South Pole Station

by Ashley Shelby

  A metallic clatter of a load of beams falling to earth had made Cooper jump. She’d watched as the various construction vehicles circled the beams curiously. Marcy had gotten her bulldozer running again, and Bozer was on a snowmobile with an admin, gesticulating like a traffic cop. Cooper had thought about her sketches of Bozer, back in her studio. She’d managed a few broad outlines before losing steam and resorting to the hesitation wounds of a doomed painting—slashes of paint here, pointless half-tones there. He saw her standing there, gaping at the gathering crowd in front of the B3 module; he motored over to her and told her to get on—something important was about to happen.

  Whether it was important was almost beside the point—it had appeared to Cooper, once she was at the site with everyone else, that Bozer was simply placing a large steel beam on the very top of the new module. But then she’d seen his face, and she’d understood.

  The canvas in front of her now was embryonic, but promising. A nose set in the middle of the canvas—the nostrils lined with flesh-pink and sprouting hairs, and burst blood vessels sketched in with pencil, unpainted, undecided. The overgrown, Bobby Knight eyebrows with their searching insect antennas had yet to be considered. Ditto the stylized handlebar mustache and the incongruous lumberjack beard, and the glossy pate hidden beneath a series of offensive bandannas. But she had figured out the eyes, which was the only way into a portrait. These eyes that told you, point-blank, that manning a trawler crane at the end of the earth was the only place her subject belonged. She started to paint.

  * * *

  2004 February 3

  11:57

  To: cherrywaswaiting@hotmail.com

  From: Billie.Gosling@janusbooks.com

  Subject: RE: MIA Redux

  I can’t tell if your last e-mail was an attempt at humor or if you are really a new member of the Nine Finger Club. I’ll assume it’s the former, and I’ll bite: my research indicates other members of the Nine Finger Club include Buster Keaton, Jesse James, Lee Van Cleef, Daryl Hannah, and Galileo. Lee fucking Van Cleef, Cooper. But to be completely transparent, I should add that Galileo lost his finger post-mortem, when someone took the middle finger of his right hand straight from his corpse.

  I don’t know what to say. How are you going to paint?

  B.

  The station populace grumbled its way into the gym—Game Night had been cancelled and the half-finished games of Settlers of Catan from the week before would have to remain half finished. Once everyone had found a seat, Tucker walked onto the stage, where a crew of unfamiliar men, clearly not Polies, were leaning back in mismatched folding chairs, speaking to one another in low tones. Tucker, Cooper noted, was still wearing sunglasses.

  “First, let me run through the week’s Significant Activities.” He consulted a notebook. “Two Twin Otters left to support the Chilean Antarctic Program—that was on Wednesday. In construction news, Bozer and friends have finished the siding trim on the upwind side of the new station and have installed SIP panels on the third section of the Logistics Facility.”

  “Footers for the second section were installed this morning,” Bozer called out.

  “Floyd, what’s the status of the leak in the Emergency Power Plant right water tank?” Tucker said.

  “Still exceeds,” Floyd replied. “It’s a known issue.”

  “Doc?”

  Doc Carla stood up and recited from memory the week’s sick calls. “One subungual hematoma, one thigh contusion, one mononeuropathy, one biceps tendonitis, one shoulder rotator cuff tendonitis, one thumb strain.” She glanced sideways at Cooper, and added: “And therapeutics for one finger amputation.” This was met with a rousing round of applause. Next, Pearl stood up with a file folder in hand.

  “Here are the numbers from the Food Growth Chamber: nine pounds of green leaf lettuce; fourteen pounds of red leaf lettuce; and nothing else has sprouted yet. Water usage this week was nine gallons. And our dedicated produce maintenance volunteer is redeploying at the end of the month, so please come see me if you’d like to volunteer.”

