in the past few years, but also long before that. All his life, but getting worse, as in a progressive disease. Why would he have risked Marta’s part of their equity without asking her? Why would he ever have gotten involved with Marta in the first place? How could he have thought it was okay to sabotage Pierzinski’s grant proposal? What had he been thinking, how had he justified it?
He hadn’t. He hadn’t thought about it; one might even say that he had managed to avoid thinking about it. It was a kind of mental skill, a negative capability. Agile in avoiding the basic questions. He had considered himself a rational, and, yes, a good person, and ignored all signs to the contrary. He had made up internal excuses, apparently. All at the unconscious level; in a world of internal divisions. A parcellated mind indeed. But brain functions were parcellated, and often unconscious. Then they got correlated at higher levels—that was consciousness, that was choice. Maybe that higher system could be damaged even when most of the parts were okay.
He twisted the rearview mirror around, stared at himself in it. For a while there in his youth he would stare into his eyes in a mirror and feel that he was meeting some Other. After returning from a climb where a falling rock had missed him by a foot—those kinds of moments.
But after Marta left he had stopped looking at himself in the mirror.
Now he saw a frightened person. Well, he had seen that before. It was not so very unfamiliar. He had never been so sure of himself when he was young. When had certainty arrived? Was it not a kind of hardening of the imagination, a dulling? Had he fallen asleep as the years passed?
Nothing was clear. A worried stranger looked at him, the kind of face you saw glancing up at the clock in a train station. What had he been feeling these last several months before his accident? Hadn’t he been better in that time? Had he not, from the moment Rudra Cakrin spoke to him, tried to change his life?
Surely he had. He had made decisions. He had wanted his tree house. And he had wanted Caroline. These sprang to mind. He had his desires. They might not be entirely conventional, but they were strong.
Maybe it was a little convoluted to be relieved by the notion that having been a fuck-up all his life, there did not have to be a theory of brain trauma to explain his current problems. To think that he was uninjured and merely congenitally deformed, so that was okay. Maybe it would be better to be injured.
He fell asleep at the wheel, thinking I’ll go back to the tree house. Or out to San Diego. Or out to Great Falls. Or call the Khembalis. . . .
The next morning he did not have to decide what to do, as the conference room next to Diane’s office filled with European insurance executives, come to discuss the situation. They politely ignored Frank’s face as Diane made the introductions. They were all people from the four biggest re-insurance companies, Munich Re, Swiss Re, GE Insurance Solutions, and General Re. Two CEOs were there, also Chief Risk Officers, Heads for Sustainability Management, and some men who were “nat cat” guys, as they called it, scientists expert in natural catastrophes, and the mathematical modeling used to develop scenarios and assign risk values.
“We four handle well over half of the total premium volume in re-insurance,” the Swiss Re CEO told Diane and the rest. “Ours is a specialized function, and so we are going to need help. Already we are stretched to the limit, and this winter is going very badly in Europe, as you know. And here too of course. The destruction is really severe. Food shortages will come very quickly if winters become like this regularly. We are having to raise premiums immediately, just to make this first round of payouts. Re-insurance is just one part of a distributed load, but in a situation like this, essentially unprecedented, re-insurance is caught at the end of the stick. This may be the last payout that re-insurance will be able to afford to make. After that the system will be overwhelmed, and then there will have to be a bailout by governments.”
So naturally they were interested in mitigation possibilities; and they had heard at the UN that the most advanced work in the U.S. was being done here at NSF. Diane agreed that this was so, and told them about the North Atlantic project they were evaluating. It turned out they had been discussing the same idea among themselves; all over Europe people hoped it might be possible to “restart the Gulf Stream,” because otherwise European food self-sufficiency was in danger.
The GenRe nat cat expert suggested that surfactants might be spread on the ocean surface to increase evaporation, which would thereby increase the salinity on the surface.
“Take away water instead of just adding salt,” Diane said, looking over at Frank. “That’s good. We’ve been coming up with some pretty high values for the amount of salt likely to be needed.”
They punched up the PowerPoint slides and ran through the isopycnal tables, each curve on the graph suggestive of the slide of cold salty water, down the isopycnal surface to the sea floor.
