Colder Than Ice

by MacPherson, Helen

  Allison insolently shrugged. “Well, what would you call her? All that flouncy, curly long blonde hair and a body shape like an advance party for a famine. As for her wardrobe, what self-respecting academic would be caught dead looking like they’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine?” She shuddered. “Ugh. The woman makes my skin crawl.”

  Rick laughed and gently closed his door. Walking past Allison, he playfully ruffled her hair with his fingers. “You, my dear, have a terminal case of non-diplomatic foot and mouth disease.” He poured steaming filtered coffee into two mugs and handed one to Allison. “About the possible projects to be considered at the meeting today, I’ve heard of the combined proposal from the meteorology and geology department; I think it’s called the Simpson project. Have you heard of any others?”

  Allison sat down and nodded as she took a long sip of her first coffee of the day, its strong aroma teasing her senses. “Hmm, the Simpson Project. If I was a betting woman and given the amount of discussion at last year’s meeting, I’d say it’s a shoe-in. There’re also others. One is the Mungo Project. It’s a dual one between the Palaeontological and the Anthropological departments. They’ve taken a holistic approach and pooled their resources in order to study the ancient environment, its fossils, and the culture of prehistoric man existing during that era. I’ve no doubt that tightwad Peterson will be more than willing to support two outcomes for the price of one.”

  Rick nodded. “You’re right. It seems to be the way things are these days. Man, I liked it so much better when the Departments were at each other’s throats. Divide and conquer, that’s what it should be about.”

  Despite the logic in Rick’s words, Allison was unsettled by the vehemence of his tone. She cared little about how many academic departments there were to a project. To her it made sense to pool projects where possible. She filed away his reaction for a later discussion. “There’s one other and it’s almost guaranteed to receive funding. About two hundred and fifty miles southwest of Riversleigh they’ve found another dinosaur field that rivals Dinosaur National Park in the States. By all accounts it’s an ancient water basin, full of pristine fossils.”

  Rick drew his eyebrows together. “I don’t get it. We dug at Riversleigh years ago and got a mountain of samples out of there. Why bother doing the same thing again?”

  Allison smiled at Rick’s sometimes single-minded approach to life. “Yes, we did, and got some excellent samples in the process. Stop and think. Where’s Riversleigh?”

  Rick gave her a perplexed look. “Riversleigh is in the middle of Peterson’s brother’s electorate. Remember, he’s the sitting member? What better way in an election year to secure re-election than to ensure a guaranteed injection of funds into the community?” Allison sipped her coffee. “Aside from those, I don’t know of any other projects.”

  Rick shook his head. “Then why are we wasting our bloody time this morning? We all know the old man only funds three projects a year. This meeting’s a done deal.”

  Allison nervously shifted. “Not exactly. There’s another project I’d like to table, but given my paper’s incomplete, I may require the support of others.”

  Rick frowned and then his eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding. Have you anything you can put in front of the old man about the Finlayson expedition? You know he’s a stickler for detail and he’s not likely to be too happy with a verbal briefing.”

  “If I’d have known what this morning’s headlines would be then I’d have been prepared months ago. This vindicates key elements of my thesis.” She stood up and paced the small office. “Even though the University Faculty accepted my exposition, I could see doubt on the faces of some of the Panel. There can be no better closure than to go down there and conclusively prove Finlayson’s presence as the first person to expedition on the Continent.”

  Rick caught Allison’s hand and gently pulled her to him. “Calm down. You’ve got my support and I’ve no doubt in the excitement of the moment you’ll have the support of others in the meeting. But you’ve got to present this as diplomatically as possible and you know you’re not good at that. Choose your words carefully or you’ll never have a chance with this. In the extreme case he says yes, are you sure you can pull this off? I mean, Antarctica isn’t like the middle of Australia. The expedition cost alone is going to be astronomical.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? If I can just get some sort of commitment from him I know I’ll find a way. Can you imagine the excitement of such a project?” Allison managed to stop herself before she yet again launched into her pet topic. She caught Rick’s barely stifled yawn. “What happened to you last night? I thought you were coming over to my place?”

