Green Earth. Kim Stanley Robinson

mean to give?

      Frank considered adding a postscript to Yann Pierzinski’s Form Seven, suggesting that he pursue internal support at Torrey Pines Generique. Then he decided it would be better to work through Derek Gaspar. He could do it in person during his trip to San Diego to prepare for his move back.

      A week later he was off. Transfer at Dallas, up into the air again, back to sleep. He woke when he felt the plane tilt down. They were still over Arizona, its huge baked landforms flowing by underneath. A part of Frank that had been asleep for much longer than his nap began to wake up too: he was returning to home ground. It was amazing the way things changed in the American West. Frank put his forehead against the inner window of the plane, looked ahead to the next burnt range coming into view. Thought to himself, I’ll go surfing.

      The pale umber of the Mojave gave way to Southern California’s big scrubby coastal mountains. Then suburbia hove into view, spilling eastward on filled valleys and shaved hilltops: greater San Diego, bigger all the time. He could see bulldozers scraping platforms for the newest neighborhood, and freeways glittering with their arterial flow.

      Frank’s plane drifted down. Downtown’s cluster of glassy skyscrapers came into view immediately to the left of the plane, seemingly at about the same height. Those buildings had been Frank’s workplace for a year of his youth, and he watched them as he would any old home. He knew exactly which buildings he had climbed; they were etched on his mind. That had been a good year. Disgusted with his advisor, he had taken a leave of absence from graduate school, and after a season of climbing in Yosemite and living at Camp Four, he had run out of money and decided to do something for a living that would require his physical skills and not his intellectual ones. A young person’s mistake, although at least he had not thought he could make his living as a professional climber. But those same skills were needed for the work of skyscraper window maintenance; not just window washing, which he had also done, but repair and replacement. It had been an odd but wonderful thing, going off the roofs of those skyscrapers and descending their sides to clean windows, repair leaking caulk and flashing, replace cracked panes, and so on. The climbing was straightforward, usually involving platforms for convenience; the belays and T-bars and dashboards and other gear had been bombproof. His fellow workers had been a mixed bag, as was always true with climbers—everything from nearly illiterate cowboys to eccentric scholars of Nietzsche or Adam Smith. And the window work itself had been a funny thing, what the Nietzsche scholar had called the apotheosis of kindergarten skills, very satisfying to perform—slicing out old caulk, applying heated caulk, unscrewing and screwing screws and bolts, sticking giant suckers to panes, levering them out and winching them up to the roofs or onto the platforms—and all under the cool onrush of the marine layer, just under clouds all mixed together with bright sun, so that it was warm when it was sunny, cool when it was cloudy, and the whole spread of downtown San Diego there below to entertain him when he wasn’t working. Often he had felt surges of happiness, filling him in moments when he stopped to look around: a rare thing in his life.

      Eventually the repetition got boring, as it will, and he had moved on, first to go traveling, until the money he had saved was gone; then back into academia again, as a sort of test—in a different lab, with a different advisor, at a different university. Things had gone better there. Eventually he had ended up back at UCSD, back in San Diego—his childhood home, and still the place where he felt most comfortable on this earth.

      He noticed that feeling as he left the airport terminal’s glassed-in walkway over the street, and hopped down the outdoor escalator to the rental car shuttles. The comfort of a primate on home ground—a familiarity in the slant of the light and the shape of the hills, but above all in the air itself, the way it felt on his skin, that combination of temperature, humidity, and salinity that together marked it as particularly San Diegan. It was like putting on familiar old clothes after spending a year in a tux.

      He got in his rental car and drove out of the lot. North on the freeway, crowded but not impossibly so, people zipping along like starlings, following the two rules of flocking, keep as far apart from the rest as possible, and change speeds as little as possible. The best drivers in the world. Past Mission Bay and Mount Soledad on the left, into the region where every off-ramp had been a major feature of his life. Off at Gilman, up the tight canyon of apartments hanging over the freeway, past the one where he had once spent a night with a girl, ah, back in the days when such things had happened to him.

      Then UCSD. Home base. Even after a year in the East Coast’s great hardwood forest, there was something appealing about the campus’s eucalyptus grove—something charming, even soothing. The trees had been planted as a railroad-tie farm, before it was discovered that the wood was unsuitable. Now they formed a kind of mathematically gridded space, within which the architectural mélange of UCSD’s colleges lay scattered.

      After an afternoon of departmental appointments, there was an hour and a half to go before his meeting with Derek. Parking at UCSD was a nightmare, but he had gotten a pass to a department slot from Rosario, and Torrey Pines was only a few hundred yards up the road, so he decided to walk. Then it occurred to him to take the climbers’ route that he and some friends had devised when they were all living at Revelle; that would nicely occupy about the amount of time he had.

      It involved walking down La Jolla Shores and turning onto La Jolla Farms Road and heading out onto the bluff of land owned by the university, a squarish plateau between two canyons running down to the beach, ending in a cliff over the sea. This land had never been built on, and as they had found ancient graves on it, graves dated to seven thousand years before the present, it was likely to stay empty. A superb prospect, and one of Frank’s favorites places on Earth. In fact he had lived on it for a while, sleeping out there every night; he had had romantic encounters out there, oh my yes; and he had often dropped down the steep surfer’s trail that descended to the beach right at Blacks Canyon.

      When he got to the cliff’s edge he found a sign announcing that the route was closed due to erosion of the cliff, and it was hard to argue with that, as the old trail was now a kind of gully down the edge of a sandstone buttress. But he still wanted to do it, and he strolled south along the cliff’s edge, looking out at the Pacific and feeling the onshore wind blow through him. The view was just as mind-boggling as ever, despite the gray cloud layer; as often happened, the clouds seemed to accentuate the great distances to the horizon, the two plates of ocean and sky converging at such a very slight angle toward each other. California, the edge of history—a stupid idea, totally untrue in all senses of the word, except for this: it did appear to be the edge of something.

      An awesome spot. And the tighter canyon on the south side of the empty bluff had an alternative trail down that Frank was willing to break the rules and take. No one but a few cronies of his had ever used this one, because the initial drop was a scarily exposed knife-edge of a buttress, the gritty sandstone eroding to steep gullies on both sides. The trick was to descend fast and boldly, and so Frank did that, skidding out as he hit the bottom of the inland gully, sliding onto his side and down; but against the other wall he stopped himself, and then was able to hop down uneventfully.

      Down to the salt roar of the beach, the surf louder here because of the tall cliff backing the beach. He walked north down the strand, enjoying yet another familiar place. Blacks Beach, the UCSD surfers’ home away from home.

      The ascent to Torrey Pines Generique reversed the problems of the descent, in that here all the steepness was right down on the beach. A hanging gully dripped over a hard sill some forty feet up, and he had to free-climb the grit to the right of the green algal spill. After that it was just a scramble up the gully, to the clifftop near the hang glider port. At the top he discovered a sign that declared this climb too had been illegal.

      Oh well. He had loved it. He felt refreshed, awake for the first time in weeks somehow. This was what it meant to be home. He could brush his hands through his slightly sweaty and seaspray-dampened hair, and walk in and see what might happen.

      Onto the parklike grounds of Torrey Pines Generique, through the newly beefed-up security gates. The place was looking empty, he thought as he walked down the halls to Derek’s office. They had definitely let a lot of people go.

      Frank was ushered in by a secretary, and Derek got up from his broad