The Best of Kim Stanley Robinson Read online

  He takes off west, walking around the side of the lake until he can go straight up the slope rising from the lake to the pass. The snow thins on the slope, and his plastic snowshoes grate on stretches of exposed granite. He moves quickly, takes big steps and deep breaths. The slope levels and he can see the spine of the pass. Wind blows in his face, growing stronger with every stride. When he reaches the flat of the saddle in mid-pass it is a full gale. His shirt is blown cold against him, his eyes water. He can feel sweat drying on his face. Brian is higher in the pass, descending the north spine. His high shouts are blown past Joe. Joe takes off his pack and swings his arms around, stretches them out to the west. He is in the pass.

  Below him to the west is the curving bowl of a cirque, one dug by the glacier that carved the pass. The cirque's walls are nearly free of snow, and great tiers of granite gleam in the sun. A string of lakes—flat white spots—mark the valley that extends westward out of the cirque. Lower ranges lie in rows out to the haze-fuzzed horizon.

  Behind him Lake Doris's bowl blocks the view of the deep valley they have left behind. Joe looks back to the west; wind slams his face again. Brian hops down the saddle to him, and Joe whoops. "It's windy again," he calls.

  "It's always windy in this pass," Brian says. He strips off his pack, whoops himself. He approaches Joe, looks around. "Man, for a while there about a year ago I thought we'd never be here again." He claps Joe on the back. "I'm sure glad you're here," he says, voice full.

  Joe nods. "Me, too. Me, too."

  Peter joins them. "Look at this," calls Brian, waving west. "Isn't this amazing?" Peter looks at the cirque for a moment and nods. He takes off his pack and sits behind a rock, out of the wind.

  "It's cold," he says. His hands quiver as he opens his pack.

  "Put on a sweatshirt," Brian says sharply. "Eat some food."

  Joe removes his snowshoes, wanders around the pass away from Brian and Peter. The exposed rock is shattered tan granite, covered with splotches of lichen, red and black and green. Joe squats to inspect a crack, picks up a triangular plate of rock. He tosses it west. It falls in a long arc.

  Brian and Peter eat lunch, leaning against a boulder that protects them from the wind. Where they are sitting it is fairly warm. Brian eats slices of cheese cut from a big block of it. Peter puts a tortilla in his lap, squeezes peanut butter out of a plastic tube onto it. He picks up a bottle of liquid butter and squirts a stream of it over the peanut butter.

  Brian looks at the concoction and squints. "That looks like shit."

  "Hey," Peter says. "Food is food. I thought you were the big pragmatist."

  "Yeah, but…"

  Pete wolfs down the tortilla, Brian works on the block of cheese.

  "So how did you like the morning's hike?" Brian asks.

  Pete says, "I read that snowshoes were invented by Plains Indians, for level places. In the mountains, those traverses"—he takes a bite—"those traverses were terrible."

  "You used to love it up here."

  "That was in the summers."

  "It's better now, there's no one else up here. And you can go anywhere you want over snow."

  "I've noticed you think so. But I don't like the snow. Too much work."

  "Work," Brian scoffs. "The old law office is warping your conception of work, Peter."

  Peter chomps irritably, looking offended. They continue to eat. One of Joe's nonsense songs floats by.

  "Speaking of warped brains," Peter says.

  "Yeah. You keeping an eye on him?"

  "I guess so. I don't know what to do when he loses it, though."

  Brian arches back and turns to look over the boulder. "Hey, Joe!" he shouts. "Come eat some lunch!" They both watch Joe jerk at the sound of Brian's voice. But after a moment's glance around, Joe returns to playing with the rocks.

  "He's out again," says Brian.

  "That," Peter says, "is one sick boy. Those doctors really did it to him."

  "That crash did it to him. The doctors saved his life. You didn't see him at the hospital like I did. Man, ten or twenty years ago an injury like that would have left him a vegetable for sure. When I saw him I thought he was a goner."

  "Yeah, I know, I know. The man who flew through his windshield."

  "But you don't know what they did to him."

  "So what did they do to him?"

  "Well, they stimulated what they call axonal sprouting in the areas where neuronal connections were busted up—which means, basically, that they grew his brain back!"

