Analog SFF, June 2011 Read Online Free PDF Page B

not enough electrical power generation to cope with the hurried—and ongoing—switchover to plug-in cars; if there had been, the overburdened power grid could not reliably distribute the added load. Marcus did not bring up any of that. No one on the panel did. They were not permitted to say anything verging on politics, geo- or other.
    Do it all , Marcus wanted to shout, but that was yet another truth no one on the panel was permitted to speak. Any other means of power generator, distribution, or conservation was someone else's project.
    From time to time it was his turn to field a harangue. He dutifully thanked whomever for their comment and, all too often, parroted some preapproved, eminently inoffensive platitude. And began to wonder if there was any way he could not have become cynical.
    If he hadn't been already.
    A young woman in a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt reached the front of a comment line. An engineering student, Marcus suspected, because she asked about the radiation environment in space gradually degrading solar cells. When he thanked her for the question, he really meant it. He was an engineer too.
    He talked about radiation hardening, on-orbit repair methods, and opportunities for in-space remanufacturing. He reviewed the deleterious effects of weather on terrestrial solar cells. This, finally, was a question he could answer without breaking protocol—not to mention an interesting topic—and he pretended not to notice his boss's sidelong glances until she tap-tapped her mike to cut him off. It was almost noon and they were, “regrettably nearly out of time."
    Two more danced-around questions and the ordeal was over. Until two days hence, in another city. Marcus forgot which, and it hardly mattered.
    This was no way to save a country.
    Long after Marcus and his colleagues had collected their things and were ready to hit the road, many of their audience still milled about, arguing in animated clumps. The stragglers showed no sign of clearing the aisles.
    The wall behind the dais had two camouflaged service doors. Marcus opened one a few inches and peeked out. He found the service hallway empty and, apart from the distant, muffled clatter of pots and pans, quiet. “Shall we?” he suggested to his colleagues.
    No one argued.
    In the austere corridor, her shoes clicking on the tile floor, Ellen limped along beside Marcus. She had not quite recovered from a skiing accident the previous winter. Ellen was tall to begin with; in heels, she was almost his height. “Not fun, Marcus, but we need public support. It's going to be a big change."
    "Understood,” he said. And still a waste of their time.
    "Not everything can be as fascinating as radiation-hardening techniques for solar cells.” With a laugh, she changed the subject. “What's the car problem?"
    "The circuit breaker in my garage tripped overnight.” The overtaxed grid, sagging and surging, was beyond anyone's ability to predict—and with every new electric car on the street the load became a little greater, a bit more mobile, and that much less predictable. “The breaker must have popped right after I got home and plugged in the car, because I had about zero charge this morning."
    "And you had to buy gas? Ouch. Well, you must have had ration credits left. That's something."
    Double doors swung open into the service corridor, the kitchen noises swelling, and waiters rushed toward them bearing lunch trays. Marcus stepped aside.
    Twenty bucks and change per gallon. That ridiculous line at the pump. Ration credits he had been saving for a vacation. None of it bore thinking about.
    "And Marcus . . ."
    The pregnant pause. Her charcoal-gray power suit. Heels. She was way overdressed for the morning's public flogging. “Where are you off to, boss, and what do you need me to cover for you?"
    She grinned. “Clearly we've worked together too long. The administrator called last night. He wants a program update today. Hence, you'll be taking my place at this