In Cold Pursuit

by Sarah Andrews

  “Anything I can help you with?” repeated Buzz-Cut, leaning toward her with growing interest.

  Valena looked at his rank insignia. A seven-pointed leaf. Did that indicate that he was a major? “Ah … well, I’m with … I understand that he—”

  A woman with sleepy green eyes who was wearing a dark blue uniform appeared at the table. “Hey, is Waylon coming back tomorrow?” she inquired. “I’m just dying for a vegetable that didn’t come out of a can.”

  “Oh, hi there, Tractor Betty! Arr!” Buzz-Cut made a wild pirate’s face and bent his right index finger at the first knuckle, as if it had been cut off.

  “Arr!” answered Betty, making the same gesture without changing her almost comatose expression. “I forgot. Is Tractor Waylon coming back tomorrow?”

  Buzz-Cut said, “You bet. But as for being a vegetable that didn’t come out of a can … well, maybe Waylon ain’t your man.”

  Raucous laughter broke out all around the table. Tractor Betty grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat down on it backward, leaning her chin on its back. In response to the frivolity, she lifted one corner of her mouth.

  Buzz-Cut turned to Valena. “Betty here is a firefighter, and a darned good one. You can measure that by the fact that there are currently no fires.” He put a hand to his chest in mock grandeur. “I am a pilot. The name is Hugh. Marilyn here is a navigator. Larry is a loadmaster, and these other guys are sorry reprobates. And you are?”

  “Valena.”

  Hugh drew his brows together to indicate great seriousness and said, “Hey, Valena, here’s a critically important question: do you like tractors?”

  Valena looked back and forth between the flyboy and the firefighter. “Sure. My granddad let me drive his Case out on his farm in Idaho during the potato harvest.”

  Hugh threw his arms into the air with delight. “We’re in!”

  Betty said, “The Tractor Club meets Tuesday evening. Coffee House, seven p.m. Be there.”

  Valena managed a wan smile. “Uh, fine. I’m heading out tomorrow morning to Happy Camp, but if I’m back in time, uh … sure … if ah, Major Bentley will be there.”

  Hugh said, “He’ll be there if he possibly can. Tractor Waylon is club protocol officer.”

  Betty asked, “Why’d he take this mission? I thought he had his time in.”

  Buzz-Cut Hugh’s jolly smile faded for a moment, revealing the military officer who dwelled a quarter inch beneath the party boy. “Duty called. You know he was pretty well up past his eye sockets in that situation, finding that evidence and all, so he volunteered to carry the lad north.” He shook his head. “Sad situation.” He took a last draw on his coffee, tossed his silverware into a heap on his tray, and stood up. “I’m on in five. See ya,” he said, and left.

  Major Marilyn Wood glanced at her watch. “Yeah! Outta here.” She disappeared the same direction as Major Hugh.

  Betty turned her heavy-lidded eyes on Valena. “So. What do you do here?”

  What do I do here? Valena wondered. She decided to present the official version. “I’m here to do research for my master’s thesis. Glaciology.”

  “Oh. Climate change. Huh.”

  “Yeah, climate change.”

  “So, is it?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Changing.”

  “Yes, it is changing. Always has, always will. Climates change whether they are perturbed by human activities or not. It’s important to know how they vary and why. And we’re trying to document things like whether or not the amount of carbon dioxide we’ve dumped into the atmosphere by burning fossil fuels is indeed unprecedented, and learn how fast this ice might melt, and what additional changes might occur as a result.”

  “So you think we’re changing the climate. By driving cars and such.”

  Valena took a moment to observe Betty carefully, searching her deadpan expression for clues to where this conversation might be going. Since becoming involved in climate research, she had found herself in this conversation increasingly often. Sometimes it was with colleagues, who liked to engage in rousing debates over the interpretation of data. Sometimes it was with neighbors or family members or strangers in the supermarket. Some people truly wanted to know what she had learned, while others just wanted to argue, suggesting that she was selling lies intended to scare people or upset the economy.

  Valena looked around the room. Each and every person present was either doing scientific research or providing the infrastructure that could support that research in this severe climate, but that didn’t mean that those in the latter category believed in what the “beakers” were doing. Was this firefighter looking for information or a fight? And if it was a fight that Betty wanted, just how big a pain in the neck was she prepared to be? As big as the reporter who had bulled his way into Vanderzee’s camp and then had the temerity to die?

  I’m getting paranoid, thought Valena. Finally, she decided to answer the question with the kind of precision that usually rocked people back on their heels. “I don’t think we’re changing the climate. That would suggest that it’s just an idea. I’m a scientist, so I think quite a bit, but I make a distinction between thoughts, ideas, hypotheses, theories, and facts. Is it a fact that by burning fossil fuels we’re increasing the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere? Yes. Our studies document the fact that levels are higher than they have been in 650,000 years, and data not yet fully analyzed extend that number to 850,000 years. Not only is the level of CO2 higher, the rate of increase is greater. Fortunately, the latest studies indicate that we are not near any thresholds, so it is unlikely that the increase in greenhouse gasses will soon lead to an abrupt climate change—huge change that occurs within a decade—but we—the science community—know that the additional CO2 has already committed us to a change that will have significant social effects.”

