by Bill Nye
Suddenly I didn’t feel so bad about giving them away.
At the exit, we were zipping up our coats when Britney pushed through the doors. She stomped her boots and pulled down her hood. Her cheeks were red from the cold. She tilted her head and squinted at me. “What are you kids doing down here in the labs?”
“Nothing?” Matt replied, suddenly blushing.
I shut my eyes for a second. My brother would make a horrible spy. “We were just looking around,” I said.
Britney reached forward to zip up Ava’s Big Red, which was open at the top. My sister recoiled and did it herself. “Does Hank know you’re out here?” Britney asked.
“We don’t have to tell him everywhere we go,” Ava snapped.
“Well, you shouldn’t be roaming around,” Britney replied.
“We know,” Matt said, “but we were—”
“The director is looking for any reason to kick you three out of here early,” Britney added. “Don’t give her one, okay?”
Matt answered before I could reply. “Understood,” he said.
“And remember, it’s cold out there.” She glanced at Ava’s jacket again. “They gave you these jackets for a reason.”
As Britney continued on her way, Ava muttered something about how we weren’t little kids. Matt started to reply, then wisely kept quiet, and we hurried back to the main building. The basketball court was empty when we arrived. The air smelled dusty. We unlocked the former equipment closet, flicked on the light, stepped inside, and closed the door. I sneezed twice into the elbow of my Big Red. The room was barely big enough for the three of us. While Matt and I searched for the map, Ava sorted through the electronic parts and pieces that were neatly arranged on the tabletop crowded into the closet.
There was barely a sheet of paper in the whole closet, let alone a map. “I don’t see it,” I said.
“Me neither,” Matt said.
Ava held up a small box attached to a neoprene band. She slipped the band around her head. A lens the size of a half-dollar was facing out of the little box.
“That doesn’t look like a map,” I said.
“It’s a headcam,” she said. “I bet Anna used this when she was diving.”
With her fingernails she popped open the camera’s waterproof case. She removed a small black plastic square the size of a postage stamp, flicked on the desk lamp, and held the square under the light. A second later she beamed as brightly as a treasure hunter who had just discovered a rare diamond.
“Is that a memory card?” I asked.
“Well, it’s not a donut,” Ava said.
That was unnecessary; I was proud of my guess.
She scraped off a whitish brown crust from the black square and touched some of it to her tongue. “A little salt corrosion, but it should still work. Matt, what do you think it has on here?” she asked.
He folded his arms across his chest and drummed his fingers on his chin, trying to look like Hank. “Video, obviously. But there’s a good chance it has geotags.”
“In English, please,” I said.
Ava held up the tiny square. “A geotag is a record of where this device has been and at what time. So if Anna used this camera on her last trip, then this little card might tell us where she went when she snuck away from Levokin, and if we know that . . .”
I didn’t need help finishing her sentence. “Then we don’t need the map, after all.”
9
GENIUS IS OVERRATED
Typically I love it when the geniuses are wrong. Really. I float on a cloud of happy unicorn dust for days. This time? Not so much. The memory card only stored video, not a neat and tidy record of Anna Donatelli’s recent travels. It contained hours of footage of Anna swimming through the strange world between the ice shelf and the seafloor, which was scattered with starfish and crabs. Watching the video in our room was mesmerizing. I felt as if I was kicking through that eerie blue world myself, only without the heart-stopping cold. But the video didn’t give us answers. Instead, it sparked about a thousand more questions, and one scene proved especially strange.
When Hank came into our room after his meeting, he was drawn in immediately. On the video, little white globs appeared to be floating up from the seafloor toward the ice surface. Hank pointed to a spot on the screen, jabbing it with his index finger. Ava winced; she was constantly reminding him that not all laptops were touch-sensitive. “What’s that?” he asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Matt said.
“It’s not plankton,” Hank decided. “Plankton would drift. This material is floating straight up.”
Matt nodded. “Maybe it’s less dense than the surrounding water.”
“You all understand density, don’t you?” Hank asked. He’d said “you all,” but he was looking directly at me. I did understand the basic idea, and I started to say as much, but he didn’t listen. “Think of an ice cube. When you drop an ice cube into a glass of water, what happens?”
They waited for me to answer. All three of them. I rolled my eyes. “It floats to the top,” I said.
“Right! Exactly. Because frozen water has a lower density than liquid water. That basically means it has fewer particles, or molecules, of water packed into the same space. Something with higher density has more particles packed into the same space.”
“So are those ice cubes?” I asked.
Everyone went silent.
“No . . .” Matt answered. His response was slow and hesitant. Not definitive. He glanced at Hank. “Right?”
Again they were quiet. I couldn’t tell if my question was brilliant or completely idiotic. “How is this going to help us find Anna?” I asked.
Both Ava and Matt looked to Hank.
“Well,” he said, “if we study the surroundings closely, the depth of the water, maybe even the thickness of the ice, we might be able to narrow down the possible locations.”
“So the map would be easier,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” Ava said, “but we don’t know where it is, remember?”
“Britney might be able to help,” Matt suggested. “She knows this seascape better than we do. Maybe she’d recognize the spot.”
