Kim Stanley Robinson - Fifty Degrees Below

Fifty Degrees Below

Kin Stanley Robinson

FIFTY DEGREES BELOW

A Bantam Spectra Book / November 2005

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the

author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed "s" are

trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Robinson, Kim Stanley.

Fifty degrees below / Kim Stanley Robinson.

p. cm.

ISBN-10:0-553-80312-3

ISBN-13:978-0-553-80312-9

1. Washington (D.C.)—Fiction. I. Tide.

PS3568.02893F54 2005

813'.54—dc22 2005048074

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

www.bantamdell.com

10 987654321

BVG

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE Primate In Forest

TWO Abrupt Climate Change

THREE Back To Khembalung

FOUR Is There A Technical Solution?

FIVE Autumn In New York

SIX Optimodal

SEVEN The Cold Snap

EIGHT Always Generous

NINE Leap Before You Look

TEN Primavera Porteño

I

PRIMATE IN FOREST

Nobody likes Washington, D. C. Even the people who love it don't like it. Climate atrocious,

traffic worse: an ordinary midsized gridlocked American city, in which the plump white federal

buildings make no real difference. Or rather they bring all the politicians and tourists, the lobbyists

and diplomats and refugees and all the others who come from somewhere else, often for suspect

reasons, and thereafter spend their time clogging the streets and hogging the show, talking endlessly

about their nonexistent city on a hill while ignoring the actual city they are in. The bad taste of all

that hypocrisy can't be washed away even by the food and drink of a million very fine restaurants.

No—bastion of the world government, locked vault of the World Bank, fortress headquarters of the

world police; Rome, in the age of bread and circuses—no one can like that.

So naturally when the great flood washed over the city, wreaking havoc and leaving the capital

spluttering in the livid heat of a wet and bedraggled May, the stated reactions were varied, but the

underlying subtext often went something like this: HA HA HA. For there were many people

around the world who felt that justice had somehow been served. Capital of the world, thoroughly

trashed: who wouldn't love it?

Of course the usual things were said by the usual parties. Disaster area, emergency relief, danger

of epidemic, immediate restoration, pride of the nation, etc. Indeed, as capital of the world, the

president was firm in his insistence that it was everyone's patriotic duty to support rebuilding,

demonstrating a brave and stalwart response to what he called "this act of climactic terrorism."

"From now on," the president continued, "we are at a state of war with nature. We will work until

we have made this city even more like it was than before."

But truth to tell, ever since the Reagan era the conservative (or dominant) wing of the

Republican party had been coming to Washington explicitly to destroy the federal government.

They had talked about "starving the beast," but flooding would be fine if it came to that; they were

flexible, it was results that counted. And how could the federal government continue to burden

ordinary Americans when its center of operations was devastated? Why, it would have to struggle

just to get back to normal! Obviously the flood was a punishment for daring to tax income and

pretending to be a secular nation. One couldn't help thinking of Sodom and Gomorrah, the

prophecies specified in the Book of Revelation, and so on.

Meanwhile, those on the opposite end of the political spectrum likewise did not shed very many

tears over the disaster. As a blow to the heart of the galactic imperium it was a hard thing to regret.

It might impede the ruling caste for a while, might make them acknowledge, perhaps, that their

economic system had changed the climate, and that this was only the first of many catastrophic

consequences. If Washington was denied now that it was begging for help, that was only what it

had always done to its environmental victims in the past. Nature bats last—poetic justice—level

playing field—reap what you sow—rich arrogant bastards—and so on.

Thus the flood brought pleasure to both sides of the aisle. And in the days that followed Congress

made it clear in their votes, if not in their words, that they were not going to appropriate anything

like the amount of money it would take to clean up the mess. They said it had to be done; they

ordered it done; but they did not fund it.

The city therefore had to pin its hopes on either the beggared District of Columbia, which already

knew all there was to know about unfunded mandates from Congress, to the extent that for years

their license plates had proclaimed "Taxation Without Representation"; or on the federal agencies

specifically charged with disaster relief, like FEMA and the Army Corps of Engineers and others

that could be expected to help in the ordinary course of their missions (and budgets).