  “Thanks, Pearl,” Tucker said. “Finally, some of you asked me to update you on Changed Conditions Affecting Functional Operations. We’ve completed one hundred and ten LC-130 missions so far, but we remain seventeen missions behind schedule, which could affect our fuel supply.” The room quieted down a little at this news. “We’ll talk about this more at the operations meeting tomorrow night. Now, on to the matter at hand. As you probably know by now, we’re going to be hosting some Distinguished Visitors shortly.”

  Someone in the back started a chant of “Tom Waits, Tom Waits, Tom Waits, Tom Waits.” The rest of the room picked up it up.

  “It’s not going to be Tom Waits, obviously, although if you want, I’ll sing his catalog to anyone who’s interested after the meeting.” The men in the folding chairs behind Tucker laughed indulgently at this.

  “Two esteemed members of Congress will be traveling to the ice next week, and because of the circumstances there will be new protocols. I’m going to introduce Karl Martin, our fearless VIDS president of Polar Operations, who will explain what’s going to happen.”

  A man in a three-day scruff-beard, Kangol hat, and Carhartt work pants slapped the knee of the man next to him, stood up, and walked toward the microphone. His corporate mien was unmistakable, despite his clumsy attempts at native dress. Until this moment, Karl Martin had been nothing more than a reference point to most of the Polies—a corporate PR photo affixed to the dart board in the Smoke Bar.

  “Maybe I should have worn my full ECW gear,” Karl said into the microphone. “I mean, I see the black and green parkas, which is—heh heh—let’s just put it out there: they make you the badasses. Nothing like those red parkas at McMurdo.”

  No one in the audience appreciated the pandering: the distant roar of the power plant was the only sound in the room.

  Martin cleared his throat. “I get the feeling that I should get to the point, so folks, I’m going to speak frankly. The last week has been difficult for everyone. The blame game, rumors flying, tension between coworkers. These are all things that can complicate a working environment. Our goal at VIDS is, and always has been, a safer and more secure global community. Whether we’re in Kabul, Tripoli, or right here at South Pole, it’s our guiding principle. So when something like this happens—the tragedy that unfolded at an NSF research camp—we’re shaken. And even though the actors involved were not VIDS contractors, nor were they working at an official VIDS work site, we feel let down. And although no VIDS employees or VIDS-issued matériel were involved in this workplace incident—which, again, unfolded at a National Science Foundation research camp and involved NSF Fellows—we are reminded that safety is of the utmost importance. And our hearts go out to the NSF, which bears complete responsibility for this incident.” People began murmuring, and Martin, sensing he was losing the room, reloaded.

  “You know, this is tough, unprecedented stuff. I’m not going to stand here and pretend like I’m a great scientific mind, but I am a decent scholar of humanity—decades in various theaters of war will make you one. Now, I know we say that South Pole is the only apolitical place on the planet, a place where science trumps ideology. That’s how we like it. That’s why we’re here. Nations collaborate, and have collaborated, here for many decades, overlooking policy differences to come together in order to advance science and human thought. I mention this because the individuals who will be visiting the station in the next week are, by any definition, political figures.

  “As you know, our friends at the NSF typically restrict official visits to the station to dignitaries like presidents and ambassadors. However, due to circumstances, NSF has invited a couple of our national legislators to come see the station, have a look around.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that they’re on the Congressional Budget Committee, would it?” Sal called from his seat next to Cooper.

  “Mr. Brennan, right?” Martin said.
/>   “Dr. Brennan.”

  “Sorry—Dr. Brennan, wouldn’t want to neglect the honorific.”

  “It’s not an honorific, it’s an earned title.”

  The chuckles from the audience made Martin set his chin.

  “Dr. Brennan, you’ll need to take up your concerns with Alexandra Scaletta. The fortunes of the support staff who make your experiments feasible are tied directly to congressional appropriation. And that’s my purview. In fact, let’s talk about the support staff for a minute. I expect those of you down here on contract will represent VIDS in a positive manner. You are not to address the visitors unless directly addressed by them; and in that case, you do not express an opinion. You will restrict any comment to your everyday duties on the ice or your families back home. Any comments beyond that will not be allowed. If you choose to ignore this, your contracts will not be renewed. We decided to keep it simple.”

