"Kim Stanley Robinson - Sixty Days and Counting" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

thermohaline cycle, had been an anomaly in that sense. The Gulf Stream had rested
so closely to a tipping point in its action that humans had, by an application at the
largest industrial scale they commanded, managed to tip that balance—at least
temporarily. And as a result (maybe) the last month on the East Coast had been
markedly warmer than the previous December had been. Perhaps they had even
escaped the Youngest Dryas. So now, in one of those quick leaps that humans were
prone to make (although science was not), people were talking about the climate
problem as if it were something that they could terraform their way out of, or even
had solved already!
It wasn’t true. Most of their remaining problems were so big that they had too much
heft and momentum for people to find any way to slow them, much less reverse
them.
So, at the end of this meeting, Edgardo shook his head. “Well, this is grim! There is
not much we can do! We would need much more energy than we command right
now. And it would have to be clean energy at that.”
Diane agreed. “Clean power is our only way out. That means solar power, I’d say.
Maybe wind, although it would take an awful lot of pylons. Maybe nuclear, just one
last generation to tide us over. Maybe ocean power too, if we could properly tap
into currents or tides or waves. To me—when I look at factors like technical
developmental readiness, and manufacturing capability, and current costs, and
dangers and damage—I’d say our best chance lies in a really hard push on solar. A
kind of Manhattan Project devoted to solar power.”
She raised a finger: “And when I say Manhattan Project, I don’t mean the kind of
silver bullet that people seem to mean when they say Manhattan Project. I mean the
part of the Manhattan Project that not only designed the bomb but also entrained
something like twenty percent of America’s industrial capacity to make the
fissionable material. About the same percent of capacity as the auto industry, and
right when they needed every bit of capacity for the other parts of the war. That’s
the kind of commitment we need now. Because if we had good solar power—”
She made one of her characteristic gestures, one that Frank had become very fond
of: an opening of the palm, turned up and held out to the world. “We might be able
to stabilize the climate. Let’s push all the aspects of this. Let’s organize the case,
and take it to Phil Chase, and get him prepped for when he takes office.”



After the meeting, Frank couldn’t focus. He checked his e-mail, his cell phone, his
FOG phone, his office phone: no messages. Caroline had not called for yet another
day. No telling where she was or what was happening.
That night he wandered north up Connecticut Avenue, past the hotel where Reagan
had been shot, past the Chinese embassy with its Tibetan and Falun Gong protesters
in front singing, until he crossed the big bridge over Rock Creek, guarded by its four
Disneyesque lion statues. Out on the middle of the bridge there was a tiny relief from
the claustrophobia of the city and forest. It was one of the only places where Rock
Creek seemed like a big gorge.
He continued to the clutch of little restaurants on the far side of the bridge and chose
one of the Indian ones. Ate a meal thinking about the names on the wine list.
Vineyards in Bangalore, why was this surprising? He read his laptop over milk tea.
When it was late enough, he struck off to the northwest, toward Bethesda. Back
streets, residential, the forest taking over. Night in the city, sound of distant sirens.