Forty signs of rain - Kim Stanley Robinson [53]
In a way it was funny. Solicit seven intensely subjective and sometimes contradictory opinions; quantify them; average them; and that was objectivity. A numerical grading that you could point to on a graph. Ridiculous, of course. But it was the best they could do. Indeed, what other choice did they have? No algorithm could make these kinds of decisions. The only computer powerful enough to do it was one made up of a networked array of human brains—that is to say, a panel. Beyond that they could not reach.
So they discussed the proposals one last time, their scientific potential and also their educational and benefit-to-society aspects, the “broader impacts” rubric, usually spelled out rather vaguely in the proposals, and unpopular with research purists. But as Frank put it now, “NSF isn’t here just to do science but also to promote science, and that means all these other criteria. What it will add to society.” What Anna will do with it, he almost said.
And speak of the devil, Anna came in to thank the panelists for their efforts, slightly flushed and formal in her remarks. When she left, Frank said, “Thanks from me too. It’s been exhausting as usual, but good work was done. I hope to see all of you here again at some point, but I won’t bother you too soon either. I know some of you have planes to catch, so let’s quit now, and if any of you have anything else you want to add, tell me individually. Okay, we’re done.”
Frank printed out a final copy of the spreadsheet. The money numbers suggested they would end up funding about ten of the forty-four proposals. There were seven in the “Fund” column already, and six of those in the “Fund If Possible” column had been ranked slightly higher than Yann Pierzinski’s proposal. If Frank, as NSF’s representative, did not exercise any of his discretionary power to find a way to fund it, that proposal would be declined.
ANOTHER DAY for Charlie and Joe. A late spring morning, temperatures already in the high nineties and rising, humidity likewise.
They stayed in the house for the balm of the air-conditioning, falling out of the ceiling vents like spills of clear syrup. They wrestled, they cleaned house, they ate breakfast and elevenses. Charlie read some of the Post while Joe devastated dinosaurs. Something in the Post about India’s drought reminded Charlie of the Khembalis, and he put in his earphone and gave his friend Sridar a call.
“Hey Sridar, it’s Charlie.”
“Charlie, good to hear from you! I got your message.”
“Oh good, I was hoping you had. How’s the lobbying business going?”
“We’re keeping at it. We’ve got some interesting clients, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes I do.”
Charlie and Sridar had worked together for a lobbying firm several years before. Now Sridar worked for Branson and Ananda, a small but prestigious firm representing several foreign governments in their dealings with the American government. Some of these governments had customs at home that made representing them to Congress a challenge.
“So you said something about a new country? I’m glad you’re keeping an eye out for new clients for me.”
“Well it was through Anna, like I said.” Charlie explained how they had met. “When I was talking to them I thought they could use your help.”
“Oh dear, how nice.”
“Yeah well, you need some challenges.”
“Right, like I have no challenges. What’s this new country, then?”
“Have you heard of Khembalung?”
“I think so. One of the League of Drowning Nations?”
“Yeah that’s right.”
“You’re asking me to take on a sinking island nation?”
“Actually they’re not sinking, it’s the ocean that’s rising.”
“Even worse. I mean what are we going to be able to do about that, stop global warming?”
“Well, yeah. That’s the idea. But you know. There’ll be all sorts of