Experts from these agencies tried to explain that the flood did not have a moral meaning, that it

was merely a practical problem in city management, which had to be solved as a simple matter of

public health, safety, and convenience. The Potomac had ballooned into a temporary lake of about a

thousand square miles; it had lasted no more than a week, but in that time inflicted great damage to

the infrastructure. Much of the public part of the city was trashed. Rock Creek had torn out its

banks, and the Mall was covered by mud; the Tidal Basin was now part of the river again, with the

Jefferson Memorial standing in the shallows of the current. Many streets were blocked with debris;

worse, in transport terms, many Metro tunnels had flooded, and would take months to repair.

Alexandria was wrecked. Most of the region's bridges were knocked out or suspect. The power grid

was uncertain, the sewage system likewise; epidemic disease was a distinct possibility.

Given all this, certain repairs simply had to be made, and many were the calls for full restoration.

But whether these calls were greeted with genuine agreement, Tartuffian assent, stony indifference,

or gloating opposition, the result was the same: not enough money was appropriated to complete the

job.

Only the essentials were dealt with. Necessary infrastructure, sure, almost; and of course the

nationally famous buildings were cleaned up, the Mall replanted with grass and new cherry trees;

the Vietnam Memorial excavated, the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials recaptured from their island

state. Congress debated a proposal to leave the highwater mark of greenish mud on the sides of the

Washington Monument, as a flood-height record and a reminder of what could happen. But few

wanted such a reminder, and in the end they rejected the idea. The stone of the great plinth was

steam-cleaned, and around it the Mall began to look as if the flood had never happened. Elsewhere in

the city, however....

IT WAS NOT A GOOD TIME to have to look for a place to live.

And yet this was just what Frank Vanderwal had to do. He had leased his apartment

for a year, covering the time he had planned to work for the National Science

Foundation; then he had agreed to stay on. Now, only a month after the flood, his

apartment had to be turned over to its owner, a State Department foreign-service person

he had never met, returning from a stint in Brazil. So he had to find someplace else.

No doubt the decision to stay had been a really bad idea.

This thought had weighed on him as he searched for a new apartment, and as a result

he had not persevered as diligently as he ought to have. Very little was available in any

case, and everything on offer was prohibitively expensive. Thousands of people had

been drawn to D.C. by a flood that had also destroyed thousands of residences, and

damaged thousands more beyond immediate repair and reoccupation. It was a real

seller's market, and rents shot up accordingly.

Many of the places Frank had looked at were also physically repulsive in the extreme,

including some that had been flooded and not entirely cleaned up: the bottom of the

barrel, still coated with sludge. The low point in this regard came in one semibasement

hole in Alexandria, a tiny dark place barred for safety at the door and the single high

window, so that it looked like a prison for troglodytes; and two thousand a month. After

that Frank's will to hunt was gone.

Now the day of reckoning had come. He had cleared out and cleaned up, the owner

was due home that night, and Frank had nowhere to go.

It was a strange sensation. He sat at the kitchen counter in the dusk, strewn with the

various sections of the Post. The "Apartments for Rent" section was less than a column

long, and Frank had learned enough of its code by now to know that it held nothing for

him. More interesting had been an article in the day's Metro section about Rock Creek

Park. Officially closed due to severe flood damage, it was apparently too large for the

overextended National Park Service to be able to enforce the edict. As a result the park

had become something of a no-man's land, "a return to wilderness," as the article had

put it.

Frank surveyed the apartment. It held no more memories for him than a hotel room,

as he had done nothing but sleep there. That was all he had needed out of a home, his

life proper having been put on hold until his return to San Diego. Now, well... it was like

some kind of premature resuscitation, on a voyage between the stars. Time to wake up,

time to leave the deep freeze and find out where he was.

He got up and went down to his car.

Out to the Beltway to circle north and then east, past the elongated Mormon temple

and the great overpass graffiti referencing it: go home dorothy! Get off on Wisconsin,

drive in toward the city. There was no particular reason for him to visit this part of town.

Of course the Quiblers lived over here, but that couldn't be it.

