Fifty Degrees Below - Kim Stanley Robinson [57]
“Yes?” she said, interested.
“I read about something I think came out of MIT, of course there’s a million things coming out of MIT, but maybe you’ve heard of this one, a kind of idea futures market? You gather a group of stakeholders, and sort the ideas by how much money people are willing to risk on them?”
“Yes, do you mean that simulation program they’ve written, for market makers?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “I guess so.”
She said, “I heard about it. To me it sounds like one of those situations where simulation misses the point. You might need real experts risking real money, to get the kind of feedback a futures market is supposed to give you.”
“Yes, I wondered about that myself.”
“So, I don’t know. You should talk to Angelo Stavros.”
“What department?” Frank said, getting out his phone to tap it in; then suddenly he recalled that his phone might be fully surveiled.
“Economics—but what is it?” She was watching him closely now, and he couldn’t be sure if she knew more about the idea futures market or not.
“I was just thinking you’re probably right. In the end it’s going to take the usual analysis of the options, like we always have done before.”
“Another panel, you mean.”
“Yes,” he laughed ruefully, “I suppose so.”
Her smile was suddenly wicked, and over it her eyes blazed, they italicized her words: “Better not invite Thornton.”
He walked the north shore of the Charles, enjoying the wind that ruffled the water.
So. Francesca Taolini appeared to have guessed what he had tried to do on that panel. Maybe putting Thornton on a panel was too blatant, like throwing a rock—thus drawing her attention, perhaps even sparking extra interest in Pierzinski’s proposal.
This realization was a shock, small but profound, like the shove of shoulder to shoulder. Balance thrown off. Presumably it would come back after a while. Meanwhile a shudder, an itch, an ache. In short, desire.
He found that he had become a seer of beauty in women. On the river path in Boston it was mostly expressed as youth and intelligence. That made sense; sixty degree-giving institutions, some three hundred thousand college students; that meant at least one hundred fifty thousand more nubile young women than ordinary demographics would suggest. Maybe that was why men stayed in Boston when their college years were over, maybe that explained why they were so intellectually hyperactive, so frustrated, so alcoholic, such terrible drivers. It all seemed right to Frank. He was full of yearning, the women on the river walk were all goddesses set loose in the sun. The image of Francesca Taolini even somehow made him angry; she had flirted with him casually, toyed with him. He wanted his Caroline to call him again, he wanted to kiss her and more. He wanted her.
Back in Rock Creek Park it was not like that. Frank hiked in to the picnic tables late that night, and Zeno saw him and bellowed, “Hey it’s the Professor! Hey, wanna buy a fuck? She’ll do it for five dollars!”
The guys jeered at this, while the woman sitting in their midst rolled her eyes and continued to knit. She’d heard it all before. Blond, square, stoical; Zeno and the rest were in fact pleased to have her there, they just showed it in stupid ways.
“No thank you,” Frank said, and pulled a sixpack from a grocery bag to stop Zeno’s foolery before it went any further.
The woman shook her head when offered a beer. “Day sixty-five,” she said to Frank with a brief gap-toothed smile. “Day sixty-five, and here I am still hanging out with these bozos.”
“Yarrr!” they cheered.
“Congratulations,” Frank said.
“On what,” Zeno quipped, “staying sober, or hanging with us?”
High humor in the park.
There were very few women to be seen out there, Frank thought as he sat at her table; and those he saw seemed sad drabs, just barely getting