by Karen Dionne
Ben waited in the boardroom across the hall from Gillette’s office, studying the reflections from the overhead lighting in the polished mahogany while the coffeemaker gurgled in the corner. Across the table, the pair of legal eagles appointed to prep him for his first-ever press conference crossed their legs and rearranged their papers as three minutes stretched to five and then ten. The room was hot, the drapes drawn to shut out the late afternoon sun, and smelled of Old Spice and sweat.
“Water is a RIGHT, not a NEED.” The slogan wafted faintly through the glass. Ben canted back in his chair and parted the curtains. Across an acre of asphalt, the protesters surged against the chain link surrounding Soldyne’s parking lot like a Pacific swell; blue LAPD uniforms and riot helmets made the occasional island in a sea of SAVE THE PLANET T-shirts and ICE SOLDYNE signs. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any popguns in evidence, but that didn’t mean the next vehicle to pull up wouldn’t disgorge a posse of Rebecca Sweet’s protest-lovin’, cardboard-totin’ cowboys.
He let the curtain fall. The irony playing out in the mess six floors below was stunning. Not only did he used to be one of them, but even though he was now firmly ensconced on the side of the Evil Corporate Giant, he still understood the protesters’ concerns, and even agreed. Their slogan wasn’t a matter of semantics; it defined the entire issue as to whether water could be bought or sold. Human needs like food and clothing could be supplied in many ways, and no one objected to the supplier making a profit. But no one could sell a human right. Both the UN and the World Bank had ruled that water was a need, its distribution determined by the principles of profit, putting Soldyne firmly in the right. But the debate raised legitimate questions, and before he’d signed on for the Antarctic project, Ben had asked most of them himself. If Nature’s lifeblood was simply a commodity to be bought and sold, who will buy it for Nature? What about the poor? Who owned the world’s water sources in the first place? Should anyone own them?
The door opened and the room crackled to life. Gillette took his seat without apology or explanation, which was just as well. Ben’s and Donald’s exchanges had never been known for their affability or their scintillating wit, but ever since Eugene’s team had claimed the berg and everything that could possibly go wrong had, the Maki-Gillette comedy act had deteriorated into a painfully tedious accusatory monologue.
Gillette nodded to the lawyers to begin. Trevor Johnston, Soldyne’s chief legal counsel, gave his papers a final compulsive shuffle and settled his glasses on his nose. “Nervous?” he asked Ben.
“Not really,” Ben said.
The lawyer raised his eyebrows as if to say, You should be. “Then let’s get started. Some of this is going to feel like familiar ground, but remember, these are complicated, potentially explosive issues. How these topics are presented to the public is critical. First, let’s look at the political ramifications. The iceberg comes from an area claimed by three nations: Britain, Argentina, and Chile. These nations have no intention of making water, but they’re all claiming the right to decide what happens to ours by saying the iceberg falls under their jurisdiction. How do you answer?”
“The issue of ownership is complicated,” Ben began, congratulating himself that he felt no compunction to look at his notes. The best cure for nervousness was preparedness, and he was so ready that not even Gillette’s arctic stare blowing down the length of the table could uproot his oasis of calm. “In addition to the three you mention, Australia, France, New Zealand, and Norway have all made territorial claims. They use various means to establish their sovereignty: flagpoles, plaques, giant flags painted on the sides of buildings. The Argentineans take it the furthest, regularly sending women and children to their Esperanza Station at Hope Bay in an effort to strengthen their claims. In fact, back in ’78, the wife of the station director there gave birth to the first native-born Antarctican, and since then several other Argentinean women have done the same. But these efforts are just window dressing. Because there are no native Antarctic peoples, land claims are tenuous at best.”
“Good. Clear, concise, with a couple of nice sound bites. Just don’t forget to smile.”
Ben obediently bared his teeth as Johnston’s second, a red-faced, bulbous man who was clearly suffering in the stuffy room, took over. “Let’s talk now about safety,” James Everett said as he mopped his brow. “Microwaves shooting down out of the sky sound dangerous. Should the public be concerned?”
“Not at all. The earth is bombarded by microwaves every day—from the sun, from broadcasting satellites, and from radar, though most people never give them a second thought. Cell phones, and wireless devices like that BlackBerry in your pocket utilize microwaves, too. Microwaves aren’t just confined to our kitchens; the technology is everywhere.”
“Tell me about your technology.”
