ON THE BUBBLE BY RAJNAR VAJRA Illustration by Nicholas Jainschigg Every mode of communication has its own strengths and weaknesses—andemergency reserves. August 16 2028 Eve Horton my youngest granddaughter reeled in the string tied to her wristto pull my face down to her eye level. She peered at me then held my imaged mouthnear her left ear. Evidently my smile wasn’t enough and she wanted to hear meclaim I was having fun. A helium-filled balloon even one sprayed with x-changepaint makes a poor loudspeaker so I gave her the white lie in as much of a bellowas my dying lungs and senile vocal cords could manage. Satisfied she let me orrather my point of view float back up above crowd level. Despite the clear afternoon sun lightbulbs were glowing thousands beadedtightly on high lines connecting each fairground structure to its neighbors. To mostpeople in the cotton-candy sticky Tilt-a-Whirl dizzy horde this might’ve seemedwasteful—assuming they noticed. And cared. But my engineer’s eye was still sharpenough to spot omni-voltaic foam sheathing rooftops and tents. Ergo this redundantillumination wouldn’t add a penny to anyone’s electric bill and probably helpedprevent overcharging whatever batteries lurked in the park’s power shed. Stillaccording to Horton’s Third Law or maybe the Fourth since I’ve never finalizedmy list every thrifty act has some hidden cost. In this case checking bulbs andreplacing dead ones couldn’t come cheap. And unlike me not one of the countlesslights was burned out. A boy not yet a teenager but surely a good five years older than my Eviepassed us towing a balloon displaying a fellow sufferer’s face: grandmotherly agespotted and friendly. Her eyes were as pain lined as mine but she winked at me justbefore two bulky men with “Manny’s Maintenance