The cold winter they were now experiencing might also help this plan to restart the circulation, the nat cat expert pointed out. The Arctic sea ice might bulk up to a thickness that wouldn’t break up and drift south when spring came. Surface temperatures would then drop in the fall as they always did, and if they had gotten a fleet loaded with salt, and into position . . . clouds might also be seeded to the west, to keep precipitation out of the region as much as possible. . . .
Everyone seemed to agree they were onto something. Diane explained that the UN was aware of the plan, and approved it in principle; the remaining problems were likely to be financial and logistical, and perhaps political within the United States.
But maybe the United States was not a make-or-break participant, the Europeans seemed to be suggesting. Neither Diane no
r Frank had ever entertained that notion before, but as the Europeans talked about finances, it became an implication too clear to miss, and Frank and Diane exchanged the blank glance that had replaced raised eyebrows between them to express discreet surprise. “We insure each other,” one of them said. “We keep a kind of emergency fund available.”
“This is not actually very expensive, compared to some projects we have been contemplating.”
Wow, Frank said to Diane with another blank look.
HE WAS READING IN HIS SLEEPING bag when his cell phone rang and he snatched it up.
“Frank, it’s Caroline.”
“Oh good.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m all right. I broke my nose, it’s all stuffed up.”
“Oh no, what happened?”
“I’ll tell you about it when we meet.”
“Okay good. Can you meet?”
“Of course. I have two black eyes.”
“That’s okay. Listen, can we meet at your place in Rock Creek Park?”
He swallowed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do they—is it known where it is?”
“Yes. But I think I can help with that.”
“Oh well. Sure. I wanted to show it to you anyway.”
“Tell me where to meet you.”
He descended and crossed the park. His heart was beating hard, his lip throbbing. Everything seemed transparent at the edges, the branches tossing and crashing in slow motion. What a slow pace time had when you paid attention to it. At the corner of Broad Branch and Grant he stood in a shadow, listening to the city and the roar of the wind, watching the luminous cloud pour south overhead. He shivered convulsively, started to hop and dance in place to regenerate some heat.
She turned the corner and he stepped out into the light of a streetlamp. She saw him and quickly crossed the street, banged into him with a hug, started to kiss him but drew back. “Oh my God sorry! Your poor face.”
“It doesn’t feel that bad.”
“Let’s go to your place,” she said.
“Sure.” He turned and led her into the park. Under the trees he took her by the hand. He followed the cross trail; even if she couldn’t see it, the footing would be better.
“Wow, you’re really in here.”
“Yes. So now your surveillance knows I’m here? How did that happen?”
She tugged at his hand. “You know your stuff is chipped, right?”
“No, what’s that?”
“Microchips.”
He stopped, and she stood beside him, squeezing his hand, holding his arm with her other hand. This was how the gibbons often touched.
“You know how everything now is sold with an electronic chip in it? They’re really small, but they bounce a microwave back to a reader, with their ID and location. Businesses use them for inventory. All kinds of stuff.”
“How do they know what stuff is mine?”
“Because you bought most of it with credit cards. It’s easy.” She sounded almost exasperated; she wanted him up to speed on this stuff.
“So they always know where I am?”
“If you’re within the range of a source beam. Which you are most places in D.C.”
“Shit.”
She squeezed his arm. “But not out here.”
Frank started walking again. For a second he did not remember where they were, and he had to stop and think about it before he could go on.
“No one will be able to track us up in my tree?”
“No. The usual chips don’t have much range. Someone would have to be out here with a scanner nearby.”
“Is my stock still rising?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Not sure. Whatever you’re up to at NSF, I guess.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Maybe it was meeting you that did it.”
“Ha ha.” He could tell by the drag from her hand that she wasn’t amused by this.
“But we’ll be okay now,” he repeated.
“Yes. Well, in terms of being tracked tonight. But if someone came out here it might be different. I brought a reader wand with me, and I think we can clean you out. Maybe even move all the chips somewhere else, so it will look like you’ve moved. I don’t know. I’ve never dechipped anyone before.”
Frank thought about this as they crossed Ross and made the final drop to the edge of the gorge. Under his tree he took out his remote and called down Miss Piggy. He looked at the remote.
“I bought this with a credit card,” he said.
“Radio Shack?”
“Jesus.”
She laughed. “I just guessed that. But it’s in your records, I’m sure.”
“Shit.”
Miss Piggy hummed down out of the night, looking like the ladder you climbed to get into the flying saucer hovering overhead. Frank showed her where to grab, where to step. “You go first and I’ll hold it steady. That’ll be better.”
