Fifty Degrees Below. Kim Stanley Robinson

be meant for you.’

      ‘Okay.’

      Like any other climber, Frank had spent a fair amount of camp time tossing a frisbee back and forth. He much preferred it to hackysack, which he was no good at. Now he took the disk they gave him and followed them to their next tee, and threw it last, conservatively, as his main desire was to keep it going straight up the narrow fairway. His shot only went half as far as theirs, but he could see where it had crashed into the overgrown grass, so he considered it a success, and ran after the others. They were pretty fast, not sprinting but moving right along, at what Frank guessed was about a seven-minute mile pace if they kept it up; and they slowed only briefly to pick up their frisbees and throw them again. It quickly became apparent that the slowing down, throwing, and starting up again cost more energy than running straight through would have, and Frank had to focus on the work of it. The players pointed out the next target, and trusted he would not clock them in the backs of their heads after they threw and ran off. And in fact if he shot immediately after them he could fire it over their heads and keep his shot straight.

      Some of the targets were trash cans, tree trunks, or big rocks, but most were metal baskets on metal poles, the poles standing chest high and supporting chains that hung from a ring at the top. Frank had never seen such a thing before. The frisbee had to hit the chains in such a way that its momentum was stopped and it fell in the basket. If it bounced out it was like a rimmer in golf or basketball, and a put-in shot had to be added to one’s score.

      One of the players made a putt from about twenty yards away, and they all hooted. Frank saw no sign they were keeping score or competing. The dreadlocked player threw and his frisbee too hit the chains, but fell to the ground. ‘Shit.’ Off they ran to pick them up and start the next hole. Frank threw an easy approach shot, then tossed his frisbee in.

      ‘What was par there?’ he asked as he ran with them.

      ‘Three. They’re all threes but three, which is a two, and nine, which is a four.’

      ‘There’s nine holes?’

      ‘Yes, but we play the course backward too, so we have eighteen. Backward they’re totally different.’

      ‘I see.’

      So they ran, stopped, stooped, threw, and took off again, chasing the shots like dogs. Frank got into his running rhythm, and realized their pace was more the equivalent of an eight or nine-minute mile. He could run with these guys, then. Throwing was another matter, they were amazingly strong and accurate; their shots had a miraculous quality, flying right to the baskets and often crashing into the chains from quite a distance.

      ‘You guys are good!’ he said at one tee.

      ‘It’s just practice,’ the dreadlocked one said. ‘We play a lot.’

      ‘It’s our religion,’ one of the others said, and his companions cackled as they made their next drives.

      Then one of Frank’s own approach shots clanged into the chains and dropped straight in, from about thirty yards out. The others hooted loudly in congratulation.

      On his next approach he focused on throwing at the basket, let go, watched it fly straight there and hit with a resounding clash of the chains. A miracle! A glow filled him, and he ran with an extra bounce in his step.

      At the end of their round they stood steaming in the dusk, not far from the picnic area and the homeless guys. The players compared numbers, ‘twenty-eight,’ ‘thirty-three,’ which turned out to be how many strokes under par they were for the day. Then high fives and handshakes, and they began to move off in different directions.

      ‘I want to do that again,’ Frank said to the dreadlocked guy.

      ‘Any time, you were keeping right with us. We’re here most days around this time.’ He headed off in the direction of the homeless guys, and Frank accompanied him, thinking to return to his dinner site and clear away his trash.

      The homeless guys were still there, nattering at each other like Laurel and Hardy: ‘I did not! You did. I did not, you did.’ Something in the intonation revealed to Frank that these were the two he had heard the night before, passing him in the dark.

      ‘Now you wanna play?’ the chess player said when he saw Frank.

      ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

      He sat across from the boy, sweating, still feeling the glow of his miracle shot. Throwing on the run; no doubt it was a very old thing, a hunter thing. His whole brain and body had been working out there. Hunting, sure, and the finding and picking up of the frisbees in the dusk was like gathering. Hunting and gathering; and maybe these were no longer the same activities if one were hunting for explanations, or gathering data. Maybe only physical hunting and gathering would do.

      The homeless guys droned on, bickering over their half-assed efforts to get a fire started in the stone fireplace. A piece of shit, as one called it.

      ‘Who built that?’ Frank asked.

      ‘National Park. Yeah, look at it. It’s got a roof.’

      ‘It looks like a smoker.’

      ‘They were idiots.’

      ‘It was the WPA, probly.’

      Frank said, ‘Isn’t this place closed at dusk?’

      ‘Yeah right.’

      ‘The whole fucking park is closed, man. Twenty-four seven.’

      ‘Closed for the duration.’

      ‘Yeah right.’

      ‘Closed until further notice.’

      ‘Five dollar game?’ the youngster said to Frank, rattling the box of pieces.

      Frank sighed. ‘I don’t want to bet. I’ll play you for free.’ Frank waved at the first vet. ‘I’ll be more batting practice for you, like him.’

      ‘Zeno ain’t never just batting practice!’

      The boy’s frown was different. ‘Well, okay.’

      Frank hadn’t played since a long-ago climbing expedition to the Cirque of the Unclimbables, a setting in which chess had always seemed as inconsequential as tiddly-winks. Now he quickly found that using the timer actually helped his game, by making him give up analyzing the situation in depth in favor of just going with the flow of things, with the shape or pattern. In the literature they called this approach a ‘good-enough decision heuristic,’ although in this case it wasn’t even close to good enough; he attacked on the left side, had both knights out and a great push going, and then suddenly it was all revealed as hollow, and he was looking at the wrong end of the end game.

      ‘Shit,’ he said, obscurely pleased.

      ‘Told ya,’ Zeno scolded him.

      The night was warm and full of spring smells, mixing with the mud stench. Frank was still hot from the frisbee run. Some distant gawking cries wafted up from the ravine, as if peacocks were on the loose. The guys at the next table were laughing hard. The third vet was sitting on the ground, trying to read a Post by laying it on the ground in front of the fitful fire. ‘You can only see the fire if you lie on the ground, or look right down the smoke hole. How stupid is that?’ They rained curses on their miserable fire. Chessman finished boxing his chess pieces and took off.

      Zeno said to Frank, ‘Why didn’t you play him for money, man? Take him five blow jobs to make up for that.’

      ‘Whoah,’ Frank said, startled.

      Zeno laughed, a harsh ragged bray, mocking and aggressive, tobacco-raspy. ‘HA ha ha.’ A kind of rebuke or slap. He had the handsome face of a movie villain, a sidekick to someone like Charles Bronson or Jack Palance. ‘Ha ha – what you think, man?’

      Frank bagged his dinner boxes and stood. ‘What if I had beat him?’

      ‘You ain’t