  “That’s draconian,” Floyd said from the front row. Martin looked down at him from the stage as if he were a pile of offal.

  “I wonder if you know who Draco is?” Martin asked.

  “A member of Devo?” Kit called between cupped hands.

  But Floyd was seriously pissed. “I know what draconian means,” he said. “I used the term intentionally. What you’ve just described is draconian.” Onstage, Tucker remained inscrutable behind his sunglasses.

  “I apologize,” Martin said. “For a moment I doubted your grasp of the word’s meaning because you said it like you think you’re insulting me. In the places where VIDS operates, draconian systems are key to survival. Before Draco instituted his code of laws in Athens, daily life was governed by blood feuds. Draconian law gives members of a community clear expectations and consistent consequences. And if Lockheed Martin wins the contract next year because the NSF budget is cut, you’ll be praying to Draco that they hire you. Based on your demeanor, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  From the back of the gym, a lone voice called out, “Tom Waits.”

  * * *

  First came a procession of lower-level VIDS directors in from Denver. NSF reps arrived shortly thereafter, recognizable by their clumsy attempts to blend in. Together, they prowled the halls and tried to chat up the workers, drove out to the labs to “hang out” with the scientists, crashed 90 South asking for IPAs, and handed out swag from the agency’s last grant conference. Meanwhile, the Antarctic Sun newspaper, published out of McMurdo, indicated that the congressional delegation would include an assortment of political aides, as well as the two Republican congressmen who had gotten Pavano on the ice—Rep. Sam Bayless of Kansas and Rep. Jack Calhoun of Tennessee.

  The Distinguished Visitors, known at Pole as DVs, arrived around midnight, blinking at the sun as they stumbled across the skiway toward the station. Cooper and the other Polies who had gathered to witness their arrival made their way up to the Smoke Bar immediately afterward to discuss.

  The Polies were three drinks deep when Calhoun walked into the bar. His sudden appearance, and his shellacked coif, somehow unruffled by both his hood and the straight-line polar winds, caught everyone off guard. Even Bozer looked surprised.

  Only Marcy spoke. “Congressman, you look like you need a drink.”

  “Make that plural, and we understand each other,” Calhoun replied.

  “One South Pole Highball,” Marcy called to Alek, who was playing bartender.

  “How’d you find us?” Doc Carla asked, carelessly winding a rubber band around her fingers.

  “Nice Afro-American man told me I could get a stiff drink here.”

  Cooper and Sal exchanged an amused glance.

  “So where’s your security detail, Congressman?” Sal asked. “Your advance team know you’re fraternizing with the enemy?”

  “An honest man has no enemies,” Calhoun replied, taking the seat next to Pearl, who was knitting another scarf for Birdie.

  “Wrong,” Alek barked from the bar, as he handed the drink to Marcy. “Honest man has more enemies than anyone.”

  Marcy brought Calhoun the glass and watched as he lifted it to the light. “What in the hell is in this?” he asked.

  She clasped her hands in front of her and batted her eyelashes. “Try it, and we’ll tell you,” she said, pulling out an unexpected Betty Boop imitation that Cooper thought was damn good. Tickled, Calhoun took a huge gulp and immediately started hacking. He flushed red and grabbed at his throat. Cooper thought he was going to have a heart attack. He peered up at Marcy through watering eyes.

  “Drain cleaner?” he coughed.

  “Jet fuel,” Marcy said. “Just a tablespoon’s worth, but the best buzz on earth.”

  “Murdering a U.S. congressman is a capital crime, you know.” But he took another, smaller sip. “It grows on the palate,” he said. He held the glass in front of his face and swirled its contents around. “But if I were you, I’d conserve as much fuel as possible.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sal asked.