  "Grew it?"

  "Yeah! Well some parts of it—the broken connections, you know. Like the arm of a starfish. You know?"

  "No. But I'll take your word for it." Peter looks over the boulder at Joe. "I hope they grew back everything, yuk yuk. He might have one of his forgetting spells and walk over the edge there."

  "Nah. He just forgets how to talk, as far as I can tell. Part of the reorganization, I think. It doesn't matter much up here." Brian arches up. "Hey, JOE! FOOD!"

  "It does too matter," Peter says. "Say he forgets the word cliff. He forgets the concept, he says to himself I'm just going to step down to that lake there, and whoops, over the edge he goes."

  "Nah," Brian says. "It doesn't work that way. Concepts don't need language."

  "What?" Peter cries. "Concepts don't need language? Are you kidding? Man I thought Joe was the crazy one around here."

  "No seriously," Brian says, shifting rapidly from his usual reserve to interested animation. "Sensory input is already a thought, and the way we field it is conceptual. Enough to keep you from walking off cliffs anyway." Despite this assertion he looks over his shoulder again. There stands Joe nodding as if in agreement with him.

  "Yes, language is a contact lens," Joe says.

  Peter and Brian look at each other.

  "A contact lens at the back of the eyeball. Color filters into this lens, which is made of nameglass, and its reflected to the correct corner of the brain, tree corner or rock corner."

  Peter and Brian chew that one over.

  "So you lose your contact lenses?" Brian ventures.

  "Yeah!" Joe looks at him with an appreciative glance. "Sort of."

  "So what's in your mind then?"

  Joe shrugs. "I wish I knew." After a while, struggling for expression: "I feel things. I feel that something's not right. Maybe I have another language then, but I'm not sure. Nothing looks right, it's all just… color. The names are gone. You know?"

  Brian shakes his head, involuntarily grinning.

  "Hmm," Peter says. "It sounds like you might have some trouble getting your driver's license renewed." All three of them laugh.

  Brian stands, stuffs plastic bags into his pack. "Ready for some ridge running?" he says to the other two.

  "Wait a second," Peter says, "we just got here. Why don't you kick back for a while? This pass is supposed to be the high point of the trip, and we've only been here half an hour."

  "Longer than that," says Brian.

  "Not long enough. I'm tired!"

  "We've only hiked about four miles today," Brian replies impatiently. "All of us worked equally hard. Now we can walk down a ridge all afternoon, it'll be great!"

  Peter sucks air between his teeth, holds it in, decides not to speak. He begins jamming bags into his pack.

  They stand ready to leave the pass, packs and snowshoes on their backs. Brian makes a final adjustment to hipbelt—Pete looks up the spine they are about to ascend—Joe stares down at the huge bowl of rock and snow to the west. Afternoon sun glares. The shadow of a cloud hurries across the cirque toward them, jumps up the west side of the pass and they are in it, for a moment.

  "Look!" Joe cries. He points at the south wall of the pass. Brian and Pete look—

  A flash of brown. A pair of horns, blur of legs, the distant clacks of rock falling.

  "A bighorn sheep!" says Brian. "Wow!" He hurries across the saddle of the pass to the south spine, looking up frequently. "There it is again! Come
on!"

  Joe and Pete hurry after him. "You guys will never catch that thing," says Peter.

  The south wall is faulted and boulderish, and they zig and zag from one small shelf of snow to the next. They grab outcroppings and stick fists in cracks, and strain to push themselves up steps that are waist-high. The wind peels across the spine of the wall and keeps them cool. They breathe in gasps, stop frequently. Brian pulls ahead, Peter falls behind. Brian and Joe call to each other about the bighorn.

  Brian and Joe top the spine, scramble up the decreasing slope. The ridge edge—a hump of shattered rock, twenty or twenty-five feet wide, like a high road—is nearly level, but still rises enough to block their view south. They hurry up to the point where the ridge levels, and suddenly they can see south for miles.

