As he cruised along, he craned his head to stare at several different types of windmill, the standard sunflower shape, three-bladed wind turbines, whiplike two-bladed propellers that spun around in a blur. Vertical-axis Darrieus wind turbines stood near the freeway like giant eggbeaters stirred by the breeze.
Tax incentives for alternative energy development had made most of the Altamont windmills feasible during the Reagan administration; when the tax credits ended, many investors sold their windmills, and some of the turbines had fallen into disrepair. The sprawling wind farm still generated a great deal of power, though, which was sold to the state electrical grid.
The windmills were set up much the way Spencer’s microwave antenna farm would work in White Sands. Windmills in the east; solar-power satellites in the southwest. Oil spill to the west. Spencer smiled: the future would have its way, sooner or later.
The car raced onward, leaving the windmills behind.
* * *
The Central Valley lay like a swath of the Great Plains down the middle of California.
Without a panicky chaos of cars around him, Spencer liked to drive and let his mind wander. He enjoyed daydreaming while racing down a desert highway, surrounded by the sprawling horizon, wide-open spaces. It was how he brainstormed, throwing out crazy ideas to himself until he found something that made sense.
And he wasn’t going to let this road trip go to waste.
He thought of his smallsats orbiting over the antenna farm. The technology of the collectors was nothing new. Silicon photovoltaic cells had been around since 1954, when the prototypes achieved only a 6% energy conversion from direct sunlight. The energy crisis in the 1970s turned an enormous research effort toward developing “clean and inexhaustible” solar power, pushing photovoltaic cells up to 20% efficiencies. In 1989 a concentrator solar cell used lenses to focus sunlight onto the cell surface, yielding even higher efficiencies. Gallium-arsenide and other types of photovoltaic materials also showed promise. Unlike electric generators, solar cells had no moving parts and could operate indefinitely if they were protected from damage. And they produced no pollution.
But widespread application of ground-based solar energy had always been hindered by its cost—up to a thousand times more than electricity generated by oil, coal, or hydroelectric plants.
Now that he had successfully demonstrated the technique of staggering focused microwave beams from low orbit, though, Spencer’s team had solved that problem. But there were practical considerations as to how many smallsats they could loft, and how many antenna farms could be scattered across the landscape.
The only way to convince people was to complete the experiments, get the facility providing real power for real people. It wouldn’t be difficult to hook up to New Mexico’s main power grid.
Spencer’s team had operated on shoestring budgets before. Life in grad school, even with Professor Mansfield’s generous help, had taught him how to make do. Thanks to the lukewarm review from Lance Nedermyer, Spencer’s gang back at White Sands retained only the minimum amount of money to keep going—”maintenance budget” the Department of Energy called it. Just enough to keep the lights on and the custodians employed. But ingenious use of resources could always counterbalance budget cutbacks. They could even sell electricity to the Public Service Company of New Mexico.
Spencer intended to keep calling his own shots, performing the research he could afford. It was the type of challenge he enjoyed.
He pushed down on the Mazda’s accelerator, listening to the engine hum louder, but the landscape was so vast it crawled by. He couldn’t wait to get back to White Sands.
Chapter 19
Pretending to study from a stolen calculus textbook, Connor Brooks sat at an open-air table at the Stanford student union and looked for his next mark. Campus was easy pickings.
He shook his shaggy head. Serves the rich bastards right! Teach them a lesson they won’t learn in their snooty classes.
In the first few hours after the Zoroaster wreck, Connor had thought himself doomed. His original plan had been to hide on the gigantic tanker and then sneak off when it reached the Oilstar terminal; but that lunatic Uma had rammed the ship into the bridge. Then the Butthead had tried to blame everything on him!
But the Coast Guard and the news media saw right through that flimsy excuse. A captain was responsible for his ship. Uma never should have left the bridge, fire alarms or no fire alarms, and he never should have been such a fascist in the first place—it was only a matter of time before his crew rebelled. Besides, tankers like the Zoroaster should carry better safety mechanisms, collision-avoidance systems so that some Captain Butthead couldn’t ram into a bridge. Some people just never learn.