  Rick stifled another yawn. “Sorry about that, I got caught up here at work and, given my apartment’s only two blocks away, I went home instead.”

  Allison opened her mouth to ask about the project that had kept him so late when the telephone rang.

  “Flinders Museum of Australasian Exploration, Dr. Rick Winston speaking. He is? We’re on our way. Thank you, bye.” Rick hung up and grabbed the half-full cup of coffee from his desk. “The old man’s arrived, so we best get a move on.”

  With a determined glint in her eye Allison took a step toward the door. Rick put himself in the doorway, halting her progress.

  “What’s wrong?” Allison asked.

  Rick pushed a stray lock from Allison’s eyes. “Remember what I said. I’ll support you, but you’ve got to present your case clinically and don’t rise to his goading. Don’t interrupt me, you know he does. Let’s get going.” Rick patted her backside and pushed her out the door in the direction of the conference room.

  Being the last to arrive in the deeply stained wood-paneled room, Allison and Rick took their seats at the antique cedar table.

  Allison listened with detached enthusiasm to the projects briefed to the Museum’s Patron, Alastair Peterson. It wasn’t that she thought they weren’t deserving. But every nod made by Peterson took her further away from her intent to present the idea of support for an excavation of the Finlayson hut.

  As the meeting droned on she mentally worked on plans on how the dig might proceed. Certainly it would be different from any others she’d participated in before. There’d be a greater degree of isolation, not to mention the extreme environment. Rick kicked her shin. She blinked out of her mental preparations and scowled at him.

  “So, if there are no objections or additions to the three proposed projects I believe we have our planning mapped out for the year ahead.” Alastair Peterson tipped the ash of his expensive cigar into an ashtray.

  Trying not to cringe at what she believed to be a filthy habit, Allison cleared her throat.

  Peterson condescendingly smiled at her. “Yes, Miss Shaunessy, is there something you wish to add, seeing as how you’ve daydreamed through the majority of the meeting?”

  Allison reined in her temper as the others around the table suddenly preoccupied themselves in their own papers. Peterson persisted in calling her Miss instead of Doctor. This usually didn’t bother her, but he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in not recognizing her academic achievements. Why, he wouldn’t know the difference between a duck’s thighbone and a Hesperomis’ thighbone from the late Cretaceous period. In fact, I bet if I asked him that now...She mentally slapped herself. There were times to start an argument and clearly this wasn’t one of them.

  “Thank you, Dr. Peterson,” Allison said as she inwardly cringed at her use of his honorary title. “I know your day ahead is no doubt busy, but I was wondering if you’d seen the papers this morning?” Peterson nodded. “Then I’m sure you read with interest the story about the discovery of evidence of the Finlayson expedition.”

  “Yes, I did. However the information provided was typical of the meat and vegetable journalism of the newspapers of this country. Sensationalism, damned sensationalism, that’s all they’re ever interested in.”

  Rick loudly blew his nose and All
ison made a mental note to thank him later for halting the old man’s rant.

  “Unfortunately, they very rarely give the full story and this one’s no different,” Allison said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, in the late nineteenth century there was a race between the civilized nations to see who’d be the first to explore the Antarctic region. Captain Cook is widely thought to be the first recorded man to sight Antarctica, or at least the edge of the ice pack in 1773, and Jules Sebastian was credited as being the first person to set foot on Antarctica in 1840. However, no one had comprehensively explored or established an exploration base on the continent. There’s anecdotal evidence that before the turn of the nineteenth century whaling ships found themselves locked by the pack ice, forcing the ships and their men to face a frigid winter in the region. But, it’s generally agreed no one had spent any great deal of time on the ice.