He kept thinking: Homeless person, homeless person. You are a homeless person. A

song from Paul Simon's Graceland came to him, the one where one of the South African

groups kept singing, Homeless; homeless, Da da da, da da da da da da ... something like,

Midnight come, and then you wanna go home. Or maybe it was a Zulu phrase. Or maybe, as

he seemed to hear now: Homeless; homeless; he go down to find another home.

Something like that. He came to the intersection at the Bethesda Metro stop, and

suddenly it occurred to him why he might be there. Of course—this was where he had

met the woman in the elevator. They had gotten stuck together coming up from the

Metro: alone together underground, minute after minute, until after a long talk they had

started kissing, much to Frank's surprise. And then when the repair team had arrived

and they were let out, the woman had disappeared without Frank learning anything

about her, even her name. It made his heart pound just to remember it. Up there on the

sidewalk to the right, beyond the red light—there stood the very elevator box they had

emerged from. And then she had appeared to him again, on a boat in the Potomac

during the height of the great flood. He had called her boat on his cell phone, and she

had answered, had said, "I'll call. I don't know when."

The red light turned green. She had not called and yet here he was, driving back to

where they had met as if he might catch sight of her. Maybe he had even been thinking

that if he found her, he would have a place to stay.

That was silly: an example of magical thinking at its most unrealistic. And he had to

admit that in the past couple of weeks he had been looking for apartments in this area.

So it was not just an isolated impulse, but a pattern of behavior.

Just past the intersection he turned into the Hyatt driveway. A valet approached and

Frank said, "Do you know if there are any rooms available here?"

"Not if you don't got a reservation."

Frank hurried into the lobby to check anyway. A receptionist shook her head: no

vacancies. She wasn't aware of the situation at any other hotel. The ones in their chain

were full all over the metropolitan area.

Frank got back in his car and drove onto Wisconsin heading south, peering at the

elevator kiosk when he passed it. She had given a fake name on the Metro forms they

had been asked to fill out. She would not be there now.

Down Wisconsin, past the Quiblers' house a couple of blocks over to the right. That

was what had brought him to this part of town, on the night he and the woman got stuck

in the elevator. Anna Quibler, one of his colleagues at NSF, had hosted a party for the

Khembali ambassador, who had given a lecture at NSF earlier that day. A nice party. An

excess of reason is itself a form of madness, the old ambassador had said to Frank. Frank

was still pondering what that meant, and if it were true, how he might act on it.

But he couldn't visit Anna and her family now. Showing up unannounced, with no

place to go—it would have been pitiful.

He drove on. Homeless, homeless—he go down to find another home.

Chevy Chase looked relatively untouched by the flood. There was a giant hotel above

Dupont Circle, the Hilton; he drove down Wisconsin and Massachusetts and turned up

Florida to it, already feeling like he was wasting his time. There would be no rooms

available.

There weren't. Homeless, homeless. Midnight come, and blah blah blah blah blahhhh.

He drove up Connecticut Avenue, completely without a plan. Near the entrance to

the National Zoo damage from the flood suddenly became obvious, in the form of a

mud-based slurry of trash and branches covering the sidewalks and staining the

storefronts. Just north of the zoo, traffic stopped to allow the passage of a backhoe. Street

repairs by night, in the usual way. Harsh blue spotlights glared on a scene like

something out of Soviet cinema, giant machines dwarfing a cityscape.

Impatiently Frank turned right onto a side street. He found an empty parking spot on

one of the residential streets east of Connecticut, parked in it.

He got out and walked back to the clean-up scene. It was still about 90 degrees out,

and tropically humid. A strong smell of mud and rotting vegetation evoked the tropics,

or Atlantis after the flood. Yes, he was feeling a bit apocalyptic. He was in the end time

of something, there was no denying it. Home-less; home-less.

A Spanish restaurant caught his eye. He went over to look at the menu in the window.

Tapas. He went in, sat down and ordered. Excellent food, as always. D.C. could almost

always be relied on for that. Surely it must be the great restaurant city of the world.

He finished his meal, left the restaurant and wandered the streets, feeling better. He

had been hungry before, and had mistaken that for anxiety. Things were not so bad.

He passed his car but walked on east toward Rock Creek Park, remembering the

article in the Post. A return to wilderness.

