Green Earth. Kim Stanley Robinson

was discrepancy from the norm that drew the eye. She looked like she was wearing high heels even though she wasn’t. That was attractive, indeed women wore high heels to look like her. Another savannah judgment, no doubt—the ability to outrun predators as part of the potential for reproductive success. Whatever. She looked good. It was like a kind of balm, after what he had gone through. Back to basics.

      Frank stood below her as they rose up the first escalator from trackside to the turnstiles, enjoying that view, which exaggerated the length of her legs and the size of her bottom. At that point he was hooked, and would therefore, as was his custom, follow her until their paths diverged, just to prolong the pleasure of watching her walk. This happened to him all the time, it was one of the habits one fell into, living in a city of such beautiful women.

      Through the turnstiles, then, and along the tunnel toward the big escalator up and out. Then to his surprise she turned left, into the nook that held the station’s elevators.

      He followed her without thinking. He never took the Metro system’s elevators, they were extremely slow. And yet there he was, standing beside her waiting for this one to arrive, feeling conspicuous but unable to do anything about it, except look up at the display lights over the elevator doors. Although he could just walk away.

      The light lit. The doors opened on an empty car. Frank followed the woman in and turned and stared at the closing doors, feeling red-faced.

      She pushed the street-level button, and with a slight lift they were off. The elevator hummed and vibrated as they rose. It was hot and humid, and the little room smelled faintly of machine oil, sweat, plastics, perfume, and electricity.

      Frank studiously observed the display over the doors. The woman did the same. She had the strap of her armbag hooked under her thumb. Her elbow was pressed into her blouse just over the waistline of her skirt. Her hair was so curly that it was almost frizzy, but not quite; brown, and cut short, so that it curled tight as a cap on her head. A little longer in a fringe at the back of her neck, where two lines of fine blond hairs curved down toward her deltoid muscles. Wide shoulders. A very impressive animal. Even in his peripheral vision he could see all this.

      The elevator whined, then shuddered and stopped. Startled, Frank refocused on the control panel, which still showed them as going up.

      “Shit,” the woman muttered, and looked at her watch. She glanced at Frank.

      “Looks like we’re stuck,” Frank said, pushing the UP button.

      “Yeah. Damn it.”

      “Unbelievable,” Frank agreed.

      She grimaced. “What a day.”

      A moment or two passed. Frank hit the DOWN button: nothing. He gestured at the little black phone console set in the panel above the UP and DOWN buttons.

      “I guess we’re at the point this is here for.”

      “I think so.”

      Frank picked up the receiver, put it to his ear. The phone was ringing already, which was good, as it had no number pad. What would it have been like to pick up a phone and hear nothing?

      But the ringing went on long enough to concern him.

      Then it stopped, and a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

      “Hi? Hey listen, we’re in the elevator at the Bethesda Metro stop, and it’s stuck.”

      “Okay. Bethesda did you say? Did you try pushing the CLOSE DOOR button then the UP button?”

      “No.” Frank pushed these buttons. “I am now, but … nothing. It feels pretty stuck.”

      “Try the DOWN button too, after the CLOSE DOOR.”

      “Okay.” He tried it.

      “Do you know how far up you are?”

      “We must be near the top.” He glanced at the woman, and she nodded.

      “Any smoke?”

      “No!”

      “Okay. There’s people on the way. Just sit tight and stay cool. Are you crowded in there?”

      “No, there’s just two of us.”

      “That’s okay then. They said they’ll be about half an hour to an hour, depending on traffic and the problem with the elevator. They’ll call you on your phone there when they get there.”

      “Okay. Thanks.”

      “No problem. Pick up again if something changes. I’ll be watching.”

      “I will. Thanks again.”

      The woman had already hung up. Frank did also.

      They stood there.

      “Well,” Frank said, gesturing at the phone.

      “I could hear,” the woman said. She looked around at the floor. “I guess I’ll sit down while we wait. My feet are tired.”

      “Good idea.”

      They sat down next to each other, backs to the back wall of the elevator.

      “Tired feet?”

      “Yeah. I went running today at lunch, and it was mostly on sidewalks.”

      “You’re a runner?”

      “No, not really. That’s why my feet hurt. I ride with a cycling club, and we’re doing a triathlon, so I’m trying to add some running and swimming. I could just do the cycling leg of a team, but I’m seeing if I can get ready to do the whole thing.”

      “What are the distances?”

      “A mile swim, twenty-mile bike, ten-K run.”

      “Ouch.”

      “It’s not so bad.”

      They sat in silence.

      “So are you going to be late for something here?”

      “No,” Frank said. “Well, it depends, but it’s just a kind of party.”

      “Too bad to miss that.”

      “Maybe. It’s a work thing. There was a lunchtime lecture today, and now the organizer is having a thing for the speakers.”

      “What did they talk about?”

      He smiled. “A Buddhist approach to science, actually. They were the Buddhists.”

      “And you were the scientists.”

      “Yes.”

      “That must have been interesting.”

      “Well, yes. It was. It’s given me a lot to think about. More than I thought it would. I don’t exactly know what to say to them tonight though.”

      “Hmm.” She appeared to consider it. “Sometimes I think about cycling as a kind of meditation. Lots of times I kind of blank out, and when I come to a lot of miles have passed.”

      “That must be nice.”

      “Your science isn’t psychology, is it?”

      “Microbiology.”

      “Good. Sorry. Anyway, I like it, yeah. I don’t think I could do it by trying for it, though. It just happens, usually late in a ride. Maybe it’s low blood sugar. Not enough energy to think.”

      “Could be,” Frank said. “Thinking does burn some sugars.”

      “There you go.”

      They sat there burning sugars.

      “So what about you, are you going to be late for something?”

      “I was going to go for a ride, actually. My legs would be less sore tomorrow if I did. But after this, who knows what I’ll feel like … maybe I still will. If we get out of here pretty soon.”