Forty signs of rain - Kim Stanley Robinson [122]
“There’ll be more work,” Leo told them.
“That’s for sure.” But they meant boulder work. “I heard the coast highway is cut just south of Cardiff,” Brian said. “San Elijo Lagoon is completely full, and now the surf is coming up the river mouth. Restaurant Row is totally gone. The overpass fell in and then the water started ripping both ways at the roadbed.”
“Wow!”
“It’s going to be a mess. I bet that will happen at the Torrey Pines river mouth too.”
“All the big lagoons.”
“Maybe, yeah.”
They sipped their espressos.
“It’s good to see you guys!” Leo said. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the worst part of this whole thing,” Leo said.
“Yeah.”
“Too bad they didn’t hang on to us—they’re putting all their eggs in one basket now.”
Marta and Brian regarded Leo. He wondered which part of what he had just said they disagreed with. Now that they weren’t working for him, he had no right to grill them about it, or about anything else. On the other hand there was no reason to hold back either.
“What?”
“I just got hired by Small Delivery Systems,” Marta said, almost shouting to be heard over the noise. She glanced at Leo uncomfortably. “Eleanor Dufours is working for them now, and she hired me. They want us to work on that algae stuff we’ve been doing.”
“Oh I see! Well good! Good for you.”
“Yeah, well. Atlanta.”
There was a whistle from the Army guys. A whole gang of Leucadians were trooping behind them down Neptune, south to another dump truck that had just arrived. There was more to be done.
Leo and Marta and Brian followed, went back to work. Some people left, others arrived. Lots of people were documenting events on video cameras and digital cameras. As the day wore on, the volunteers were glad to take heavy-duty work gloves from the Army guys to protect their palms from further blistering.
About two that afternoon the three of them decided to call it quits. Their palms were trashed. Leo’s thighs and lower back were getting shaky, and he was hungry. The cliff work would go on, and there would be no shortage of volunteers while the storm lasted. The need was evident, and besides it was fun to be out in the blast, doing something. Working made it seem like a practical contribution to be out there, although many would have been out to watch in any case.
The three of them stood on a point just north of Swami’s, leaning into the storm and marveling at the spectacle. Marta was bouncing a little in place, stuffed with energy still, totally fired up; she seemed both exhilarated and furious, and shouted at the biggest waves when they struck the stubborn little cliff at Pipes. “Wow! Look at that. Outside, outside!” She was soaking wet, as they all were, the rain plastering her curls to her head, the wind plastering her shirt to her torso; she looked like the winner of some kind of extreme-sport wet T-shirt contest, her breasts and belly button and ribs and collarbones and abs all perfectly delineated under the thin wet cloth. She was a power, a San Diego surf goddess, and good for her that she had gotten hired by Small Delivery Systems. Again Leo felt a glow for this wild young colleague of his.
“This is so great,” he shouted. “I’d rather do this than work in the lab!”
Brian laughed. “They don’t pay you for this, Leo.”
“Ah hey. Fuck that. This is still better.” And he howled at the storm.
Then Brian and Marta gave him hugs; they were taking off.
“Let’s try to stay in touch you guys,” Leo said sentimentally. “Let’s really do it. Who knows, we may all end up working together again someday anyway.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ll probably be available,” Brian said.
Marta shrugged, looking away. “We either will be or we won’t.”
Then they were off. Leo waved at Marta’s receding truck. A sudden pang—would he ever see them again? The reflection of the truck’s taillights smeared in two red lines over the street’s wet asphalt. Blinking right turn signal—then they were gone.
It takes no great skill