  Calhoun waved the remark away. “Nothing. I’m just saying you should conserve. I do. I’m green. Eco-friendly. I recycle. I compost. Well, shit, I don’t compost, but I conserve. I’m a conservative.”

  Cooper could see that Sal was oddly charmed by Calhoun’s deflection. “Conservative and incoherent,” Sal said. “Amazing how often those two things go hand in hand.” Calhoun raised his glass at Sal, and Sal grinned, despite himself.

  “So you’ve got your eye on the JP-8,” Bozer growled from the table next to Calhoun. Cooper noticed Denise quickly place her hand on Bozer’s knee.

  “JP-what?”

  “The fuel. You plan on holding back supply until you get your way?”

  Calhoun was surprised. He peered back at Bozer. “I plan on protecting the integrity of scientific inquiry.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Bozer replied. “But I do know what it means when we don’t got enough fuel to get through the winter. I’ve got a station half built out there and if anyone fucks with my fuel supply, it’ll be buried under eight feet of drift-snow in a month.”

  Calhoun blinked back at Bozer, and Cooper felt a wave of compassion for the man. He had no business being at Pole. He was beefy Midwestern stock, about sixty. His dark eyes looked sad, even when he was laughing, and his second chin looked like another smile. The eyebrows were fuzzy, almost furry—black shot through with wiry white hairs. Cooper searched her pockets for her pen, found it, and painstakingly tried to sketch the congressman on a napkin. Sal saw what she was doing and smiled.

  He turned to Calhoun. “What exactly do you guys want?” he said. “I mean, you come down here with your parade of imbeciles, squawking about scientific integrity, but in the meantime, no one knows what your point is. What’s the plan? To hold the station hostage until you get reelected? To subpoena every climate scientist until there’s no one left to do the research?”

  Calhoun held Sal’s steady gaze. “I have nothing to say on that subject. It is out of my hands.”

  “And whose able hands is it in now?”

  “Scaletta’s. We tried to compromise. She rejected it.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Basic fairness. Scientific integrity.”

  “Already built into the system.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “If it were, then Frank Pavano would have had freedom of movement while he was here, free access to equipment. He’d still be on the ice. The NSF ensures minority scientific views get a seat at the table. Equal access to taxpayer-funded research sites at the Poles.”

  A small, strangled scream caused everyone to turn. Sri stood in the doorway, his hood still on, holding a chess set with both hands.

  “You want the NSF to fund research that tries to prove global warming is a hoax,” Sri said, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the box. Calhoun finished off his South Pole Highball and set it on the table too hard.

  “Young man, I’m not saying that’s what I want. I’m saying that’s the proposal on the table. Your bos
ses have said no. We will take advantage of the tools at our disposal.”

  “Including subpoenas? One of the WAIS researchers was subpoenaed yesterday by her state’s attorney general. They’re taking her off the ice because someone from your office called and—”

  Calhoun rose from his chair unsteadily. “This shit’s above your pay grade, and I’ve already talked too much. I was just looking for a nightcap and some conversation.”

  Sal stood up and took the congressman’s arm. “I’ll walk you to the DV barracks.”

  Calhoun yanked his arm out of Sal’s grasp. “I can get there myself, son,” he said, and, after putting on his jacket, haltingly made his way out of the bar.

  After the congressman left, the room grew loud and raucous with discussion about the unexpected visit, and predictions about the intensity of his hangover tomorrow after Alek confessed to putting a double shot of jet fuel in his drink.

  Cooper turned to Sal. “I’m going to bed. Wanna join me?” He hooked his fingers into her belt loops and pulled her close, but then noticed Sri was lightly thumping his head against the wall. “I gotta console Sri,” he said. “I’ll come by later.”

  Instead of heading straight to the Jamesways, though, Cooper decided to drop by her studio, maybe fill out the sketch of Calhoun a little. She’d seen something in his face that she liked.