  “In late 1894 the delegates of the Sixth International Geographical Congress met in London where it was universally declared that exploration of Antarctica and its environs was the greatest geographic exploration still to be undertaken. The congress urged that this should commence before the end of the century. At that meeting was an eccentric called Eric Finlayson, who’d explored most of the world’s continents. He was an unconventional type, shunned by American society for his forward-thinking views on women and social democracy. It seemed a quirk of fate that Finlayson should attend the meeting as he was planning an expedition to Antarctica, one that supposedly left early the following year.

  “Until now his presence on Antarctica has been hotly debated. After his ship departed from Christchurch in mid-August, he and his crew were never heard from again. It’s widely believed the small ship perished in the southern ocean’s treacherous waters, and that Finlayson never actually set foot on the continent. The 1899 expedition led by Carsten Borchgrevink was thought to be the first expedition to spend winter on Antarctica. That was until this recent discovery.”

  Alastair Peterson narrowed his eyes. “If my memory serves me correctly, all the drilling team found was wood. How could a piece of wood possibly be conclusive evidence of Finlayson’s presence, if indeed he made it there in the first place?”

  Allison forced herself to remain calm. Sometimes explaining anything to this man was like talking to a petulant child. As she surreptitiously glanced across the table, she saw the warning signals in Rick’s eyes and collected herself. “Dr. Peterson, Antarctica has detailed maps which record all historical sites on the continent. This has been made possible by the fact that expeditions were widely publicized affairs. This, and the diaries the explorers kept, made it easier to plot their presence. Given that remains of every other expedition have been uncovered and duly recorded, it would be reasonable to expect that the site discovered in the past few days is Finlayson’s.”

  “Well, Miss Shaunessy, that’s all good and fine, and thank you for your history lesson. However, what has that got to do with this morning’s proceedings?”

  Allison bit the inside of her cheek to check her verbal retort and arranged her papers. Sometimes men can be so obtuse, or is it he knows full well what I want and is just limiting for me to beg for it? Hold it together or you’ll lose the battle before it’s really begun. “If this is the Finlayson expedition then its importance is tantamount to finding Hatshepsut’s gold, the Ark of the Covenant, the discovery of Earhart’s final resting place. I couldn’t think of any other organization more imminently qualified to conduct such an excavation than the Flinders Museum of Australasian Exploration.”

  Allison nervously took a sip of water as an uneasy silence enveloped the room. She tentatively glanced across the table at Rick and caught his quick reassuring smile. Looking back at the head of the table, she was accosted by Peterson’s squinting features, encased in a semi-opaque halo of expensive cigar smoke.

  “So let me clarify what it is you’re asking. You’d like the Museum to fund such an excavation?” Allison nodded. “Have you any idea how much such an expedition would cost? Or are you suggesting we cut one of the already agreed upon projects in favor of yours, only verbally briefed, with no supporting documentation, unlike the others presented today? And what about the logistics of the matter? Going to Antarctica will require specialist training and equipment, long before you even get close to what may amount to no more than a wild goose chase. Furthermore, if my memory serves me correctly, under a protocol ratified by the Antarctic Treaty, people undertaking research in Antarctica must first prove they’re mentally and physically capable of actually operating on the continent. Your project costs alone would be tantamount to cancelling at least two of the projects on the table this morning.” He coughed through the miasma surrounding him.

  “I think this would be a wonderful idea.”

  Allison turned her head and looked in shock at the woman beside her. Not once since taking up tenure at the Museum had Dianne Peterson, the daughter of the Museum’s Patron, supported her in any conceivable way. If anything, Dianne often went out of her way to make things difficult for her. So why is blimbo so interested in this all of a sudden?

  “What is it with young people these days?” Peterson demanded in a booming voice. “Dianne, do you think I’m made of money? This archaeological chasing of rainbows would cost a fortune.”