As Hank edged his finger back toward the screen, Ava held her own hand close, ready to slap Hank’s pointer away. Looking at the three of them, I realized it was going to be a long night. I could’ve poured a cold bowl of soup onto Hank’s head and he wouldn’t have turned away from that screen. But I didn’t test that theory. In part because I didn’t have any soup.
“I’ll go get Britney,” I offered. “Any idea where I’d find her at this hour?”
“This time the other night she was at the gym,” Matt said.
Ava laughed. “You would know that.”
Ignoring her, Matt said to me, “I’ll go with you.”
Sure enough, our blue-eyed friend was jogging on one of the dozen treadmills in McMurdo’s gymnasium. A huge hardcover book was propped open on the control panel in front of her. In one corner of the gym a man was lifting large weights, but otherwise the room was empty. The man was breathing dramatically, and I could only see the back of his gray buzz cut. Before Britney spotted us, Matt walked over to a set of free weights and lifted one a few times.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“What? I’m just working out.”
I was all set to dare him to lift something impossibly heavy when Britney called us over. Her treadmill slowed to a walking pace.
“What’re you reading?” I asked, raising my voice above the low whine of the machine.
“Asimov,” she said. “One of the greats. There’s a decent selection of science fiction in the library, if you’re interested. What’s up? Here to exercise?”
Matt stammered. I almost felt bad for him.
“The geniuses need you,” I said.
“The geniuses?”
I pointed my thumb at Matt and clarified, “My brother, Ava, Hank.”
“Oh,” she
said. Then she leaned forward over the treadmill. “You know, Jack, genius is overrated. All humans have large and beautiful brains. You just have to work yours, like a muscle.”
The weight lifter grunted. What Britney said meant something. I know. But the man’s roars were comical. Quietly we all laughed.
“Who is that?” Matt asked, half whispering.
“I told you about him already,” she said. “That’s Victor Valenza.”
Right: the diver we’d seen in the cafeteria. This time his ears looked even. “One of our suspects,” I added.
Matt flicked me on the shoulder. “Should we talk to him? You know, to gather more data, like Hank said?”
I remembered my brother’s saddened, rejected face after Ava and I had gone sleuthing without him. “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“You said the others need me, right? I’m happy to help,” Britney said. “Would one of you mind filling me in on the walk back to your room?”
Matt glanced between Britney and the grunting diver. My brother’s face was as easy to read as a picture book: detective work had suddenly become less interesting. “Why don’t you take Britney, Matt? You’ll be better at explaining everything. I’ll talk to Mr. Valenza here.”
Britney placed her hand on Matt’s elbow and led him toward the door. “He calls you Matt,” she noted. “I really think Matthew suits you, though. Much more mature. Now, tell me, what have you geniuses been up to?”
I thought my brother was going to faint, but talking science always eased his nerves, and he was describing the video in detail before they’d walked three steps. Meanwhile, I sauntered over to the rack of dumbbells and grabbed the one that Matt had just hoisted with ease.
“That’s too big for you,” Valenza grumbled from a few steps away.
I tried to lift it anyway. It didn’t move. Matt was stronger than I’d thought. “Is there extra gravity down here?”
“You shouldn’t lift weights until you’re at least fourteen.” He squinted, focusing on my straw-thin arms. “Then again, maybe you should start now . . .”
“Thanks,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Jack.”
He crushed my puny fingers in a death grip. “Yes, I know.”
“You are Victor Valenza, the greatest ice diver the South Pole has ever known.” I paused, allowing him to inflate with pride. Then I struck with my verbal pin. “Before Anna Donatelli came along.”
Again I waited. I watched his face for signs of rising rage. Reddening eyes. A muscle popping in his jaw. Clenched fists. Yet he didn’t betray a spark of anger.
“You mistake me for a ukulele, my skinny friend.”
“What?”
“The ukulele is perhaps the easiest string instrument to play. I’m more of a mandolin. Infinitely more complex.” He cracked his knuckles. “You are trying to play me, aren’t you? My question is, why? I think we’d save ourselves some time if you just told me.”
So I already knew he was stronger than me. Now I knew that he was craftier, too. “Okay, fine. I’m wondering if you had anything to do with Anna Donatelli’s disappearance.”
“Why would I . . . Oh!” He snapped his fingers. The sound was so loud, my ears practically popped. “You think I’m jealous about my diving records?”
“She did break them all.”
“Yes, but that would be no reason to exile her to a frozen wilderness. Besides, those records mean nothing.” His gaze darted to the floor. That little movement meant everything.
“Really? Nothing?”
Valenza wagged one of his fingers at me. “You’re good. Very good. Okay. Fine. I may have sent a note or two to the director, protesting her use of Levokin’s wet suit. But you have to understand, it’s not fair. That equipment gives her an enormous advantage. It would be like someone driving a car in a footrace.”
“You sound jealous to me.”
“Look,” he said, “I understand what you’re doing. I appreciate your concern, but I didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. I’ve barely even spoken to the woman. If you want to find out more about Donatelli, don’t talk to me. Talk to Sophie.”
“Sophie?”
