He leaned forward onto his desk. Put his head down on it. Raked his fingers through his graying hair. The National Science Foundation did not pay him well enough to deal with problems like this. I’m going to wind up like that other fellow they had to medevac out to Cheech with a heart attack, he told himself. And right now, that thought has its appeal!
He uncrumpled and smoothed out the note and read it one more time. It had been typed to keep it anonymous, untraceable, just like all the infernal rumors that sluiced around McMurdo like oily water in a ship’s bilges:
Mr. Bellamy—
You need to know that certain scientists currently in McMurdo are conspiring to investigate the death of journalist Morris Sweeny. These people will stop at nothing to gather evidence. They are threatening to go to the press themselves. You know what that means. Once the negative publicity bottle is opened, the genie is out. The left will bring up the question of why we’re spending so much money to be here instead of spending it on schools and will ask why we are using huge volumes of carbon-based fuels instead of solar and wind power. The right wing will agree with them if only to stop the investigation of rapid climate change which Sweeny was here to attack.
Stop them while you have the chance.
Bellamy crumpled the note a second time. Considered eating it. Knew that ingesting it would solve nothing. Fifty years we search for the best, the brightest, the most talented scientists in the world, he grieved. We build the finest infrastructure the funds can provide. We build them a laboratory, supply them with air support and field equipment, food, assistance of every type. We defend their findings and the importance of doing the work. We beg Congress for every penny. We have built a world-class reputation for doing groundbreaking research, and now this. Why don’t they listen to me? Why don’t they just do their work and leave their political fights back home in America?
What can I do? Call Black Island and tell them to shut down telecommunications for the foreseeable future? No. I can’t do that. I am mandated to keep this station running at full capacity, and that means making it possible for each and every scientist to have access to the Internet. Besides, he realized, that wouldn’t work, because even if I shut down the dish at Black Island, some of them have iridium phones. And even if I took away the ones we have supplied, some of them brought their own damned phones, and they all have shortwave radios!
Scientists! You can’t control them!
With a feeling of impending doom, Bellamy lifted the receiver from his telephone and dialed the extension for his assistant. “I want you to schedule a meeting for eleven a.m. in the Crary Library with all of the scientists who are in McMurdo at this time. It is urgent. I require full attendance. Here are the names…”
36
VALENA PRESENTED HERSELF AT THE DOOR TO KATHY Juneau’s office at five minutes to ten and snapped a brisk salute.
Kathy smiled a hello. “We’re loading into the Pisten Bully that’s sitting right off the loading dock. Our drivers will be here in just a few minutes. You can go ahead and put your gear in the rear compartment if you like. I need to load this equipment.” She gestured toward a rude assemblage of pipe fittings. “That’s a coring rig for taking small samples out of the Pony Lake.”
“Right. What’s a Pisten Bully?”
“Tracked vehicle. Bright red. Says ‘Pisten Bully’ on the side in big, friendly letters. You can’t miss it.”
Valena took a hint and headed toward her office to pick up her gear. It took two trips to schlep it up the ramp to the door by the loading dock. She then moved it outside.
A cute little tracked vehicle waited below the dock. Valena jumped down off the dock to take a look. It was about twelve feet long and was composed of a cab with two bucket seats and a separate but attached back passenger compartment, which had two benches.
A husky man was approaching from the direction of the dorms. “Hi, there, Tractor Valena,” he said.
“Ah, Tractor Matt! Arrrr…” Valena replied, making the pirate gesture with bent forefinger.
“Arrr.”
“Say, are you our driver out to Cape Royds?”
“The same.”
“What luck!”
Kathy appeared on the dock with her drill. Matt hoisted it, carried it to the vehicle, and put it inside the passenger compartment. Valena set to work transferring her duffels and Kathy’s into the compartment beside it.
Kathy asked, “Is your companion driver here yet?”
“No,” said Matt. “He’s picking up the flight lunches. I expect him any moment.”
Valena heard footsteps on the gravel behind her. She turned.
“Hi,” said Dave. He smiled uncertainly.
“Hi,” said Valena. She was simultaneously happy and sad to see him. The two emotions instantly tied themselves into a knot in her stomach, and she cast her eyes downward. When she looked up again, Dave had looked away, suddenly fascinated by something far away. Then he turned toward the Pisten Bully and loaded the lunches into the driver’s compartment.
Kathy opened the door by the shotgun seat, stepped up onto the track, and climbed in. “We’ll all swap around,” she said as she buckled her seatbelt, “but it’s a gorgeous day, I’m the PI, and what the heck, I’m pulling rank.”
Her stomach still twisted sideways, Valena climbed into the passenger compartment, climbed over the load, and sat down on the rear bench seat.
Outside, she heard Matt speaking to Dave. “I’ll flip you for first turn at the wheel,” he said, then added, his voice now carrying a tease, “Or would you prefer to start out in back?”
She couldn’t quite hear what Dave was saying.
“Fine then,” said Matt. “Ro-sham-bo.” He lifted his fist and began to pump it to start the competition. On three, he shot out two fingers, indicating scissors. “Dang,” he said. “Okay, you choose.” A moment later, Matt climbed into the compartment with her. “Happy days,” he said. “I get to start out with you.”