  They stop to look. The range rises and falls in even swoops to a tall peak. Beyond the peak it drops abruptly and rises again, up and down and up, culminating in a huge knot of black peaks. To the east the steep snowy slope drops to the valley paralleling the range. To the west a series of spurs and cirques alternate, making a broken desert of rock and snow.

  The range cuts down the middle of it all, high above everything else that can be seen. Joe taps his boot on solid rock. "Fossil backbone, primeval earth being," he says.

  "I think I still see that sheep," says Brian, pointing. "Where's Peter?"

  Peter appears, face haggard. He stumbles on a rock, steps quickly to keep his balance. When he reaches Brian and Joe he lets his pack thump to the ground.

  "This is ridiculous," he says. "I have to rest."

  "We can't exactly camp here," Brian says sarcastically, and gestures at the jumble of rock they are sitting on.

  "I don't care," Peter says, and sits down.

  "We've only been hiking an hour since lunch," Brian objects, "and we're trying to close in on that bighorn!"

  "Tired," Peter says. "I have to rest."

  "You get tired pretty fast these days!"

  An angry silence.

  Joe says in a mild voice. "You guys sure are bitching at each other a lot."

  A long silence. Brian and Peter look in different directions.

  Joe points down at the first dip in the ridge, where there is a small flat of granite slabs and corners filled with sand. "Why don't we camp there? Brian and I can drop our packs and go on up the ridge for a walk. Pete can rest and maybe start a fire later. If you can find wood."

  Brian and Pete both agree to the plan, and they descend to the saddle campsite.

  Two men ridge running. They make swift progress up the smooth rise, along the jumbled road at the top of the range. The bare rock they cross is smashed into fragments, splintered by ice and lightning. Breaking out of the blackish granite are knobs of tan rock, crushed into concentric rings of shards. They marvel at boulders which look like they have sat on the range since it began to rise. They jump from rock to rock, flexing freed shoulders. Brian points ahead and calls out when he sees the sheep. "Do you see it?"

  "Sure do," Joe says, but without looking up. Brian notices this and snorts disgustedly.

  Shadows of the range darken the valley to the east. Joe hops from foothold to foothold, babbling at Brian all the while from several yards behind him. "Name it, name it. You name it. Naammme. What an idea. I've got three blisters on my feet. I named the one on the left heel Amos." Pause to climb a shoulder-high slab of granite. "I named the one on the right heel Crouch. Then I've got one on the front of my right ankle, and I named that one Achilles. That way when I feel it it's not like pain, it's like a little joke. Twinges in my heel"—panting so he can talk—"are little hellos, hellos with every step. Amos here, hi, Joe; Crouch here, hi, Joe. It's amazing. The way I feel I probably don't need boots at all. I should take them off!"

  "You'd probably better keep them on," Brian says seriously. Joe grins.

  The incline becomes steeper and the edge of the ridge narrows. They slow down, step more carefully. The shattered rock gives way to great faulted blocks of solid mountain. They find themselves straddling the ridge on all fours, left feet on the east slope and right feet on the west. Both sides drop sharply away, especially the west. Sun gilds this steeper slope. Joe runs his hand down the edge of the range.

  The ridge widens out, and they can walk again. The rock is shattered, all brittle plated angular splinters, covered with lichen. "Great granite," Joe says.

  "This is actually diorite," Brian says. "Diorite or gabbro. Made of feldspar and darker stuff."

  "Oh, don't give me that," Joe says. "I'm doing well just to remember granite. Besides, this stuff has been granite for a lot longer than geologists have been naming things. They can't go messing with a name like that." Still, he looks more closely at the rock. "Gabbro, gabbro… sounds like one of my words."

  They wind between boulders, spring up escarpments. They come upon a knob of quartz that rises out of the black granite. The knob is infinitely cracked, as if struck on top by a giant sledgehammer. "Rose quartz," says Brian, and moves on. Joe stares at the knob, mouth open. He kneels to pick up chunks of the quartz, peers at them. He sees that Brian is moving on. Rising, he says to himself, "I wish I knew everything."

  Suddenly they are at the top. Everything is below them. Beside Brian, Joe stops short. They stand silently, inches apart. Wind whips around them. To the south the range drops and rises yet again, to the giant knob of peaks they saw when they first topped the ridge. At every point of the compass mountains drop away, white folds crumpling to every horizon. Nothing moves but the wind. Brian says, "I wonder where that sheep went to."