At Broad Branch Road Frank came to the park's boundary. There was no one visible

in any direction. It was dark under the trees on the other side of the road; the yellow

streetlights behind him illuminated nothing beyond the first wall of leaves.

He crossed the street and walked into the forest.

The flood's vegetable stench was strong. Frank proceeded slowly; if there had been

any trail here before it was gone now, replaced by windrows of branches and trash, and

an uneven deposition of mud. The rootballs of toppled trees splayed up dimly, and

snags caught at his feet. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he came to feel that

everything was very slightly illuminated, mostly no doubt by the luminous city cloud

that chinked every gap in the black canopy.

He heard a rustle, then a voice. Without thought he slipped behind a large tree and

froze there, heart pounding.

Two voices were arguing, one of them drunk.

"Why you buy this shit?"

"Hey you never buy nothing. You need to give some, man."

The two passed by and continued down the slope to the east, their voices rasping

through the trees. Home—less, home—less. Their voices had reminded Frank of the scruffy

guys in fatigues who hung out around Dupont Circle.

Frank didn't want to deal with any such people. He was annoyed; he wanted to be out

in a pure wilderness, empty in the way his mountains out west were empty. Instead,

harsh laughter nicotined through the trees like hatchet strokes. "Ha ha ha harrrrrr." There

went the neighborhood.

He slipped off in a different direction, down through windrows of detritus, then over

hardened mud between trees. Branches clicked damply underfoot. It got steeper than he

thought it would, and he stepped sideways to keep from slipping.

Then he heard another sound, quieter than the voices. A soft rustle and a creak, then a

faint crack from the forest below and ahead. Something moving.

Frank froze. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up. Whatever it was, it

sounded big. The article in the Post had mentioned that many of the animals from the

National Zoo had not yet been recaptured. All had been let loose just before the zoo was

inundated, to give them a chance of surviving.

Some had drowned anyway; most had been recovered afterward; but not all. Frank

couldn't remember if any species in particular had been named in the article as being

still at large. It was a big park of course. Possibly a jaguar had been mentioned.

He tried to meld into the tree he was leaning against.

Whatever it was below him snapped a branch just a few trees away. It sniffed; almost

a snort. It was big, no doubt about it.

Frank could no longer hold his breath, but he found that if he let his mouth hang

open, he could breathe without a sound. The tock of his heartbeat in the soft membrane

at the back of his throat must surely be more a feeling than a sound. Most animals relied

on scent anyway, and there was nothing he could do about his scent. A thought that

could reduce one's muscles to jelly.

The creature had paused. It huffed. A musky odor that wafted by was almost like the

smell of the flood detritus. His heart tocked like Captain Hook's alarm clock.

A slow scrape, as of shoulder against bark. Another branch click. A distant car horn.

The smell now resembled damp fur. Another crunch of leaf and twig, farther down the

slope.

When he heard nothing more, and felt that he was alone again, he beat a retreat uphill

and west, back to the streets of the city. It was frustrating, because now he was intrigued,

and wanted to explore the park further. But he didn't want to end up one of those urban

fools who ignored the reality of wild animals and then got chomped. Whatever that had

been down there, it was big. Best to be prudent, and return another time.

After the gloom of the park, all Connecticut seemed as garishly illuminated as the

work site down the street. Walking back to his car, Frank thought that the neighborhood

resembled one of the more handsome Victorian districts of San Francisco. It was late

now, the night finally cooling off. He could drive all night and never find a room.

He stood before his car. The Honda's passenger seat tilted back like a little recliner.

The nearest streetlight was down at the corner.

He opened the passenger door, moved the seat all the way back, lowered it, slipped

in and sat down. He closed the door, lay back, stretched out. After a while he turned on

his side and fell into an uneasy sleep.

For an hour or two. Then passing footsteps woke him. Anyone could see him if they

looked. They might tap the window to see if he was okay. He would have to claim to be

a visiting reporter, unable to find a room—very close to the truth, like all the best lies.

He could claim to be anyone really. Out here he was not bound to his real story.

He lay awake, uncomfortable in the seat, pretty sure he would not be able to fall back

asleep; then he was lightly under, dreaming about the woman in the elevator. A part of

his mind became aware that this was unusual, and he fought to stay submerged despite

that realization. He was speaking to her about something urgent. Her face was so clear,

it had imprinted so vividly: passionate and amused in the elevator, grave and distant on

the boat in the flood. He wasn't sure he liked what she was telling him. Just call me, he

insisted. Give me that call and we can work it out.

