Free The Highest Frontier by Joan Slonczewski

chocolate chip.”
    The studio audience clapped appreciatively. The Red Bulls cheered and tossed napkins in the air, as the cookies were handed around through the studio audience in the toywall. “Healthy but sweet,” texted Fritz. “Great opening.”
    Clive had turned to her opponent. “Betsy,” he began. “I know you have something good to share too.”
    Betsy smiled, a bit more carefully, managing to look homey and seductive all at once. “Clive, I want to make sure everyone in the studio gets one of my paradise butter cookies.”
    “Righteous and rich.” The Red Bulls jeered, and Fritz tossed a fork at the toywall. The Ferraris applauded with ostentatious politeness.
    “Now, Betsy,” Clive went on, “you’ve won the coin toss for the first question. Tell us why your husband will make the best president.”
    Betsy Guzmán leaned forward confidentially. “Clive, I’d like the audience to know,” she began as if imparting a great secret, “that my husband, Gar Guzmán … is a real man.” She lengthened the word, nodding. “A man who will go out and get the job done, do what a man’s got to do. Especially—most especially—in today’s most urgent issue, the War on Ultra.”
    The studio audience applauded steadily, and the pollmeter rose. A strong opening; it would be hard to counter.
    But the anchor had already swiveled to his left. “Glynnis, can you tell our audience why your wife will make the best president?”
    For a moment Glynnis tensed, then she recovered. She had to get over that, Jenny thought; this was the big league, now, not just a governor’s wife in a western state full of Mormons and Death Belt refugees. “Well, Clive,” Glynnis began, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her voice grew quiet. “I’d like the American people to know … that my wife Anna Carrillo is a real American.”
    The Red Bulls jumped up and applauded, so that Jenny lost the rest of what Glynnis said. Whatever it was, the pollmeter rose; her answer had hit the mark.
    Clive nodded sagely. “A truly heartfelt response. Now, Glynnis, it’s your turn for the next question. Can you share with our audience an incident in your everyday life that shows us what your life will be like in the White House?”
    At that Glynnis smiled, with just a hint of mischief. “Well, Clive.” Not your doctorate in solarray engineering, Jenny urged silently, don’t mention that. Not how you launched the first solarray beyond the Kessler cloud. “One day last summer, I was preparing a bowl of nice cold punch for our family. A special recipe I call Antarctic punch.”
    The studio audience hushed, and so did the cafeteria. The pollmeter bounced uncertainly. “Antarctic” was not a word people wanted to think about just now, with half a dozen armies vying to control the emerging farmland.
    “Now, my little daughter was in the kitchen, and by mistake she happened to put the punch bowl on the stove.”
    Beside the armchair, a punch bowl appeared on a hotplate. The punch bowl was half full of ice. The ice was melting.
    “Luckily, I saw the punch bowl when only half the ice had melted.” Like the Antarctic ice sheet, only half gone. And the warming wouldn’t stop. “As soon as I saw it—” Glynnis caught the punch bowl and held it up. “I took it right off the stove.” She faced the audience. “And that’s why we need Anna for president. Someone’s got to get that punch bowl off the stove.” Before punch bowl Earth came to a boil.
    *   *   *
    As the debate wore on, Jenny tried to stay awake, exhausted by the long day’s journey up from Somers. When Clive announced a break, she sat up straight.
    “Now,” said Clive, “we bring you an exclusive live interview: Jenny Ramos Kennedy, descendent of three presidents including her culture source Rosa Schwartz, at her first day at college. Jenny never expected to attend college in the Firmament, but after the tragic death of her—”
    All eyes were on Jenny as she