“The core idea is simple. By itself, the sun’s microwave output isn’t sufficient to melt the ice at the poles—obviously, or the ice caps would have disintegrated long ago. So we’ve taken the natural power of the sun and enhanced it into a concentrated, targeted beam. Over the years, scientists have considered various means of melting ice; lasers and parabolic mirrors are two of the most popular. However, a concentrated microwave beam is far and away the most efficient method, because cloud cover doesn’t factor; the satellites are up there collecting microwaves around the clock. Soldyne has three orbiting satellites—we’re in the business of harnessing sunlight, you know—which puts us in the unique position of being one of the few entities able to actually implement the microwave method. Our beam originates from a hundred-square-kilometer, ten-gigawatt solar array that has a combined output of ten gigahertz radiating from a one-kilometer phased array, giving us a spot size of one kilometer and a power density of one watt per square centimeter. Taking into account the high-latitude obliquity factor—”
“Whoa—hold on.” Everett held up his hand. “Remember, you’re talking to laypeople.”
“Right. Sorry. Well then, in laymen’s terms, we’re talking about a targeted microwave beam aimed at the iceberg that’s about ten times more powerful than sunlight—strong enough to melt ice, but posing no danger to anyone on the ground.”
“What if an aircraft gets in the way?”
“Airplanes are made of metal. Anyone who’s used a microwave for cooking knows microwaves can’t penetrate. Our beam poses absolutely no danger to passengers or the craft. Even so, we’ve taken precautions. Once we’ve calculated the trajectory, we’ll notify the FAA so they can set up what’s called a ‘prohibited area’: a ten-mile radius around the beam with an identifying name and number warning pilots to stay away. In addition, we have a dedicated radar satellite covering the beam area to act as a kill switch. If an aircraft were to mistakenly fly into the prohibited zone, our radar will detect it and shut down transmission before the plane gets close. There’s no way anyone’s going to get hurt.”
“What about danger to the environment? Those protesters out there are only the tip of the iceberg, if you’ll forgive the pun. For every one of them, there are hundreds, even thousands more at home.”
“I would never do anything to hurt the environment.” Ben clenched his fists, then caught himself and forced his hands to relax. It wasn’t his integrity that was under question, it was his process. “We’re not depleting existing water systems or diverting Great Lakes water to Japan, or harming the earth in any other way,” he said, working hard to keep his tone light and remembering to cap his remarks with a smile. “We’re melting icebergs. Turning them into water; something that was going to occur naturally on its own, I might add. While we’re producing water, we’ll set up what amounts to a small factory on the iceberg, but we’re taking Greenpeace’s Cape Evans station as our model. When Greenpeace dismantled the station in ’92, every scrap was removed. When we leave the iceberg, we’ll do the same. No one will ever know we’d been there.”
“Yes, yes, we know all about your fondness for the environment,” Gillette interrupted
. He tipped his head toward the street. “What about the company?”
“What—Are you saying I’m responsible for this?”
“I’m just asking where your sympathies lie.”
“I would never do anything to hurt the company,” Ben said through gritted teeth. The whole reason the board had chosen him as Soldyne’s spokesperson was because of his pro-environment views. Now Gillette wanted him to sign a loyalty oath? “Believe me, I know who writes my pay-check. I’m behind this project one hundred percent. All I want to do is make water.”
“So do I.” Abruptly, Gillette pushed back his chair and left the room. Ben and the lawyers exchanged puzzled looks. It wasn’t until Ben heard the urinal in the executive washroom flush that he realized Donald had just made a joke.
Chapter 15
Ben pointed the remote at the television in his office credenza the next morning and pressed “rewind,” then counted off the seconds and hit “play.” After a moment he saw it again: a woman in the crowd, seen from behind, wearing a black velvet skirt and white blouse with an embroidered shawl over one shoulder and two thick black braids. He felt the same brief intuit of recognition he’d experienced the previous six times he’d watched the tape before his own face filled the screen and the footage cut back to the news conference.
He replayed the segment twice more before giving up. Short of tracking down the cameraman and examining everything that had landed on the cutting room floor, there was no way to know for certain if the woman he’d spotted was her. Yet just the possibility that she might be was enough to do a number on his gut. And if indeed that was Rebecca mingling with the crowd and urging the protesters toward God only knew what, then Soldyne was in serious trouble. Once Rebecca locked on to her target, she became a heat-seeking missile, and all the words in the world couldn’t get her to alter course. That much hadn’t changed since their UCLA days. He sighed. Being chosen as Soldyne’s poster boy was beginning to feel less like an honor and more like he’d been set up.
The intercom buzzed. “It’s Eugene,” his secretary said. “It’s a good connection this time, but don’t forget the three-second delay.”
He put down the remote and picked up the receiver. “Hey, Eugene.”
“Hey, yourself,” Eugene’s basso profundo replied. Eugene O’Connor’s voice matched his looks: a linebackersized Irishman with enough curly red hair covering his body for two average men.
Ben counted slowly to three. “How’s it going?” he asked, ever hopeful that today’s would be the call that ended Eugene’s daily litany of disaster.