He kept his gaze moving, scoping the various groups of pimply-faced kids. The meaningless equations in the math book blurred under his eyes. People really made sense out of this stuff? The students relaxed under red-and-white striped umbrellas, drinking beer and eating pizza. Some sat alone. He kept an eye on one kid with long, limp brown hair and a sorry attempt at a moustache. The kid shot down one imported beer after another as he read a fat classic-looking novel. Sooner or later the kid would have to get up and head for the bathroom.
About one time in five, the idiots left their backpacks unattended. Connor enjoyed giving somebody else a few hard knocks for a change.
After another fifteen minutes, the kid spread his paperback novel out on the table, squashed the spine with the palm of his hand to make sure it lay flat, then stood up. He rubbed the small of his back, scratched his shoulderblades, then shuffled toward the glass doors leading inside to the restrooms.
He left the backpack sitting at his place.
Connor shook his head at the kid’s stupidity. Feigning a yawn, he stood up, leaving the calculus book on the table. Someone would eventually pick it up. Looking as natural as could be, Connor strolled inside one door of the union, then out another door, circling back to the abandoned table as if it was his own. Don’t look at me. I just forgot this stuff.
The fat book face-down on the table said Anthem by Ayn Rand. Gee, just the type of light fluff everybody wanted to read while sitting out on the Union patio on a sunny late-spring afternoon. With a glance around, Connor shouldered the kid’s pack, then as an afterthought, he lifted up the book, flipped a few pages to lose the kid’s place, then set it back down again, smiling.
Moving quickly, but not hurriedly, he walked away. As he moved, Connor fondled the backpack; the slick nylon fabric slid across his fingertips. Mom and Dad probably bought it for the kid just before the semester started.
He sauntered around the side of the building, past a stained concrete loading ramp by the cafeteria and two dark green dumpsters surrounded by the cloying sweet-sour smell of old garbage. Sometimes it was fun to sit and watch the expressions of loss and confusion when the suckers came out to find their belongings gone, but Connor didn’t feel like it today. He’d been hanging out at Stanford for days, and the campus cops would catch onto his game sooner or later. He wanted to get out of the Bay Area as soon as possible.
He sat down on the tile lip of the dry fountain and unshouldered the pack. From this vantage point, Connor glanced up at the wandering students going in and out of the Union to use the photocopy machines and the pay phones. Still no sign of the kid. Maybe he had to take a crap.
Connor unzipped the pack and found three new spiral notebooks with white covers and a red Stanford Bookstore logo. Inside, the kid had taken crisp, meticulous notes about Melville’s use of metaphors. Connor dropped the notebooks on the ground.
In the front pocket Connor found a chocolate-chip granola bar, which he stuffed into his shirt pocket. He rummaged among a handful of pens and pencils, two pizza coupons, and just at the point of giving up, he found a twenty dollar bill taped to the fabric in back. It wasn’t the kid’s wallet, probably “emergency cash” that worried parents insisted their son keep “in case something happens.” Well, Connor needed it more
than the kid did. Twenty bucks was twenty bucks.
Abandoning the pack, he got up and wandered down the mall, past poster vendors, jewelry makers with their wares displayed on rickety tables, someone selling cassettes from the Stanford Men’s Choir. He smelled new-mown grass in the air.
People milled about, but none of the college babes returned his looks. Although he kept himself reasonably clean, Connor was starting to look homeless. He had found a few dorms with open showers, and—like everything else—if he looked as if he knew what he was doing, nobody thought to stop him.
Connor had set his sights on going back to northern Arizona. His parents lived in Flagstaff, but he hadn’t spoken a word to his mother and father in twelve years. But he could walk in with a toothsome Prodigal Son grin on his face. What was the old saying? Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in. He wanted to settle down for a while, figure out where to go next.
