“That’s a lie,” Sal said loudly.
“This is not a Q-and-A,” Karl Martin shouted between cupped hands. He gestured to one of his VIDS minions and then pointed at Sal.
“This the same guy as before? No, let him talk, Karl,” Bayless said. “This must be the alpha male scientist, I imagine.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m the alpha male,” Sal said to Bayless. He dropped Cooper’s hand and stood up. “Before even addressing the fact that your science is a failure, let’s examine the reasons why you’re even bothering to take up this subject, since I assume you are not a climatologist. I would probably further assume that your experiences with higher-level science are fairly limited.”
“It is indisputable that I am not a scientist. I make this point with some frequency.”
“So you vigorously oppose any policy—even any research—designed to halt climate change, while claiming that you do not know the science of climate change?”
“That’s enough,” Karl said, rising from his chair. Bayless put his hand up again, and Karl slowly sat down.
Sal continued, “Then you should be made aware of the fact that in the scientific community, there’s virtually unanimous consensus that the earth is warming. It’s not a matter of whether it’s getting hotter, it’s a matter of how hot it will get. I propose that instead of fearing this new knowledge, you accept it, and leave science to scientists. Please, Congressman, go home and let the grown-ups get some work done.”
Bayless stood at the lectern, smiling. There was something to fear in his smile, Cooper knew, and when she looked back at Sal, she knew he’d seen it, too. But it was Calhoun she watched. He was smiling, too—but his lapel pin was gone.
* * *
As soon as the congressmen were wheels up and flying home, the NSF brought all of the scientists, including Sal, into a closed-door meeting, which Tucker said would likely have a passing resemblance to a Chinese reeducation camp. The funded agencies and institutions, including both Sri’s and Sal’s universities, had been spooked by Bayless’s threats and the loud congressional support he’d received after the news stories started appearing. The universities ordered their grantees and fellows to shut their mouths, or else they would bring them back to do lab work and send other, more discreet scientists in their places. Funding was sacrosanct.
“Confidentiality agreements,” Sal said, tossing the packet on Cooper’s bed, before falling on top of it and landing face-first into her pillow. He turned his head to look at her. “It turns every scientific project and experiment on the ice into a classified operation. I’m considering adding an appendix to The Crud. I’ll call it A Scientist’s Guide to Political Interference.” He sighed. “And now there’s no point for you to read Skua Birds in Paradise, since no one will be here this winter to benefit from it if there’s a shutdown.”
“Too late,” Cooper said, scanning the papers Sal had given her. “Already read it. I’m really looking forward to that naked midwinter run from the sauna to the Pole marker.”
She began to read aloud. “‘Details and results of NSF-backed experiments may only be released publicly after joint approval by the NSF and the scientist’s home institution. Scientists and techs are prohibited from speaking to the press in any capacity, even educational, without prior approval. All media requests must go through the NSF’s media relations offices.’”
“And they told me I had to stop e-mailing with those kids in De Pere.”
“What happens if you don’t sign it?” Cooper asked.
Sal propped himself up on his elbow. “According to NSF, the scientists and techs who choose not to agree to these terms will be sent back on the next available flight, ‘no questions asked.’”
“What about all the experiments?” Cooper said.
“Done.”
Cooper and Sal stared sadly at the confidentiality agreement. She could only think of one thing to say to Sal. “Tom Waits.”
He nodded. “Tom fucking Waits.”
* * *
As the clocked ticked down toward winter, more flights landed, carrying fuel but never enough. The pilots, who were typically gregarious and gossipy, worked closemouthed, offering hardly more than grunts and monosyllabic answers to questions. Whenever Floyd mentioned the stingy supply of fuel, they’d shrug and get back into the cockpit as quickly as possible. It was clear the station’s fuel was already being rationed.
Cooper tried to immerse herself in her work. She offered to paint portraits to help distract everyone from the looming crisis. Initially, only a couple of people came up to her during mealtimes, but once she set Pearl’s portrait up in the galley, the requests came in steadily—especially since Pearl was extravagantly proud of being Cooper’s first publicly displayed portrait. The work seemed to Cooper easy and meaningful, two qualities that had never coalesced over the course of her career.
One by one, more portraits appeared in the galley—Pearl hung them at evenly spaced intervals on the walls: Floyd, his hamster cheeks mitigated by shadows, the anger in his eyes replaced by the softness Cooper had seen there once or twice over the course of the season, usually when he was looking at Marcy. Kit in his Halloween gorilla suit, his mouth half opened. Dwight, sans cloak, his head dropped to his chest, his silky black hair obscuring his face. Doc Carla without her knit cap, her eyes an Edward Wilson blue. Tucker, still just the eye in the mirror shard. One by one the Polies had come to her studio or hadn’t, and one by one, she’d come to know them a little better. None of the portraits had the photographic quality of her vending machine paintings; hyperrealism was simply no longer possible. However, the inability to be photographically precise had freed something in her.
Cooper was on her way to another artists’ meeting in the gym, when she saw a group of women and two visibly distraught men crowded around a piece of paper taped to the outer wall of the trailer.
