Chapter 23
Russian StationVostok
The days after Sokolov had left Vostok were hard on Trevor, his friendship with the Russian had helped to fill the hours with something other than contemplating his isolation. And then, Jake had mysteriously left Beardmore; consequentially he had no one with whom he could converse, even over the radio. His worries were eating at him, and he was about all ate-up.
The tragedy of the crevasse hung over the station, the pallor that he already felt was reflected and magnified by all around him. It was known that the survivors had been rescued and taken to Beardmore, but what had taken place after that was not. At least not until the track vehicle caravan arrived, bringing with it the injured driver and those who had passed through Beardmore. Trevor, along with everyone else, was there to greet them.
The procession came to a halt before the galley module. The rear door of the structure on the trailed sledge opened, and men hurried to help the invalid. From the cabin of the lead vehicle there stepped a man who required no insignias on his apparel to announce that he carried authority with him. The crispness of the black leather coat, the richness of his hat, his stature which projected a challenge to any whom might misinterpret; he looked over the group as a shepherd dog might his flock, without any particular affection for those under his protection, but which spelled woe unto those who meant to do them harm.
“Where is the spy?” he asked after taking in the scene.
He was answered by the space that was immediately created around Trevor, who did not understand the question, nor the response.
“Good. Bring him inside.”
There were apologetic looks from those whom Trevor had, if not become friends with, were at least silent companions who overcame the language barrier with gestures and signs. They waved at him to follow the new commander.
“What’s going on?” he asked, but no one answered.
The Russians led him into the galley and into the radio room that was the base commanders’ personal space.
“Sit,” he was told.
Trevor sat uneasily and waited for someone to speak. Both of the Russians were new to the base, and they looked at him with blank unfriendly stares. Finally the new commander spoke.
“Is it the custom in your country to repay hospitality with treachery?”
“Huh?” Trevor asked, his jaw dropping down and eyebrows raising up, elongating his face into frightful distortion.
“What I asked is,” the Russian questioned him in a haughty voice and looking down his nose, “when you are a guest in someone’s home, is it your practice to seduce your hosts’ wife or daughter under his very roof?”
“Does somebody here have a daughter?” Trevor asked stupidly, not understanding where this conversation was leading.
“Daughters? No. But sons, yes. We are all sons of the Fatherland, one of whom has been taken from us. Now do you understand?”
“Is it about the accident?” Trevor asked innocently, but he was beginning to grasp that this was something quite sinister, and while he had no idea what was going on, began to suspect it had to do with Sokolov.
The two Russians looked at each other, each gauging the others credulity. One shook his head in a barely perceptible side-to-side motion. The other nodded in an equally subtle fashion.
“It is of no matter,” the Russian said. “The mistake in allowing you to come here to corrupt our people is evident. Since we cannot try you as you deserve, it is pointless to waste time in this manner. Pack your things, and hurry. There is an Italian aircraft stopping to refuel in one hour. It will take you wherever it is going, so long as it is not to a Russian base. Be gone!”
Trevor rushed from the galley more than a little confused, but with mixed emotions. To be accused of something, even if he didn’t know what it was, by the Soviets was frightening enough, but he also felt elated to be going, even if he didn’t know where. Wherever it was, it was closer to home, and that was what he was desperate for. He packed hurriedly.
Organizing his personal effects required little more than stuffing them into a duffle bag. His scientific samples were far more problematic, since it was necessary that they remain frozen all the way back to his lab. The Italian Otter was fueling when he asked the Russians what they intended to do with them.
“We do not fail to live up to our agreements. They will find their way to McMurdo in due course.”
But they did not say how, or when, that would happen.
Once the Otter was airborne, Trevor asked the pilot where he was going.
“What? You’s a-don’t a-know where you’s a-goin and you’s a-getting on an airplane-a anyway? What-a-you, a-crazy?”
Trevor acted out his consternation with gestures since the coat, hat, and goggles made subtlety impossible.
“It seemed like when was more important than where, though I still couldn’t tell you why!” he shouted over the noise.
“Who cares a-why, just so long-a it’s a-outta there,” the pilot said, glancing at Trevor from the side, a look that summed up the reality of living at Vostok.
“That’s for sure,” he agreed. “So where are we going?”
“Terra Nova. Not so a-bad as the a-Ruskie base. Notta so bad.”
“Will I be able to get to McMurdo from there?” Trevor asked, concern creeping into his voice. The pilot shrugged.
“Sure, someday. Why-a not?”
Trevor knew that the pilots’ choice of words was intended to convey the idea that he would surely find his way to his destination, but they had the effect of making him feel like just the opposite was true. Even with sunglasses on and earphones covering half of his face, the pilot could see the young man in the seat next to him was quite forlorn. He made an effort to cheer him up.
“I tell you a-what. I show you something like-a you never see before. On-a the way. You like-a this.”
The aircraft healed over to the right before straightening back out as the mountains came into sight. Terra Nova was on the coast at the bottom of the glacier, but where they were heading now was over the Taylor Valley, the driest place in the world, where it had not rained or snowed in millions of years. It was an extraordinary sight after weeks of nothing but ice and snow. The pilot saw with what fascination Trevor looked out the window, so he decided to make the trip more interesting for both of them. He descended until they were just off the deck, with the rock walls of the valley speeding by. Trevor grasped the hand-rests unconsciously, his knuckles showing white and his backbone straightening up firmly.
“Is very a-yes, no?” the pilot asked, taking his body language as a compliment.
“Yes. It’s very, very yes. We can go back up anytime now. Thank you.”
“Ah, no yet. Wait until bottom.”
Trevor didn’t like the sound of ‘bottom’, but he was beginning to see where the bottom was, the Ross Sea extending out from the coast where there was a strip of glacier at the bottom of the valley. They were heading straight for it, Trevor’s grip becoming firmer.
“Don’t you think it’s time to pull up?” he asked
“Not-a yet. Almost.”
In the midst of the glacier there were two black lines that appeared like hyphens on a blank page. As they came closer the hyphens opened up into dots and dashes that were moving. It wasn’t until they were right on top of them was it clear that the lines were made of dogs, men, and sleds that all went scattering or tumbling over in response to the terrifying roar that went over them.
“What-a the hell was that?” the pilot asked, heading out to sea to make a wide turn to make another pass.
“I don’t know, but I sure hope we don’t meet them later,” Trevor said, trying to contain his anger at the pilot for scaring the dog teams as much as he scared him.
“Take another look.”
As the wide turn they made took them over the water and was bringing them back toward land, the Otter straightened up and followed a course that led up the coast. To their
surprise, not far from where they expected to see the upset dog caravans, they passed over another train of sledges pulled by snowmobiles.
“What-a you know? Busy place, this glacier. Never see so much.”
“Let’s try and not freak them out too.”
“Sure, okay.”
They flew over the snowmobile train at a less threatening altitude, and in acknowledgement received a friendly wave. Only a few miles past them was a scene of canine pandemonium, with sleds and materials scattered across the surface of the ice. There were gestures of the arm from them as well, though decidedly less friendly.
“Crazy,” the pilot said, commenting on the situation as if the whole world of his observation was mad, all except for him.
“Crazy,” Trevor agreed, though with less conviction. He shook his head and continued to mutter, “Crazy, crazy, crazy.”
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 59