Connor found a kiosk with bulletins advertising student films playing in auditoriums, religious campus crusades, roommates wanted, tutoring services. He scrutinized the displays when something caught his eye. A flyer stood out, on vibrant pink paper with a handwritten message photocopied onto it:
DRIVE MY CAR TO ATLANTA FOR $500
Connor drew in a deep breath. Finally, something he could use! Glancing at the address, he yanked off the flyer.
* * *
The dorm was called Roble Hall—pronounced “Row-BLEE” by the person who answered the phone—and Connor Brooks found it by wandering around campus for an hour.
The three-story dorm rose, a towering sandstone edifice covered with ivy, like something straight out of the movies. The doors were painted white; the inside smelled like a damp old attic; the olive-green carpet was worn and threadbare. He went up the wrong staircase, came back down to a lounge filled with beat-up sofas that looked like they had been stolen from the Salvation Army, then backtracked until he found the room he was looking for.
“Yo!” the student said, opening the door. “You the guy who wants to drive my car? I’m Dave Hensch.”
What a prick. Hensch looked like a cut-out from the Mystery Date Game: V-neck sweater over a spotless white shirt, tan slacks, loafers. His mouse-brown hair was cut short, and his face had a baby-pink flush that suggested he still scrubbed behind his ears.
Connor offered Hensch his best smile, stroked back his lank blond hair, and extended his hand. He tried not to show his scorn for this preppie idiot. “Hi, I’m Connor. Nice to meet you.”
Hensch led him into the small room with rickety wooden furniture painted a sticky brown, a single bed with a red ribbed bedspread. “I’ll be flying back to Atlanta at the end of the summer, and I need to have my car waiting for me. It’s a long drive—you sure you’re up to it? No classes this semester?”
Connor sat down on the hard wooden chair by the narrow desk, looking comfortable because that always put the suckers at ease. In the metal trash can, an old banana peel masked the nursing-home smell in the room. “I’m taking a break this semester. And I’ve got relatives in Atlanta I haven’t seen in years. Besides, seeing the country is the best education.”
Hensch nodded. “Yeah, I know. My parents made me spend a summer in Europe for the same reason.”
Connor stifled a snort. He started to feel impatient. “So, Dave, what kind of car is it?”
“An old AMC Gremlin.” Hensch looked embarrassed. “Don’t laugh. It’s probably the crummiest car on campus, but it was my first set of wheels. I’ve spent more on repairs than the car ever cost me but, hey, I’m attached to it. Can you drive a stick?”
“Sure thing. I’m ready to leave at any time.” He put a concerned tone in his voice. “You sure you can get by without your car for the next few weeks?”
Hensch dismissed the thought. “I can always just rent one if I need it, right?”
“I suppose.” Rich bastard. Serves you right.
Hensch turned to the window. “Yesterday a few buddies and I took the car up to look at the oil spill, sort of as a going away bash. We wanted to be able to say we saw it firsthand, you know? Have you been there?”
“Yeah, I saw it up close.” Connor rubbed his hands together. “Now, you’ll pay the money up front, right? That’s the way these things usually work. I keep receipts and get reimbursed for my actual expenses of gas and lodging and stuff when I get to Atlanta?” He was making this up, but it sounded reasonable.
“That doesn’t give me much security,” Hensch said, looking doubtful. Bright points of red appeared on his skin, as if it embarrassed him to be negotiating money. “I understood that it’s usually done half and half. You get the rest of the cash when you deliver the car.”
Connor shrugged, then decided to press his luck. “That’s okay by me, if it makes you feel more comfortable. But could you at least loan me a hundred against the expenses? You know how much I’m going to spend just on gas to drive across the country, and it would be a hardship to do it all out of pocket.”
Hensch paused, then pulled out his wallet, sliding several bills out, flipping through as if he was used to counting fifty-dollar bills. “How about three hundred? That’s half plus an extra fifty. Good enough?”
“You got a deal, my friend.” Connor reached out to take the cash and shake Hensch’s hand.
“Oh, and I’ll need to see your driver’s license for ID. Got any accidents on your driving record?”