Then the noise of a distant siren hauled him up, sweaty and unhappy. He lay there a

while longer, thinking about the woman's face. Once in high school he had made out

with a girl in a little car like this one, in which the laid-back seat had allowed them

somehow to lie on each other. He wanted her. He wanted to find her. From the boat she

had said she would call. I don't know how long, she had said. Maybe that meant long.

He would just have to wait. Unless he could figure out some new way to hunt for her.

The sky was lightening. Now he definitely wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. With a

groan he heaved himself up, got out of the car.

He stood on the sidewalk, feeling wasted. The sky was a velvet gray, seeming darker

than it had in the middle of the night. The air was cool. He walked east again, back into

the park.

Dew polished the thick gray foliage. In the diffuse low light the wet leaves looked

like a forest of wax. Frank slowed down. He saw what looked like a trail, perhaps an

animal trail. There were lots of deer in the park, the article had said. He could hear the

sound of Rock Creek, a burbling that as he descended overwhelmed the city sounds, the

perpetual grumble of trucking. The sky was lightening fast, and what had seemed to

him cloud cover was revealed as a clear pale sky. Dim greens began to flush the grays.

The air was still cool.

It turned out that in this area Rock Creek ran at the bottom of a fairly steep ravine, and

the flood had torn the sidewalls away in places, as he saw when he came to a sudden

drop-off. Below him, bare sandstone extruded roots like ripped wiring. He circled above

the drop, dodging between low trees.

From a little clearing he could suddenly see downstream. The flood in spate had torn

the Little canyon clear. Everything that had been down there before— Beach Road, the

small bridges and buildings, the ranger station, the picnic areas—all of it was gone,

leaving a raw zone of bare sandstone, flat mud, thrashed grass, downed timber, and

stubborn trees that were either clinging to life or dead in place. Many trees had been

knocked over and yet held on by a few roots, forming living snags piled high with mud

and trash. A larger snag downstream looked like a giant beaver dam, creating a

dirt-brown pond.

The sky stood big and blue overhead, a tall dome that seemed to rise as the day

lightened. Muddy Rock Creek burbled noisily down its course, spilling from one foamy

brown stretch to the next.

At the far edge of the pond a heron stepped, its knees bending backward. Long body,

long legs, long neck, long head, long beak. A great blue heron, Frank guessed, though

this one's dark gray feathers looked more green than blue. A kind of dinosaur. And

indeed nothing could have looked more pterodactylic. Two hundred million years.

Sunlight blazed green at the tops of the trees across the ravine. Frank and the heron

stood attentively, listening to unseen smaller birds whose wild twittering now filled the

air. The heron's head cocked to one side. For a time everything was as still as bronze.

Then beyond the twittering came a different sound, fluid and clear, rising like a siren,

like a hook in the flesh:

Oooooooooooooooooop!

National Science Foundation, Arlington, Virginia, basement parking lot, seven a.m. A

primate sitting in his car, thinking things over. As one of the editors of The Journal of

Sociobiology, Frank was very much aware of the origins of their species. The third chimp,

as Diamond had put it. Now he thought: chimps sleep outdoors. Bonobos sleep

outdoors.

Housing was ultimately an ergonomic problem. What did he really need? His

belongings were here in the car, or upstairs in his office, or in boxes at UCSD, or in

storage units in Encinitas, California, or down the road in Arlington, Virginia. The fact

that stuff was in storage showed how much it really mattered. By and large he was free

of worldly things. At age forty-three he no longer needed them. That felt a little strange,

actually, but not necessarily bad. Did it feel good? It was hard to tell. It simply felt

strange.

He got out of his car and took the elevator to the third floor, where there was a little

exercise room, with a men's room off its entryway that included showers. In his shoulder

bag he carried his laptop, his cell phone, his bathroom kit, and a change of clothes. The

three shower stalls stood behind white curtains, near an area with benches and lockers.

Beyond it extended the room containing toilets, urinals, and a counter of sinks under a

long mirror.