“What’s going on?” Cooper asked.
“Dave’s dance class,” someone said. “He left for McMurdo.”
“He promised to stay for the last class,” another replied sadly. Cooper noticed one of the women was weeping quietly, while the others just stared at one another in disbelief. It seemed to Cooper a bad omen, and she hurried past them and into the meeting.
Propelled by their essential feelings of social impotence, and Denise’s insistence in their last meeting that the artistic process is profoundly shaped by social settings, the artists and writers, save the historical novelist, had decided to make a statement that summarized their thoughts about political interference in science. They were certain their statement would show solidarity with the scientists (“who are just artists working in a different medium,” the dancer said) and send a clear message to the politicians that they hadn’t forgotten Helms and Mapplethorpe, and wouldn’t let the NEA controversy be repeated in “science-y” fashion on the ice. If none of the newspapers bit, they’d publicize it via a blog.
“But I don’t think horses make sense, in context,” Birdie was saying when Cooper arrived at the meeting. “Although you could stretch the conceit and make as if the ponies Scott brought down here to their deaths are akin to the scientists. Scott being the government.” He shuddered. “But that kind of parallel goes against every grain of my being.”
“I don’t even know if this is worth the effort,” the literary novelist said. “Politicians don’t get art.”
“Well, as an agnostic Buddhist-and-pagan who is deeply vested in the principle of plurality, I find this conversation really complex,” the dancer replied. “I’m committed to freedom of ideas, even the ones we dislike.”
“The man has a right to do his research without being harassed,” the historical novelist barked. “This whole thing is the worst kind of liberal arrogance. A coordinated campaign to discredit Frank Pavano’s work.” He laughed. “But look at it bite them in the ass.”
“The man sliced off her finger,” the literary novelist replied.
“It was an accident,” Cooper said.
“I still am a whole person,” Cooper said.
“Fine. You’re a whole person who is missing part of her hand. You’re splitting hairs.”
“I think the scientists’ objection to Pavano and his research has to do with the idea that beliefs have no place in science,” Birdie said, trying to regain control of the conversation.
“Beliefs have a place everywhere,” the dancer said. “The world is built on them.”
“You probably believe that the world is supported by a turtle,” the literary novelist replied, his face darkening.
The dancer stiffened. “It’s called the ‘world-bearing turtle’ and yes, I find truth in creation myths. Why do you care what I believe? How does it affect you?”
“You can’t come down here to do research on Santa Claus.”
“Forget Santa Claus,” the historical novelist snapped. “Let’s talk money for a minute. You guys want to get blacklisted?” He looked around the room. “These grants are my livelihood. What exactly are the chances of getting an NEA grant after this?”
“Zilch,” the literary novelist said, sitting forward in his chair now. He tapped the dancer’s knee three times with his finger. “But your chances of getting a Guggenheim or a MacArthur just increased exponentially.” He sang the last word.
“It was a rhetorical question,” the historical novelist growled.
“Let’s reconvene tomorrow after we’ve all had some time to think this through,” Birdie said. The artists murmured their assent and walked out of the gym. Cooper stayed behind.
“I don’t do protest art,” she said to Birdie, once everyone was gone.
“Me either. I haven’t the faintest idea what to do. Perhaps I can find something in the life story of Birdie Bowers that echoes this current impasse, but the British government has always been very supportive of scientific endeavors.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
* * *
The announcement came the next morning. Dwight laid the New York Times printout on the bar, and the Polies crowded around it. Bayless and Calhoun had finally put their money where their mouths were; the article detailed a House resolution they’d co-sponsored that would freeze the station’s budget by suspending the National Science Foundation’s polar regions department. Until the resolution got out of committee, additional funding requests would be in limbo. Because fuel was a fluid line item in the station’s annual budget, each request was considered a request for new funding and would need to be approved, in triplicate. The fuel supply had essentially been halted. Even if the resolution got out of committee, the Program was facing a sequester: all Pole operations would cease—from the construction of the new station and the climate research taking place at the Divide, to the cosmological experiments in the Dark Sector, including the joint Stanford-Princeton experiment Sal was leading with Lisa Wu.
“‘The South Pole is touted as a bastion of scientific activity,’” Dwight read, quoting Bayless, “‘where minds converge to answer the most important questions of the universe. It is a place where open-minded discussion leads to breakthroughs. But that is changing; the time-honored tradition of intellectual debate is under grave threat from elements of the far left, and our ability as a nation to remain the leader in scientific achievement is now in doubt. Taxpayers are currently funding a number of scientists and scientific programs through the National Science Foundation, and I think they might be surprised to learn that their hard-earned dollars are going to support a liberal agenda rather than disinterested science.’”
Dwight looked up from the printout. Sri bent over his knees, his hands interlaced behind his head. His breathing grew rapid, and Sal placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve got lawyers going through my research files back in Madison as we speak. My grants for next year are suspended pending further review,” Sri said. “They’ve already forced Fern and her team off the ice. If they shut us down, I will lose three years of research. I can’t have a gap in the data. I can’t, Sal. I can’t.”