“Same old, same old,” Eugene replied after three more seconds had passed. “Remember I told you yesterday we thought Toshi had a handle on the uplink code? Well, turns out, that’s a no-go. He’s rewritten it twice now, and the satellites still aren’t responding. It’s not his fault,” he continued before Ben could comment. “The cold does weird things to the equipment. I wish I could give you a better idea of what it’s like down here. It’s a struggle to keep even the most basic stuff running. But that’s not why I’m calling. We got a new problem. Last night, a rat got into the biodome. Scared the guys so much, Phil—”
“What?” Ben sat up straight. “Hold on. Our connection must be messed up. I could swear you said ‘rat.’ ”
“—did, John. The berg is crawling with them. They’re—”
“Rats!”
“—the air lines and chewing the hoses. Today we had to replace the ones on the generator twice, but they still—”
“They’re eating the hoses?”
“—what to do.”
Ben drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said after counting slowly to three. “I missed most of that. Tell me again, and I promise I’ll be quiet and listen.”
“The iceberg is swarming with rats,” Eugene said, and this time, there was no mistaking what he was saying. “They’re chewing up the equipment and running around all over the place. They haven’t gotten inside the control center yet, but they’re everywhere else. Man, it’s disgusting! It’s like they came out of nowhere: Yesterday there was nothing, and now today it’s a regular plague. I’m telling you, I’ve seen some big rats in Punta Arenas, but these are something else. And the worst thing is, they’re absolutely fearless. I guess it’s because they’ve never seen humans before.”
“Now hold on. You’re implying the rats were already on the berg when you got there? That’s crazy. They had to have come off your supply ship.”
“That’s what we thought, too, but there’s too many of ’em. Don’t you think we’d have noticed? But here’s what really worries me. It’s not just the rats—it’s their droppings. Quentin thinks the water’s going to be contaminated, and for once, I think he might be right. What do you want us to do?”
“Hang on a sec.” Ben let Eugene’s anti-Quentin dig pass for the moment while he logged on to the Internet. He had a feeling the rivalry that had manifested itself between the two men only after they’d been sequestered for two weeks on the berg was quickly becoming the least of his problems.
A search on “rats+Antarctica” brought up dozens of hits. Rats had invaded the Galapagos and were eating the wildlife and disrupting the food chain . . . South Georgia Island was particularly hard hit . . . Thanks to aerial eradication, Campbell Island had only recently ended a two-hundred-year plague dating back to the great whaling days. Rats had even been spotted on the continent itself.
A second search on “rats+water+disease” turned up more information, and none of it good. Cryptosporidiosis, E. coli, schistosomiasis, giardiasis—all parasitic diseases, all potentially deadly, and all easily transmittable through a feces-contaminated water supply.
“You still there?”
“I’m here. Listen, Eugene, I’m going to have to get back with you on this. Meanwhile, tell Toshi to debug that damn uplink.”
“So I’ve decided to go there myself,” Ben said later that afternoon after filling Adam in on the latest.
“Isn’t that a little drastic?”
“I don’t think so. This long-distance problem solving is too difficult. We’ll never move forward as long as I have to work through Eugene. I’ll bring the necessary water-testing equipment with me, and that’s another reason for going in person. If word got out that our water might be contaminated, there’d be hell to pay.”
“You got that right. It’d be just the thing the iceberg- huggers would use to shut us down. But what if the water tests positive?”
“We deal with it. L.A.’s so desperate, I’m sure the city will give our water whatever extra treatment it needs. It will add to the costs, but that’s something Gillette and the investors will have to accept.”
“Yeah, Gillette. You sure you aren’t going in order to get away from him?” Adam drew a finger across his neck.
Ben smiled. “Can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind. Anyway, there’s no point in arguing; Janice has already booked my flight. Eugene’s sending the supply ship to Punta Arenas to meet me; then it’s on to the iceberg.”
Adam shuddered. “Better you than me. I wouldn’t trade L.A. sunshine for snow and ice any day.”
“You forget I grew up in northern Michigan. I’m no stranger to cold. It’ll be fun.”
“What about the rats?”
“Don’t worry, I’m packing a suitcase full of rat poison. I’ll get rid of that problem in a hurry.”
“Better pack a couple of twenty-twos as well. If these rats are as big as Eugene says they are, you’re going to need them.”
Ben laughed, but Adam wasn’t smiling.
PART TWO
A scientist can discover a new star, but he cannot make one. He would have to ask an engineer to do that.
—GORDON L. GLEGG, AMERICAN ENGINEER, 1969
Chapter 16
lceberg, Weddell Sea, 68° S, 60° W
The blue-and-white Sikorsky circled the iceberg, dipping and banking like an oversized albatross looking for a place to land. Sunlight flashed off
the windshield each time it turned, shooting the rays back into the infinity of a sky so blue it hurt to look at it. Inside the helicopter, Ben raised a hand against the glare.