She felt the vehicle shift as Dave climbed into the driver’s seat. She could see the back of his head now through the glass panel that separated the compartments. She saw Kathy turn her head to the right, heard her open her door to talk to someone. She climbed out.
A moment later, Kathy opened the door to the passenger compartment. “Give us a minute, Matt,” she said. When Matt had climbed out, she climbed in and lowered her voice. “Bellamy’s just called a meeting of all the scientists in town to discuss a security breach regarding the Vanderzee investigation. I have to be there at eleven.” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice even further. “But here’s the deal. He did not list your name and apparently does not know that you are with me. So you get going before anyone spots you. Just drop this drill with the Kiwi archaeologists, okay? They’ll get it to my people.”
“But how are you going to get there?”
“I’ll figure that out later. Now, go, before George figures out where to find you!” She stepped out.
Matt stuck his head in. “You want to ride up front, then?”
Valena shook her head. “You take it,” she said, thinking, I’ll hide back here where I won’t get spotted.
Five minutes later, the Pisten Bully was at the transition onto the ice, and fifteen minutes after that, they were rounding Hut Point with the broad, frozen expanse of McMurdo Sound opening out before them. Valena stared out at Mount Erebus. High stratus clouds lay in a thatch above its crystalline summit, and a long, white plume of vapors led from the crater out across the ice. The plume had grown so large and thick that it was throwing a shadow. Ten minutes more, and the vehicle stopped. She heard the driver’s door open and climbed out to see what was up.
A quarter mile to the north, a long line of broken ice rose before them. Blocks the size of automobiles lay in a rhythmic line of complex curves and blue shadows, crossing the field between them and the edge of the island.
“Do you see them?” asked Dave, suddenly quite close to her.
“See wh
at?”
He moved closer to her and extended an arm so that she could sight along it, pointing toward the blocks of ice. “The dark things. Like logs.”
“Yes…oh, they’re seals!”
“Weddells. Neat, huh? They come up through the holes made when the ice heaves. Sometimes they have their pups there.”
“What makes the ice heave like that there?”
“The Erebus Glacier Tongue. It’s a glacier that pushes off the land into the sea ice for several miles, kind of wrinkling the sea ice. Up here a ways, we have to test the ice to get around the end of it.”
“Test?”
“We don’t want to drive into a crack. The rule is, you can drive over a crack that’s a third as wide as your treads are long, but still… no need to find out the hard way whether a Pisten Bully really floats.”
They continued north along the flag route another few miles before Dave stopped the vehicle again, close enough to the end of the ice heaves that Valena could see the whiskers on the seals. They lay on their sides basking in the sun, occasionally curling a flipper.
The men got out and tested the ice, then continued around the end of the glacier tongue, and a little way farther along, the Pisten Bully left the flag route. The shore of Ross Island arched westward here, and as they approached, it resolved slowly into a long, low cliff of black rock with a small yellow shack at its foot. Valena had noticed other shacks like this one. There was one just below Hut Point and another closer to the transition.
She could see a truck parked next to the shack now, a truck with tracks. It was a Ford pickup, painted red like most of the newer vehicles around McMurdo, but its wheels had been replaced with individual tracks, one where each wheel had been.
They pulled up next to the shack. As Valena climbed out, Matt said, “This is a dive shack. Sweet, huh? Looks like we’re going to view a dive! How cool is that!”
Valena replied, “I should imagine the correct word would be ‘cold.’”
Matt hailed the occupants of the hut and they stepped inside.
Three men were rigging into dry suits and wrestling their way into layers of gloves. A fourth man assisted, lowering a string of plastic flagging down the hole, which was a two-foot-diameter bore through the ice. The floor of the shack was plywood, with a hatch centered over the hole.
“How thick is the ice here?” asked Valena.
“Ten feet,” said one of the divers. “And the water’s at twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Twenty-eight? Isn’t that below freezing?”
“It’s saltwater,” said the man. “Damn, I’m getting over-heated.” He reached into the hole and fished out a handful of slush, which he patted onto his head.
“You’re out of your mind!” said Matt.
“You don’t know how many layers of insulation I have on,” said the diver. “Enough to stay warm in twenty-eight-degree water is enough to roast in twenty-degree air, especially inside here, where there’s no wind. But if I jumped in here without this suit, I’d be dead in minutes. Head first, and the shock might kill me quicker.”
Valena asked, “What are you diving for? I mean, are you looking for specimens or something?”
“Foraminifera,” said the man. “Adamussium colbecki. They’re little—”
“Single-celled animals,” she said, completing his sentence. “My undergraduate degree is in geology. We studied them in paleontology class.”
“Well, then, your professor should have taught you to call them protists, not animals. Or single-celled creatures, or organisms. But not animals. Gah!”
Valena smiled at his chiding. “Are they just lying around on the bottom?”
“Oh, hell no. These encrust other organisms, in this case Antarctic scallops. Cheeky little devils. And they’re not so small, by foram standards; they’re in fact considered giants.”
“Why are you studying them?”
