Fifty Degrees Below - Kim Stanley Robinson [115]
Snow drifted down on them. It was cold but almost windless. Beautiful, really. Maybe they could adapt to any climate.
Well, but that was thinking about individuals, the body in its clothing. The support system more generally might not fare as well: food production, energy. . . .
As he danced in the snow, Charlie considered what could be said to the American public to convince them they needed to elect Phil Chase as their next president, rather than the current happy occupant. Incumbents had an advantage; but the Republican party had stood firm, so far, on a policy of denying the existence of climate change. Surely the time was coming when they could be held to account for that heedlessness?
Maybe, maybe not.
The snow lofted down. Looking up it was strange to see so many tiny white missiles plunging down out of the gray cloud that covered the sky, flocking down in waves.
Individual flakes caught in Joe’s hair. His mittens were too big; he looked displeased and shook his hands. Angrily he tried to pluck the mittens off, one hand then the other, but both hands were equally impeded.
“DAAAA!”
“No, Joe, wait, don’t do that Joe, your hands will freeze. Cold! Cold!”
“Wanna! Wanna!” Joe flung his arms wildly around him, and off the mittens flew.
“Ah shit Joe. Come on. We’ll have to go back inside if you do that.”
“Wanna snow.”
Happily Joe scooped up loose snow and smooshed it into snowballs to throw at his dad. Quickly his hands turned pink and wet, but he didn’t seem to mind. Charlie helped him build a little snowman. Base, torso, head. The new snow cohered very nicely. Seed cones from a low branch for eyes. “Very cool.”
Joe stood facing it. He put his red wet hands together. “Namaste,” he said.
Charlie jerked upright. “What did you say?”
“No ma stay.”
“Oh! You want to go back inside?”
“Owee.” Holding out a red-and-white hand for Charlie’s inspection.
“I bet! That looks cold! That’s what I was telling you, about the mittens.”
“Too big.”
“Sorry. We’ll look for some smaller ones.”
Joe began kicking the snowman. Charlie watched him fondly, fully in the grip of the genomic sublime. This was his Joe, kicking his creation to pieces. Like a sand mandala poured into the river. Huge gusto when wiping a slate clean. His snowsuit looked like it was covered with wet diamonds.
“Come on, let’s go back inside. He’s all gone now. People won’t even know what we did. They’ll think that two big tigers have been out here wrestling in the snow.”
“Coo Da.”
Back inside they went to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. They took their cups out by the fire and put them on the coffee table, then wrestled casually, taking breaks to sip chocolate. Joe charged Charlie, slammed into him, then rolled away on the carpet, squealing happily; there was little he liked more, particularly when he knocked Charlie over. He growled like a dog, grunted like a martial artist, shrieked like a banshee; did not cry when he fell down.
Except this time he did. He bonked his head on the radiator and wailed. He just wasn’t as tough these days. It took quite a bit of hot chocolate to make it okay. Then it was back to rolling, growling, shouting “Ha!” or “Gotcha,” until they were content to lie there in a heap on the carpet. Charlie was exhausted; Joe faked exhaustion for a second, to show what a mighty ordeal it had been to defeat the monster, then sat playing with his trains, shaking his head and proclaiming “Po Da.”
The fire crackled. Outside the snow fell. Looking up at it from the floor, Charlie had the impression that it was aiming at him and just missing. Maybe this was just the way it was going to be now. Maybe that’s the way it had always been. People had lived cocooned in oil for a few generations, but beyond that the world remained the same, waiting for them to re-emerge into it.
Joe was staring into the fire. He whimpered, as in the last gulp of a cry. Charlie leaned over and hugged him, held