Frank knew the place, having showered and changed in it many times after runs at

lunch with Edgardo and Kenzo and Bob and the others. Now he surveyed it with a new

regard. It was as he remembered: an adequate bathroom, public but serviceable.

He undressed and got in one of the showers. A flood of hot water, almost industrial in

quantity, washed away some of the stiffness of his uncomfortable night. Of course no

one would want to be seen showering there every day. Not that anyone was watching,

but some of the morning exercisers would eventually notice.

A membership in some nearby exercise club would provide an alternative bathroom.

What else did one need?

Somewhere to sleep, of course. The Honda would not suffice. If he had a van, and an

exercise club membership, and this locker room, and his office upstairs, and the men's

rooms up there.... As for food, the city had a million restaurants.

What else?

Nothing he could think of. Many people more or less lived in this building, all the

NSF hardcores who spent sixty or seventy hours a week here, ate their meals at their

desks or in the neighborhood restaurants, only went home to sleep—and these were

people with families, with kids, homes, pets, partners!

In a crowd like that it would be hard to stick out.

He got out of the shower, dried off (a stack of fresh white towels was there at hand),

shaved, dressed.

He glanced in the mirror over the sink, feeling a bit shy. He didn't look at himself in

mirrors anymore, never met his eye when shaving, stayed focused on the skin under the

blade. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because he did not resemble his conception of

himself, which was vaguely scientific and serious, say Darwinesque; and yet there in the

glass getting shaved was always the same old sun-fried jock.

But this time he looked. To his surprise he saw that he looked normal— that was to

say, the same as always. Normative. No one would be able to guess by his appearance

that he was sleep-deprived, that he had been thinking some pretty abnormal thoughts,

or, crucially, that he had spent the previous night in his car because he no longer had a

home.

"Hmm," he told his reflection.

He took the elevator up to the tenth floor, still thinking it over. He stood in the

doorway of his new office, evaluating the place by these new inhabitory criteria. It was a

true room, rather than a carrel in a larger space, so it had a door he could close. It

boasted one of the big inner windows looking into the building's central atrium, giving

him a direct view of the big colored mobile that filled the atrium's upper half.

This view was unfortunate, actually. He didn't want to look at that mobile, for not too

long ago he had found himself hanging upside down from it, in the middle of the night,

working desperately to extricate himself from an ill-conceived and poorly executed

break-and-enter job. He had been trying and failing to recover a badly worded

resignation letter he had left for Diane Chang, the NSF director. It was an incident he

would really rather forget.

But there the mobile hung, at the new angle which Frank had given to it and which no

one had noticed, perhaps a reminder to—to what? To try not to do stupid things. To

think things through before attempting them. But he always tried to do that, so the

reminder was unnecessary. Really, the mobile outside his window was a disadvantage.

But drapes could be installed.

There was room for a short couch against one wall, if he moved the bookcase there to

the opposite corner. It would then be like a kind of living room, with the computer as

entertainment center. There was an ordinary men's room around the corner, a coffee

nook clown the hall, the showers downstairs. All the necessities. As Sucandra had

remarked, at dinner once at the Quiblers', tasting spaghetti sauce with a wooden spoon:

Ahhhh—what now is lacking?

Same answer: Nothing.

It had to be admitted that it made him uneasy to be contemplating this idea.

Unsettled. It was deranged, in the literal sense of being outside the range. Typically

people did not choose to live without a home. No home to go home to; it was perhaps a

little crazy.

But in some obscure way, that aspect pleased him too. It was not crazy in the way that

breaking into the building through the skylight had been crazy; but it shared that act's

commitment to an idea. And was it any crazier than handing well over half of your

monthly take-home income to pay for seriously crappy lodging?

Nomadic existence. Life outdoors. So often he had thought about, read about, and

written about the biological imperatives in human behavior—about their primate

nature, and the evolutionary history that had led to humanity's paleolithic lifestyle,

which was the suite of behaviors that had caused their brains to balloon as rapidly as

they had; and about the residual power of all that in modern life. And all the while,

through all that thinking, reading, and writing, he had been sitting at a desk. Living like

Kim Stanley Robinson - Fifty Degrees Below

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