  Two men sitting on a mountaintop. Brian digs into a pile of rocks, pulls out a rusty tin box. "Aha," he says. "The sheep left us a clue." He takes a piece of paper from the box. "Here's its name—Diane Hunter."

  "Oh, bullshit!" cries Joe. "That's no name. Let me see that." He grabs the box out of Brian's hand and the top falls off. A shower of paper, ten or twenty pieces of it, pops out of the box and floats down to the east, spun by the wind. Joe pulls out a piece still wedged in the box. He reads, "Robert Spencer, July 20th, 2014. It's a name box. It's for people who want to leave a record of their climb."

  Brian laughs. "How could anyone get into something like that? Especially on a peak you can just walk right up to." He laughs again.

  "I suppose I should try to recover as many as I can," Joe says dubiously, looking down the steep side of the peak.

  "What for? It's not going to erase their experience."

  "You never know," says Joe, laughing to himself. "It very well might. Just think, all over the United States the memory of this peak has popped right out of twenty people's heads." He waves to the east. "Bye-bye…"

  They sit in silence. Wind blows. Clouds pass by. The sun closes on the horizon. Joe talks in short bursts, waves his arms. Brian listens, watches the clouds. At one point he says, "You're a new being, Joseph." Joe cocks his head at this.

  Then they just sit and watch. It gets cold.

  "Hawk," says Brian in a quiet voice. They watch the black dot soar on the updraft of the range.

  "It's the sheep," says Joe. "It's a shapechanger."

  "Nah. Doesn't even move the same."

  "I say it is."

  The dot turns in the wind and rises, circling higher and higher above the world, coasting along the updraft with minute wing adjustments, until it hovers over the giant, angular knotpeak. Suddenly it plummets toward the peaks, stooping faster than objects fall. It disappears behind the jagged black teeth. "Hawk," Joe breathes. "Hawuck divvve."

  They look at each other.

  Brian says, "That's where we'll go tomorrow."

  Glissading down the snow expanse, skidding five or ten feet with each stiff-legged step, the two of them make rapid progress back to camp. The walking is dreamlike as they pump left… right… left… right down the slope.

  "So what about that bighorn sheep?" says Joe. "I never did see any prints."

  "Maybe we shared a hallucination," says Brian. "What do t
hey call that?"

  "A folie à deux."

  "I don't like the sound of that." A pause while they skid down a steep bank of snow, straight-legged as if they are skiing. "I hope Pete got a fire going. Damn cold up here."

  "A feature of the psychic landscape," Joe says, talking to himself again. "Sure, why not? It looks about like what I'd expect, I'll tell you that. No wonder I'm getting things confused. What you saw was probably a fugitive thought of mine, escaping off across the waste. Bighorn sheep, sure."

  After a while they can see the saddle where they left Peter, far below them in the rocky expanse. There is a spark of yellow. They howl and shout. "Fire! FIRE!"

  In the sandy camp, situated in a dip between slabs of granite, they greet Pete and root through their packs with the speed of hungry men. Joe takes his pot, jams it with snow, puts it on the fire. He sits down beside Peter.

  "You guys were gone a long time," Peter says. "Did you find that sheep?"

  Joe shakes his head. "It turned into a hawk." He moves his pot to a bigger flame. "Sure am glad you got this fire going," he says. "It must have been a bitch to start in this wind." He starts to pull off his boots.

  "There wasn't much wood, either," Pete says. "But I found a dead tree down there a ways."

  Joe prods a burning branch, frowns. "Juniper," he says with satisfaction. "Good wood."

  Brian appears, dressed in down jacket, down pants, and down booties. Pete falls silent. Glancing at Pete, Joe notices this, and frowns again. He gets up stiffly to go to his pack and get his own down booties. He returns to the fire, finishes taking off his boots. His feet are white and wrinkled, with red blisters.

  "Those look sore," says Pete.

  "Nah." Joe gulps down the melted snow in his pot, starts melting more. He puts his booties on.