“What is he talking about?” Pearl asked.
“Sri just got subpoenaed,” Sal said. “Bayless got the Wisconsin attorney general to initiate an investigation for violations of the Fraud Against Taxpayers Act. They’re saying he manipulated his climate data to get federal grants. It’s just an excuse to get Sri off the ice and interrupt his research.”
“How is it possible that people like this have the power to shut down an entire research base?” Sri said to no one. “I mean, what about the medical science that makes it possible for them to go in for their triple bypasses and come out as fresh as a newly plucked daisy? Did a Jesus in scrubs float down on a cloud of ether and come up with the protocols for that shit? I hate humanity. And yet I’m down here because I want to save humanity from certain suffering and death once this planet bursts into fucking flames.”
“You’re a misanthrope with a heart,” Pearl said cheerfully.
Cooper glanced over at Sal, who was still squeezing Sri’s shoulder. “No,” he said. “He’s a scientist on a choke chain.”
* * *
After breakfast the next morning, an announcement went out over All-Call directing the winter-over crew to meet in the library—the individuals who had been approved to spend the winter at Amundsen-Scott. When Cooper arrived, she surveyed the winter population—the individuals who had freely chosen to spent months of perpetual night at the bottom of the earth. There were the Nailheads, including Bozer, Floyd, and Marcy; the Beakers, who would monitor their experiments through the season, Alek, Sal, and Lisa, and assorted research techs; Dwight, who would continue to run Comms and provide general research tech help; Pearl and Doc Carla; and two NSF “non-science” grantees: Denise and Cooper. Everyone else was contracted to move to McMurdo for the winter, like Birdie and Kit, or off the ice entirely. (Birdie had made his arrangements for a McMurdo transfer before meeting Pearl, and had spent the last two weeks trying in vain to get someone to approve him for a winter-over.) Cooper noticed Simon, the VIDS rep, and Warren, the NSF rep who had interrogated her in the days after her injury, were also in the room. Both looked as if they’d been invited to a slumber party at Guantanamo.
Cooper took a seat near Sal. He reached across the plastic chair between them and took her hand. His face was drawn and his eyes sunken; there was little remaining of the usual fire in them. He seemed, for the first time since she’d met him, almost beaten. On his other side, Lisa sat twisting a Kleenex in her hands. Cooper knew if the shutdown happened, hardly anyone in this room would be allowed to stay for the winter.
Before Tucker or either of the admins could begin speaking, Bozer stood up, his meaty arms folded across his chest.
“We don’t have enough JP-8 to get through the winter.”
“Calm down,” Simon said dismissively. “We’ll get to that later.” Pearl looked over at Cooper, with raised eyebrows. This was going to be good.
“Actually, no, son, we’ll get to that first,” Bozer said. “I’ve winter-overed for nine seasons, but I’ll be fucked if I stay past station closing knowing we don’t have enough fuel to last us. My bags are packed. I have a seat on the last Herc out if that shit ain’t here by next week.”
“You realize this is your own fault, right?” Sri said to Bozer from across the room. Sal nudged him with his knee. “No, man, it needs to be said. If construction had stayed on schedule, and the planes didn’t have to haul all your construction shit from McMurdo, we could’ve made do with the fuel we already had, no matter what these politicians were tr
ying to do.” Cooper saw Floyd’s entire body wince. “Oh, and your precious pool table? Everyone knows you’ve been illegally shipping materials for that since summer.”
Bozer turned his gaze to Sri. “My dear swami friend, you are obviously a miserable worm in a lab coat, so I will keep this simple: fuck you. Here you are, jacking off into your beakers because I’ve been busting my balls down here for the last five years, building your lab. So go fuck another penguin, and I’ll keep this station going in the meantime.”
“This has nothing to do with construction, Sri, and you know it,” Dwight said. “This is political. I mean, look at what you Beakers have unleashed! This whole thing is your fault! If you guys had been cool about Pavano instead of acting like eighth graders, none of this would be happening.”
“What the F, Dwight?” Sri said. “You’re the one who made him kiss your ring for satellite calls!”
“To be fair, Dwight does that to everyone,” Pearl chimed in.
“Washington isn’t worried about satellite phones, Sri!” Dwight shouted. “They’re worried about—oh, what was it? Oh yeah—threats and intimidation.” He pointed at Sri angrily, his Livestrong bracelet trembling on his wrist. “Threats and intimidation, Sri!”
“What threats? What intimidation?” Sri cried. “These are fairy tales Pavano and his conservatard congressmen are spinning.”
“Everyone knows it was you who took his name off the manifests to the Divide, Sri. Everyone knows your research techs deleted his username from the server. And the petitions? The multiple printouts, Sri, where you guys defaced stuff and made comments about Jesus. That debate, and the way Sal got up in Pavano’s face while he was trying to give his talk?” Dwight looked over at Cooper. “And holy shit, her finger? Her fucking finger?”
South Pole Station Page 28
