The Pole of Inaccessibility

by Alan Bronston

  ***

  “Geoff,” Jake said, his head peeking out from around a corner.

  “Mate!” Geoff enthusiastically said in reply, rising and setting aside the mahogany calabash pipe he pulled from lips encased in black grizzle. “Is there a body attached, or has just the head come to visit?”

  “Momentarily concealed,” Jake said, stepping out from the shadowed corner. “Can’t be too careful, you know.”

  “Too right, laddie. I thought you were still in the field, what brings you?”

  “The prospect of a good meal, Geoff. The prospect of a good meal.”

  “Probably be able to accommodate that,” Geoff said affably. The Kiwis, hospitable by nature, were especially so in the wild. There was an unspoken, but fully understood, commitment by all members of their expeditions to remain cheerful and pleasant, come whatever hardships may. Hardship always seemed to be less harsh when shared with the Kiwis, a consequence of their ever positive outlook.

  “And something else,” Jake said at the height of their comradely exchange.

  “Bugger it,” Geoff said with amused suspicion, reaching for the still smoldering pipe and sitting back down. “I should’ve known.”

  “You should have, but I won’t hold it against you.”

  “All right then, out with it.”

  “It may be easier to show than tell. Allow me to demonstrate,” Jake said before calling to the half closed door. “You can come in now.”

  Sokolov, who waited just outside for his cue, entered. He still wore his leather outer gear and fur hat. It was a dead giveaway that he was from Russia. No other country that worked in the Antarctic wore such garb. The Kiwi pulled a deep breath of the acrid Cavendish, his affable air now gone.

  “G’day,” he said politely, but cautiously. “I expect you’re a little far from home.”

  “Aren’t we all Geoff?” Jake mused sagely on the Russians behalf. “But we, we Geoff, we have a home to go to. This gentleman no longer does.”

  “No home to go to, eh? I should have thought that would have been your story,” Geoff said to Jake, allowing a hint of irritation to hover over his reply. “Pray tell how I am to resolve that bit of inconvenience?”

  “Nothing complicated,” Jake said. “Something simple, like say for example, passage out of here.”

  “What do I look like, a bloody travel agent?” Geoff said, slamming down the pipe. “Blame me if I don’t start charging for services rendered. Now I know why I work with the dogs, they’re not so bleedin’ needy. Are there any more coming? Should I call the porters to come collect the baggage?”

  “There’s more?” Jake asked, looking surprised that the even tempered dog handler was in such a huff.

  “That Greenie, Frodo he styles himself. Came asking for the same thing. A regular exodus it’s starting to look like, if you ask me. What did he do?” Geoff asked, pointing the mouthpiece toward Sokolov. “Is he a terrorist too?”

  “Not that I know of,” Jake said. Then, turning toward Sokolov, asked, “Are you a terrorist too?”

  Sokolov sighed deeply, shaking his head in amazement. His expectation of life in the free world was painted with images of intellectual exchanges among deep thinking individuals who sought the perfection of the mind. Surely that was what freedom to think and express must lead to. But how to explain this? This was a world gone mad.

  “No, I am not a terrorist.”

  “There you go,” Jake said, turning back toward Geoff.

  Jake continued to cajole Geoff, whose natural inclination was to be of service if he could, though he be much put out in the process, and he let himself be convinced in time. Sokolov left them to it and found his way to the crates where the dogs lived while in station. They made much of him, nuzzling the steel mesh of their enclosures, pawing and howling for his attention. He smiled and spoke to them in Russian, telling them they were good dogs, what beautiful coats they had, and how brave they must be to have such adventures as they did.

  “I am not like you, I think,” he told them.

  No, he was not brave, he thought. Once the decision was made, the decision that he could not not act, he looked forward to what he had to do with dread. And at each step, when confronted with imminent failure, he lost his nerve. But to be fair to himself, he admitted that he got it back again when the next opportunity presented itself. So now he was to ride and run along with the dogs, to where and what, he knew not. But being with the dogs gave him courage, and he did not have the awful feeling in his stomach now. In fact, he began to feel something quite different, an anticipation to go and see and move. He would see where he was going when he arrived there. And that made him eager to go, to see where that might be.