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policy.”
    Trevor jumped in. “Dan, I researched tooling over the weekend. For telecommuting. I have a great remote collaboration platform spec’d out. Could have it live by Monday.”
    “So we can all start telecommuting Monday?” I said. “Outstanding, Trevor!” No, I wasn’t sincere. What Trevor meant was that he had a spyware suite all picked out, to make sure we were actually working at home. Call me old-fashioned, but as a supervisor I relied on communication and results, not spy software. Any real collaboration tools, we used in our offices in Stamford. And nights and weekends, when we already worked overtime remotely.
    “Not all of us,” Trevor equivocated. “I’ll have on-site support coverage, as well. Probably two people, each taking three days a week in person.”
    “One day, all here for meetings,” Cheng chimed in. “Wednesday?”
    “Tuesday, I think,” Mangal supplied. “Does Tuesday work for everybody?” We all agreed.
    Dan scowled. “Telecommuting is against corporate policy,” he reminded us.
    “But as a forward-thinking, environmentally conscious company,” I jumped in, “UNC embraces a telecommuting pilot program. Since we have the expertise in the software tools, we’re the perfect branch to prove out the new work model.”
    My fellow section managers promptly trotted out their flim flam to back this assertion.
    “I said no telecommuting,” Dan reiterated, glaring at me.
    “It’ll be awesome, Dan,” I assured him.
    The others started up again, and Dan made a neck-slicing gesture to shut us up. “No telecommuting! But personnel has a new benefit in the works. Early days yet, and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. This is big.”
    Yes, twice in one meeting. If UNC had any real secrets to keep, they were unwise to tell my boss Dan. He glanced around with dramatic flair, as though to make sure we were alone. My colleagues and I traded blank glances, forcibly tamping down any incipient smiles.
    “UNC is building its own ark,” Dan confided to us softly. “So when climate change really hits the fan, we’re safe, as UNC employees.”
    “What is ark?” Cheng demanded of me. He sat wedged between me and the wall.
    “A sealed biosphere, I think,” I said. “You live and work and grow food inside.” On a technical level, I thought this sounded unbelievably cool.
    “No commute, live in ark?” Cheng asked dubiously.
    “Cheng,” Dan said, still trying valiantly to wrest leadership of this meeting, “the danger isn’t just the storms. The refugees are getting out of hand. Wars cropping up all over. The Middle East is already a war zone from Libya to Pakistan. And now American refugees, from the droughts out west and Central America. But we’ll be protected from the storms and the fighting, inside an ark. With our own secure food supply.”
    “Nuclear fallout,” I elaborated for Cheng’s benefit, feeling queasy.
    “Huh-uh,” Cheng said. From long association, I readily translated this to, ‘Wow, that’s stupid.’ Cheng’s spoken English was none too fluent, but he was a brilliant guy.
    I wasn’t so sure the ark was stupid. Just how bad did they expect our situation to get? “Dan?” I asked. “That sounds like an enormous outlay. Why would UNC build this ‘ark’ thing?”
    “Well, we’re keeping it quiet for now,” Dan replied, “but it’ll get out soon. The latest forecast models are…bad.”
    “How bad?” Mangal demanded.
    “I’m no meteorologist,” Dan qualified. “But the models say the weather is about to get a whole lot worse. The agricultural shortfall last year was enough to feed a billion people. Or not feed them. This year they expect the same or worse. Stockpiles are running out.”
    “And UNC isn’t reporting this,” Mangal demanded, irate, “to help ‘defuse public disorders’?”
    “Scared people do bad things, Mangal,” Dan replied.
    I was still trying to wrap my head around what a billion starving people would do to