  “Your computer model says so.”

  “All of our computer models say so. There’s not just one model. There are about a dozen, and they all agree. Very sophisticated models built by teams of people who know one hell of a lot.”

  “And you believe them.”

  Valena stared into her plate for a moment. “It’s not a belief thing. Science is not a faith-based endeavor.” She thought a while longer, then added, “Science is a system of observations, predictions, and tests. The models are predictions based on observations. The best way to prove if the models are right is to do an experiment. For that, we’d need two planet earths. On one we don’t change the atmosphere, and on the other we do. Then we wait fifty years and compare the two. The problem is that it’s really hard to get funding for that, let alone find a replicate of planet earth. So we do the next best thing, which is use computer models.

  “All of the models agree that climate will get warmer. In some places it’s not the heat that’s going to be the problem as much as the lack of rainfall. Think about the Middle East, southern Europe, North Africa, and the western US with twenty percent less rain. Think about a complete revamping of those agricultural systems and the movements of people that would have to occur. Environmental refugees. The reservoirs on the Colorado River, the lifeblood of states from Colorado to California, are only half full now. We’re already doing the experiment, but we only have one planet.”

  Betty asked, “But if climate changes on its own, how do you know what part is our fault?”

  “Back to the models. When we model the climate of an earth without humans, we can’t make the climate do what it’s doing now. We have to add anthropogenic greenhouse gasses.”

  “You think we should make policy decisions based on a computer model?”

  Valena smiled wryly. She liked the astringent intelligence behind Betty’s questions. “These are exactly the questions you should ask. Every major business makes large economic decisions based on computer models; they hire the hottest minds out of computer schools to do exactly that. So then you have to make a choice: you can make your decision based on the best available scientific interp
retation of the data, or you can guess. Either way, you have made a decision, so you might as well discuss the science, learn what it means, learn what you can do to cut back on burning of fossil fuels. Maybe you decide the benefits don’t justify the costs in your case, but at least you will have made an informed decision.”

  The firefighter sat quietly across the table from Valena. “Yeah, well, speaking for myself, I like putting fires out. I prefer it cold.” She gave Valena a wink, the biggest change in facial expression she had displayed since arriving at the table. “I’m due on shift. See ya,” she said, and she hopped up and left.

  Valena regarded her pork chops. They seemed to have aged in the ten minutes since she had forked them onto her plate.

  A young man in olive drab fatigues sat down next to her in the seat Hugh had vacated. He arranged his tray in front of himself, took a sip of his apple juice, turned to Valena, smiled, and said, “So, where are you from, and what do you do here?”

  8

  THE NEXT MORNING, VALENA AGAIN ROSE EARLY. SHE had only a few hours to make something happen, and she didn’t have to worry that it might not yet be light out.

  She had packed a duffel containing her ECWs, her little yellow Rite-in-the-Rain notebook, camera, and a toothbrush the night before and had laid out the clothes she would wear until it was time to go to Happy Camp. That way, she could slip into a layer of long underwear, jeans, sneakers, a fleece sweatshirt, and her big red, grab her duffel, and get out the door without waking any of her roommates.

  Breakfast was not yet being served. She headed instead first over to Crary Lab and checked her e-mail, in expectation of a reply from Taha Hesan. No luck there, but there was a reply from Em Hansen. Valena tapped on the message to open it. For several long moments, nothing happened. The slowness of the computer made her writhe.

  Greetings Valena,

  That sounds like a nasty shock, and there’s nothing I can say that will make it any better, but my very best advice as regards investigating this crime is as follows: LOCKYOUR-SELF IN THE CLOSET UNTIL THE URGE PASSES. If it is murder, and your professor did not do it and whomever did do it is there to be discovered, he will probably discover you before you discover him. This is not a healthy scenario. I am sure that having your professor jailed feels like a personal violation, but if you came home to find your house broken into, you’d be stupid to charge right in there, precisely because whoever broke the door down may still be inside. The police have dogs trained to go into houses where security has been breached. Don’t confuse yourself with a dog. There are just too many ways to die in Antarctica.

  Stay safe. Stay alive.

  Em

  Valena read the message three times. Finally, she wrote back,

  I am certain you are right, but I only have one shot down here. Surely if I just gather background information that the authorities might have missed, I’ll be all right. By the way, do you have any good connections there, in case I find something they should know? And is there anyone at the New York Financial News who knows something about why Morris Sweeny came south? Sweeny reports politics, not science, so why was he here?

  Valena pressed send, then logged off the computer and descended the stairs into the lower levels of Crary Lab. By the time she was halfway down the ramp that led from phase 1 to phase 2, she had let Em’s advice slip from her consciousness and had focused instead on her feelings toward Taha. Frustrated to the point of thinking vile thoughts about the other student on the project, she let herself into the office she was supposed to be sharing with him and Emmett Vanderzee.

  Her professor’s personal gear was still there, right next to the big packing boxes of equipment that he had shipped from Reno. She got to digging through the duffel bags and found that he had already checked out some field equipment. Inside she found an enormously thick sleeping bag labeled “Arctic Storm”—a confidence builder, certainly—and a neoprene sleep mat. In the hope that Emmett might have hidden any kind of clue deep inside his duffels, she emptied them out and restuffed them. She finished none the wiser.