Connor froze for just a moment. This would be the test. He had a driver’s license, of course, but his name had been plastered around the papers ever since he had skipped out on the Zoroaster wreck. What if Hensch recognized him?
But to hesitate now would ruin everything. He flipped out his wallet and removed his license. “No accidents since I was in high school. I got a speeding ticket last year, but I went to traffic school and had it taken off my record. I think I’m a pretty safe driver.”
Hensch barely glanced at it, noting the credit cards in Connor’s wallet but certainly not guessing they had been stolen. “That’s all. Just wanted to make sure you had one.”
Connor was too shocked to feel immediate relief.
Hensch fiddled with the keys on the ring and pulled off two. “I’ll take you down to the car. I’ve got my folks’ Atlanta address, with detailed directions, plus some phone numbers for emergencies. I really appreciate this.”
Connor squeezed Hensch’s outstretched hand. “No, Dave. Thank you.”
* * *
Connor had been driving for more than an hour and a half, escaping the South Bay and cutting across to Interstate 5, the main traffic artery down California’s monotonous Central Valley.
The battered old AMC Gremlin looked like a scrunched artillery shell that had failed to detonate on impact. The body was bright lavender with a wide, curving white racing stripe. The old vehicle was probably worth little more than the five hundred dollars its owner was paying to have it driven across country.
It was a gas-guzzler, too.
As the engine whirred and rattled, bringing the car up to a maximum speed of 53 mph, Connor watched the gas gauge drop. Other cars passed by him like spawning fish swimming upstream, but he struggled along. When he reached the crossroads town of Santa Nella, he pulled off at one of the gas stations.
Santa Nella had a clot of fast-food restaurants, a giant motorized windmill advertising pea soup, and a few motels—though why anyone would want to stay in the middle of the empty Central Valley, Connor could not fathom. Cars pulled in and out in a confused tangle of too many drivers who had been behind the wheel for too long in one sitting.
A vehicle sat beside every pump at the gas station, as the owners jammed gas nozzles into their tanks. Connor waited in line behind a bronze Chevy pickup. He thumped his fingers on the dashboard. Ahead of him, an old man wearing a dark blue cap sporting a fertilizer logo moved with the speed of growing grass. “Just squeeze the handle and the gas’ll squirt out, grandpa!” he muttered to himself. “That’s the way it works.”
/> When it was finally his turn, Connor pulled up and got out, leaving the creaking door to hang half open. He opened the Gremlin’s gas tank and grabbed the fuel pump nozzle. A sour, rotten-egg smell drifted up to him from his car. He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like someone farted in there!”
He inserted the gas nozzle and began pumping, keeping his face down so as not to attract attention. The black rubber vapor sheath wrapped around the nozzle like a condom. Gasoline rushed into the Gremlin’s tank, and sharp gas fumes swirled all around.
He went to the outside cashier window, paid the attendant in cash, then drove off again.
* * *
Another car pulled up as he left. The driver took the pump nozzle, and slid it into his own gas tank, sniffing at the residual sulfur odor.
* * *
Connor intended to drive all night to reach Los Angeles, then hook east toward Las Vegas, and from there head to Arizona. He’d never driven the distance before, though he guessed it could be done in a straight day or two on the road.
But fat with the cash the Stanford clown had given him, Connor decided to spend the night in a nice motel, get a good shower, shave, make himself look presentable.
The Gremlin started acting up an hour or so before he expected to reach LA. He had just passed the crest of the Grapevine, the line of mountains blocking the Central Valley from the outer fringes of the southern California metropolis. Around him, rugged shoulders of mountains rose high above, spattered with bright freckles of orange, purple, and white wildflowers, now turning into dark shadows against the deepening indigo of the sky.
The engine stuttered as he climbed the pass, winding along as even loaded semi trucks crawled past him uphill. The car chugged as if in great pain, then caught again. At the crest, when the grade shifted downhill, Connor eased off on the accelerator.
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