“What interests us is that they secrete a sort of superglue that works in salty water. Not to mention cold water. That glue has important medical applications. Salty human armpits are perfect for delivering drugs to humans who don’t want to deal with suppositories, but we can’t figure out how to get the meds to stick. This glue will hold the meds in place.”
Matt said, “Amazing what we learn from creatures adapted to extreme environments. Like that fellow who’s studying the Weddell seals.”
“Yes. Their diving physiology changes from pup to adult. From looking at that, he learned how their muscles change over their lifetimes, and that has relevance to human cardiac patients. And there’s a group studying the Antarctic codfish. How do they survive twenty-eight-degree water? It’s got to do with the way they metabolize salt, and also they have a natural antifreeze. Again the cardiac patients win.”
Valena asked, “Well, better you than me. You’d never get me into that water, much less down such a narrow hole.”
“Neal here just loves that part. The tighter the better for him. Once the bore is cut, it starts freezing in again, making it tighter and tighter. Of course, we didn’t bring him along because he was sane.”
Another diver grinned. “Oh, yes, we’re regular heroes. We usually just come out for the dive—forty-five minutes, at these temperatures—but the other day we got pinned down out here by that storm and had to eat the rations in our survival bags. That sure sucked.”
“Yeah,” said Neal. “Sam here snored all night. At least we had the heater and all, and the trash novels they put in the survival bags were pretty good once we figured out to read them aloud with proper theatric modifications.”
“We read parts. Henry played the part of the ingenue. He was a natural.”
“So you were out here Monday night?” asked Valena.
“Yeah, that was it. Condition 1. We weren’t expecting it for hours. Caught us with our pants down.”
“Or our dry suits, as the case may be,” said Sam.
“Notice anything strange out here Tuesday morning?” asked Valena.
“No, we just rigged up and took another dive while we waited for the weather to clear.”
“I saw something strange,” said the dive tender. “I stepped outside the shack a moment to see if the weather was clearing. Seemed to be breaking up in the west first. Anyway, I swear I saw some nut zooming by out there on the flag route. It was still snowing some, just not anywhere near so hard.”
“What was nutty about that? asked Valena. “Was he going too fast for the visibility?”
“Well, that, and he was alone,” said the tender. “Going hell-bent on a snow machine.”
“That is strange. Did you tell anyone about it?”
The man shook his head. “Nope. Henry here came up with a leak in his suit, so it sort of slipped my mind until just now, when you asked.” He laughed. “Henry’s suit was flooded clear up to his chest. I asked him if he was cold! Tell them, Henry.”
Henry said, “I told him, ‘My feet are numb, my legs are numb, and when I started to lose the feeling in my penis, I figured it’s time to come up.’”
They all laughed. Good, cold fun. All in a day’s Antarctic dive.
“That snow machine,” said Valena. “Which way was it going, and when?”
The tender said, “When did we dive, boys? About nine a.m.?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
“Yeah, so call it 9:30. He was heading south.”
“Towards McMurdo,” said Valena.
“I suppose so. I figured he was going to turn around though, because it was still snowing pretty thick over toward Hut Point.”
“What color parka?”
“Red. That’s why I could see him. Red parka, black pants, blue boots. Your basic beaker.”
Valena thought, Not just beakers wear the red parkas. She asked, “How far could you see from here?”
The dive tender thought for a moment. “Now and then, I could just make out Tent Island, very vaguely. That’s about two kilometers. An hour later, it was all but clear.”
> Sam slid into the dive hole, raised a thumbs-up, and descended out of sight. A boil of bubbles filled the opening in the ice, then subsided. Neal followed, giving a merry wave, and finally Henry.
Matt said, “Well, that’s the show, I guess. We’d better get going.”
The tender saw them to the door as they walked out to the Pisten Bully. Dave opened the shotgun door for Valena.
She stood ten feet from it, trying to decide what to do. The day before, she had ridden for hours with this man alone across the ice, but today, everything was in a jumble. She had been told point-blank not to trust him, but by someone she in turn no longer felt she could trust. And yet someone had ridden past this point heading toward the place where Steve had been found. Could that have been Dave?
Taking a deep breath, she climbed up over the treads into the shotgun seat. Matt climbed into the passenger compartment.
Dave climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled up, restarted the vehicle, and turned the vehicle into a vector that would intersect the flag route around Cape Evans.
Valena said, “Could that man on the snow machine have been Steve Myer?”
“I don’t think so. Steve was in a Challenger. Or he’d taken one out to the sea ice runway that morning, anyways.”
“But he didn’t take the Challenger to where you found him?”
“No, it was pretty near the runway galley.”
“Where exactly did you find him, Dave?”
Dave stared out through the windshield. “We passed the place before we got to the seals. Why?”
“Why’s Cupcake on your case?”
His voice came out tight and angry. “I do not know.”
“Did you say no to her once?”
He let out an ironic chuckle. “Let’s call it more than once. But that don’t separate me from the crowd.”
Valena didn’t say anything for a while.
Dave shifted uneasily in his seat. “I have a lot of respect for the Cake, but…” He let the subject drop.
In Cold Pursuit vw-1 Page 30