Up she went, quick and lithe, soon a black mass in the stars overhead, like a burl on the trunk. It took her a while at the top, and he shook his head, thinking she must think he was nuts. When she was off he climbed swiftly, pulled through the entry hole. “Sorry, the last part can be the trickiest.”
“No problem. This is so cool!”
“Ah. Thanks.” He sat down beside her. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it. We used to have a tree house in our backyard.”
“Really! Where was this?”
“Outside Boston. My dad built it in a big old tree, I don’t know what kind it was, but it was wider than it was tall. We had several platforms, and a big staircase running down to the ground.”
“Nice.”
“This is smaller,” she noted, and pulled closer to him. They sat side by side, cold hands entwined on top of her legs. The wind was tossing the tree gently north and south. “It’s like a nest.”
“Yes. We can get out of the wind if we need to,” he said, indicating the tent behind them.
“I like it out here, if it doesn’t get too cold.”
“Let’s use it as a wind-block, then.”
They shifted into the lee of the tent, bumping against each other as the tree swayed.
“It’s like being on a train.”
“Or a ship.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
They huddled together. Frank felt too strange to kiss; he was distracted, and it was hard to get used to the presence of someone else in his tree house. “Um—do you think you could show me what you mean about the chips?”
She dug in her jacket pocket, took out a short metal wand, like the devices used by airport security. “Do you have some light?”
“Sure,” he said, and clicked on the Coleman lamp. The lit circle on the plywood floor gleamed under them, ruining their night vision. The wind hooted and moaned.
She had him bring his belongings to her one by one. Sometimes she would get a beep as she passed the wand over them, and these she put to one side. Clock, lightweight sleeping bag, some of the clothes, even the little stove.
“Damn,” he said.
“Yeah. That’s the way it is. You’re not as bad as some. A lot of your gear must be pretty old.”
“It definitely is.”
“That’s the way to do it. If you want to get out from under surveillance, you have to go back in time.”
“You mean only use old stuff?”
“That’s right. But really you don’t want to get yourself entirely clear, that would trigger interest you don’t want. But there are levels and levels. You could make it so that nothing on you tells where you are at any given moment. That might not even be noticed. The program would just use the stuff you do have, like your phone. It would assume you are where your phone is.”
“I see. Damn.”
“I know.” She had finished with his things. Now she leaned away from him, sweeping the foot of the platform methodically, right to left, co
ming back to them by a foot or so per sweep, then past them and to the wide part at his head, and around the corner. Then inside the tent. It was a small platform, but she was being thorough. “I don’t think it’s known that you’re up in a tree. Before you told me, I thought you were just camped out in the woods, on the ground. I wonder if anyone’s come out to ground-check you.”
She waved the wand over him, and it beeped.
“Uh oh,” she said.
She moved him. It wasn’t where he was sitting. It was him.
“Maybe my clothes?”
She grinned. “We’ll have to check. Get into the tent.”
They brought the Coleman lamp inside with them, zipped down the tent door. Frank turned on his little battery heater, and they watched its element turn orange and begin radiating. The wind was still noisy, and they could feel the tree swaying, but the warm air cocooned them.
She helped him unbutton his shirt, pull it off. The air was still cold. “Your poor face.” She ran the wand over him. It beeped when she held it over the middle of his back.
“Interesting. That’s the same spot it was on me.”
“You were chipped too?”
“That’s right.”
“By who?”
She didn’t answer. “Here, turn your back to the lamp. Have you got an extra flashlight? Yes? Good. Here, let me.” She inspected him. He could feel her fingers on his back, poking and then squeezing. “Ah ha. There it is.”
“You sure it isn’t just a blackhead?”
“Actually it looks more like a tick, you know how when you pull off a tick and part of it breaks in you?”
“Yuck. You’re grooming me.”
“That’s right. Then it’ll be your turn to groom me.” She kissed the nape of his neck. “Hold steady now. I brought some tweezers.”
“How did you get yours out?”
“I had a hell of a time. I had to use a barbeque tong. Like a back scratcher. I watched in the mirror and gouged it out.”
“Back stabber.”
“Yes. I stabbed myself in the back, but I’ll never do it to you. Except for now.”
“Don’t make me laugh or I’ll bleed on you.”
Fifty Degrees Below Page 32