“One of the chefs,” he said. “Sometimes I sneak into the kitchen at night”—he patted his belly—“for extra sustenance. Many times I saw them talking quietly together there.” Victor Valenza lifted his nose, inhaled, and smiled rapturously. “You should go if you want to find Sophie. It smells like she’s in the kitchen now.”
“You can smell her?”
“No, not her. The bread. Follow the baking bread, my friend.”
Instead of risking another handshake, I thanked the burly diver with a wave and hurried to the cafeteria. Inside, Mr. Frosty was gurgling. A light above his handle blinked red; he was either broken or empty. I pushed through the swinging metal doors to the kitchen. Warm, delicious air swept past my face. Suddenly I was hungrier than a starved lion. The room was divided into four aisles lined with counters, ovens, tall steel freezers and fridges, and metal cabinets. The aroma of the freshly baked bread only grew stronger inside. At first the room was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerating units. Then something cracked and splattered in the next aisle. A woman muttered in a foreign language. French, I guessed. I tiptoed over and peered around a giant steel freezer.
A female chef was cleaning a few broken eggs off the floor. Her black hair was buzzed on the sides and back, longish on top. She had green eyes and little silver hoops in her eyebrows. The doors of a large steel fridge hung open as she cleaned the shells and yolk off the floor. Once she finished, she carefully removed a large, cube-shaped plastic container from the fridge and set it down on the counter. She leaned over the container, looking into it, and started talking to whatever was inside. Thankfully, even though she cursed in a foreign language, she spoke to her food in English. “Hello, little babies. Are you okay? Did that scare you? It’s okay, it’s okay, my little friends. Sophie will take care of you. Sophie will change your water.”
Next she took a large slotted spoon and began scooping what looked like miniature icicles out of the water. She slid them off the spoon onto a paper towel, folded over the edges, and patted them briefly. Then she removed a large, half-filled Mason jar from underneath the steel counter, unscrewed the top, and funneled the icicles inside. Five or six times she repeated the process, harvesting the ice, rolling it around on a towel, then dumping it into the jar. Then she scribbled something on the lid with a Sharpie and peered back down into the plastic container. “Okay,” she said, “is that better? I’ll get you some new water.”
Now she reached into the fridge, removed another jar, and poured its contents into the container. Was this some kind of recipe? And if so, why was she talking to her ingredients? “There,” she said, “there’s some nice cold saltwater for you. Does that feel better? I’m so glad I came to check on you. Your mommy would not be happy if I neglected her little babies.”
Mommy? What in the name of Mr. Frosty was going on? The bottom of the world was getting stranger by the second, and I forgot to hide my confusion. I don’t know if I grunted or laughed, but Sophie spun around and glared at me from under those pierced eyebrows.
I stood up and faced the French chef. “Who’s Mommy?”
“Zut.”
“English, please.”
“Zut, zut, zut,” she said.
There was nothing scientific about what happened next. I simply followed my instincts. “Look,” I said. “We’re your friends. Anna’s friends. Hank and Ava and I and my brother, Matt.” I stopped to correct myself; no sense missing an opportunity. “Sorry, he prefers Matthew. But, anyway, we’re here to help Anna, and we need to find her to make sure she’s safe.”
After a moment she replied, “You are truly her friends?”
“Yes. Honestly.”
Sophie stepped away, and I moved forward to look into the plastic container. Down at the bottom, four or five yellowish creatures about the size of my
hand moved around slowly. They weren’t starfish, exactly. Or octopi. But they certainly weren’t fish. To be honest, they looked like something that might come flying out the nose of a sneezing giant. And they were definitely alive. They were crawling over one another, creeping around, squelching along the bottom. I shivered. I had no doubt that the little monsters were going to have a starring role in my next nightmare. “What are those things?” I asked. “More important, do you have any chocolate ice cream? I think Mr. Frosty is broken.”
A timer dinged in the distance. Sophie laughed, then lay one arm across her apron, propped the elbow of her other arm on her wrist, dropped her forehead to her hand, and shook her head. “Okay, okay. I will tell you what I know. First I must get my baguettes. Allons-y.”
I followed her to the ovens two aisles away. Sophie removed several dozen long, crusty baguettes and placed them on cooling racks. The smell of the fresh bread almost made me forget my ice cream.
The back door to the kitchen swung open, and I heard the sound of heels on the floor. “Who’s that?” I whispered.
Sophie sighed and wrapped a small towel around one of the baguettes. “The director. Anytime I bake bread, she appears. I always make an extra loaf for her.”
The silver-haired queen of McMurdo Station grimaced when she saw me. I held up my hands, flashing the universal sign of someone who has done no wrong. She accepted the bread, thanked Sophie, and pointed the skinny loaf at me. “I’m still watching you three. Don’t forget it.”
Once she’d left, Sophie pulled a pair of stools from under a counter and slid one to me. “It’s nice to be on her good side, oui? Would you like some bread?”
“I was serious about the ice cream.”
“Americans,” she grumbled. “This is your problem!”
I shrugged, and she returned a moment later with a depressingly small bowl. I thanked her anyway. “Okay, Sophie. What’s the story? Tell me everything.”