  Dianne benignly smiled. “I understand that. But think how academic institutions and society would regard the Museum. Surely such an undertaking has the potential to attract more patrons to the Museum, which in turn would increase its credibility in both national and international circles?”

  God, she’s good, Allison thought. She’s clearly identified the critical vulnerability of this man and has him wrapped around her finger. Allison recognized the references to the Museum and its credibility as a thinly disguised allusion to how Peterson’s credibility would increase in society’s eyes. She knew that while Peterson had grudgingly been the Museum’s patron for so many years, the main reason he held such a position was the doors that it opened for him in political, business, and social circles. But why? Why is she so interested in this? I’d think that somewhere a hell of a lot warmer would be more to her liking. She glanced at Rick and found him entranced by Dianne’s words. Why doesn’t that surprise me?

  The room collectively held its breath as Peterson considered Dianne’s words. “I’ve no doubt there’d be a lot of positive publicity, not to mention first rights to any viewing of retrieved artifacts. However, Dianne, the matter is one of economics. I simply cannot afford to solely fund such a venture.

  “The costs of this would be astronomical. But, I’m willing to provide in-principle funding for two-fifths of the costs of the excavation.” He imperiously held up his hand. “I want to see numbers; a more concrete proposition of the finances involved. Then and only then if I agree, you may seek the additional funding and make the appropriate press releases. If it proves too expensive then the damned hut or whatever it is can remain down there for another hundred years.”

  Before Allison could reply, Peterson stood, signaling an end to the meeting. Allison watched as Dianne’s svelte figure followed behind her more rotund father.

  Allison smiled at the effect created by Peterson’s departure. A positively joyous atmosphere quickly replaced the tense and businesslike mood of the room. She watched as those around the table congratulated each other on their project’s funding successes. She congratulated each team, in turn receiving offers of support for her expedition. She acknowledged their support and then looked across the room and sent a non-verbal cue to Rick that she wanted to leave.

  As they entered Allison’s office, Rick went straight to the top drawer of the filing cabinet. He retrieved her secret cache of whiskey, poured a small measure into the two tumblers, and handed one to her. He raised his glass in a toast. “You know, you could talk the legs off a chair.”

  Allison winced as the liquor traced a mercurial path down her throat. She leant against her table, silently yet begrudgingly acknowledging it hadn’t
been her efforts that had given her a foot in the door. “If I can talk the legs off a chair, that woman could charm candy from children. The way she pressed her father’s buttons, not to mention some of the other men in the room was amazing.”

  Rick took another generous sip of the eighteen-year-old malt. “What do you mean the other men?”

  Allison laughed. “When I looked at you, you couldn’t keep your eyes off her, nor could anyone else, including some of the women. It was as if she’d bewitched you all.” Allison contemplated the effect Dianne had on the gathering. “In fact, maybe she’s not a blimbo at all. Maybe she’s that witch from that old sixties television program. You know, the blonde headed one.”

  Rick chuckled. “Sometimes you make me laugh. I look at a number of women and yet Di always seems to get under your skin. You’re seeing things. I think that whiskey’s already gone to your head.”

  “No, I’m not, but it’s a little early for this stuff, no matter how good it is.” Allison returned the bottle to its hiding place and sat down behind her desk. She scratched a small spot above her eyebrow, an unconscious habit when she couldn’t figure something out. “So why did she decide to support my proposal? She’s never done that before.”

  Rick shrugged. “I don’t know, but obviously she’s interested in the project. Who knows, maybe it’s her goal to go to Antarctica and look at the geology there. Apparently the formations are quite amazing, not to mention among the oldest in the world.”

  “If she hadn’t been there, I’ve no doubt Peterson would’ve refused the project outright.”

  Rick nodded. “If we’re to have any chance of success with your proposal then she’s going to have to be part of the project team.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You know what we’re like when we’re put together. I don’t know if I could put up with her moods on a regular basis. It’s bad enough when I only see her for a few hours every day.”