  Just then, Doris walked into the room carrying a laptop computer. “Hey, Valena, how’s it going?”

  “Oh, fine. I guess. Trying to figure out what all Emmett left behind. Looks like he left his gear but took his computer with him.”

  “No, he didn’t.” She placed the one she was carrying on the desk. “Emmett was having trouble getting this hooked up to the Internet here. Sorry it took so long to fix.”

  “No, don’t apologize! Otherwise it might have been taken as evidence or something.”

  Doris put a hand on the laptop and, in a tone dripping with irony, said, “Wow, I didn’t think of that. You think I should report it or something?”

  “No, no, no, no, no. You just leave it right there.”

  Doris raised one eyebrow coquettishly. “You can get it to him, right?”

  “Absolutely. You just put it out of your mind, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, champ.” Doris left the room. A few steps out into the common area, she turned and said, “What’s weird is that there wasn’t anything wrong with it, but he made a point of entrusting it to my care the morning before he headed out into the field with the feds.” She gave Valena one last quirky smile and disappeared around the corner.

  Valena considered kissing the computer. She quickly turned it on and dug into the communications software to find Taha’s home phone number, then pulled out the prepaid telephone card she had brought from the US and picked up the telephone.

  She thought it somewhat miraculous that she could even hope to place a telephone call that would cross the ten thousand miles that separated them, but possibility and likelihood proved two different things. She opened up the guidebook that had been issued her at the in-brief and began to dial. The first number asked for an outside line. Next, she punched in her prepaid calling card number, her PIN number, and finally the number she wished to call, for a total of over twenty-five digits.

  A rapid beeping indicated that the small handful of outside lines were all currently busy. Following further instructions, she hung up and sat down to wait, as the phone would ring when a line became available.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  It was excruciating. This was not how her first days in Antarctica were supposed to go. She was supposed to be helping her professor with the final preparations for going into the field, far away from things like offices—as far as she could get.

  Her gaze wandered back to Emmett’s laptop. It appeared that he had left the computer for her to find; shouldn’t she therefore look through it?

  She put the computer on her lap and turned it on. Its filing system was easy to navigate. E-mail here, spreadsheets there, visual images another place, and extensive files for all his correspondence and the papers he had written and talks he had given. Everything was arranged chronologically. She paused a moment, wondering what to do if she found something personal and embarrassing, or worse yet, something incriminating.

  “I understand you want to talk to me,” said a baritone voice behind her.

  A jolt of adrenaline slammed into Valena’s muscles. She had to fight the urge to slap the laptop closed, instead simply swinging around in the chair so that whoever was at the door could not see the screen.

  A man not much older than Valena was leaning into the doorway from one side, just a head and one hand peering around the door jamb.

  You sly devil, she wanted to say. Sneaking up on me like that! He looked familiar, like someone whose face she had seen in photographs, but whom she had not met. “Hi there,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure who—”

  “Bob Schwartz,” he said. “I used to … ah, work with Emmett.”

  Now Valena did close the laptop, and, as casually as she could, set it on the floor, slipping it behind her day pack. “Well, hey, this is lucky. I didn’t know you were in McMurdo.”

  “I’m just leaving. Catching a Herc out to WAIS Divide in about tw
o hours. Working on one of the projects that are coming out of that core.”

  “I guess you’ve heard what happened. To Emmett, I mean.”

  Schwartz scowled and shrugged his shoulders. “He left, is all I heard.”

  “Left? He was hauled off the ice by some federal agents. Arrested.”

  He shrugged again. The scowl became more petulant.

  So little reaction? You did know this. You’re lying. “Yeah, well, I’m trying to get some information about what happened last year. I was hoping you could fill me in.”

  “What’s there to tell? This asshole journalist bullied his way into the high camp and then croaked. It sucked. So, what’s up with Emmett? They saying he lost the Gamow bag on purpose?”

  Valena watched her fellow climate student closely, trying to catch every little twitch of muscle or inflection to his speech. “I don’t know. Do you think there’s anything to that idea?”

  Once again he shrugged, just one shoulder this time. “Ask Cal when he comes in from WAIS.”

  What are you hiding? Valena wondered. “So Cal Hart’s coming to McMurdo? When do you think he might arrive?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe he’ll return on the plane that takes me out there. If we get to go today. Weather out there always sucks. Well, I’m outta here,” he said, and started to turn away.

  “Wait. Help me with this: you’re up there at high elevation in a tremendous storm. The Airlift Wing drops a chute with the Gamow bag. Where were you?”

  “In my tent!” He glowered at her, his eyes like needles. Then, in a more sulking tone, he added, “With Dan Lindemann. We stayed the hell out of the way. We were not there. And I’ve told this to the feds half a dozen times already!”

  “You worm, thought Valena. You nematode. So you were just finishing your doctorate with Emmett, am I right?”

  “Oh, now don’t get going on that crap! I did what I had to do. I had a career to look after!”

  “I—”