Icequake

by Crawford Kilian

  The technicians went from one job to another in a flurry of swearing and grunting for a couple of weeks, while the scientists gathered data and happily quarrelled about their findings. On the night of February 20 Gordon ate supper with Reg, Simon and Tom Vernon. They grumbled, as they ate, about the futility of their work.

  “Well,” said Gordon at last, “we can piss and moan all we want to. Why the fuck don’t we do something?”

  “Any suggestions?” Simon asked.

  “Yeah. Tell you what — pass the word there’s a meeting tonight in the machine shop. Just the techs. The scientists’ll be busy impressing each other in the lounge — won’t even notice. But we gotta get our asses in gear if we want to get outa this dump.”

  An hour later most of the techs were in the machine shop, a large hut tucked in a corner of the hangar. Powder-fine snow glittered under the hangar lights, somehow driven into the station by the winds of the latest blizzard.

  “We got a problem,” Gordon began. “The fucking scientists think this mess is the luckiest thing that ever happened. They’re already counting on a couple dozen Nobel Prizes or something. They all talk about how much they want to be rescued, but they’re working their asses off — ”

  “Working our asses off, you mean,” Simon interrupted.

  “Really,” Gordon nodded. “Really. Steve Kennard and a couple others are already saying we’re sure to winter over, but they aren’t losing no sleep over it.”

  “Losing sleep other ways,” Simon said. No one laughed. Like most men in the Antarctic, the techs had little sex drive, but it was still frustrating to see other men living with women.

  “Well, hell,” Gordon went on. “What are we supposed to do? Just work all day and hope to God this fucking overgrown iceberg don’t break up under us?”

  Tom Vernon rubbed his red beard until it stood out from his face like a misplaced halo. “How are we supposed to get out of here, Gord? On skis?”

  “Shit. I’m just a goddamned stupid driller. But I know we got a good plane here — ” He gestured out the window towards the Otter. “ — And the best fucking pilot on the ice, and plenty of gas. Why can’t Al fly out towards New Byrd, set up a fuel dump and then hopscotch out to the Peninsula? Jeez, it ain’t that far. From there he could fly to South America if he had to.”

  Tom sucked his teeth. “I don’t know — sounds pretty dicey. He’d have to make a couple of trips to set up a dump — come back — fly out again — find the dump — refuel — go on without knowing what he was in for. Papa Al — he’s not crazy, Gord.”

  “Shit. Some guy flew all over the ice in a little Cessna or something, must be twenty years ago now. If he could do it, so can Al.”

  “Then, uh, why doesn’t Al suggest it?” asked George Hills.

  “He’s fucking shell-socked, that’s why. He don’t volunteer for a goddamn thing anymore. But he’ll go if he’s asked.”

  “It’s worth trying,” said Simon. “Beats sitting here with our thumbs in our bums and our brains in neutral.”

  “Let’s wait — a few days, anyway,” Tom suggested. “God — what if he went off — got pranged somewhere — and then they got down here from Chee-Chee to fly us out anyways. I’d feel pretty — pretty awful about something like that.”

  “Think how you’ll feel if we all starve together,” Gordon shot back.

  George ponderously shook his head. “It’s too early for that kinda talk, Gord. Let’s wait, like Tom says. If it really looks like the scientists want to stay no matter what, then we can go talk to Hugh.”

  “I’ll give ’em a week, and that’s all,” Gordon said. He looked grimly around the room; each of them nodded.

  *

  It was longer than a week. In a delayed reaction to the icequake, there was a rash of practical jokes. “Regular bloody silly season,” Suzy growled to Penny, who only nodded. When male inanity was so patent, it hardly bore discussing. Someone planted a large frozen trout in the snow mine; the outside monitor in the lounge was wired into the videotape player, making it seem as if the station had been transported to the American West. But most of the gags were less imaginative: sugar in the salt shakers, ice in sleeping bags. Ben Whitcumb’s clothes vanished one morning while he was house-mouse; they turned up next day in a corner of the hangar, frozen into a solid lump.

  The day after that particular gag, Hugh was up early having a cup of coffee in the mess hall with Penny. No one else was up yet.

  “Haven’t seen much of Ben lately,” he remarked.

  “He hardly ever comes out of his room these days unless he has to,” Penny said. “Sometimes Max has to take him a sandwich because he won’t even come in for a meal. It’s that schmuck Gordon.”

  “Mm. Riding him pretty hard, isn’t he?”

  “You ought to do something about it, Hugh. Gordon bothers Jeanne too.”

  “Ah, that I didn’t know. How?”

  “He’s always making eyes at her, touching her, that kind of thing. Not when Will’s around, though.”

  “Well… he’s always chaffing you, too.”

  “That’s just it!” Her own intensity startled her. “He clowns around with me, and it’s a pain in the ass, but it isn’t serious. With Jeanne it’s — groping. Scary.”

  “Does Will realise it?”

  “I don’t think so, no.” She cut him off before he could speak. “And don’t just groan about the folly of letting women on the ice, Hugh. Gordon’s the problem, not Jeanne or me. He’d be a problem anywhere.”

  Hugh said nothing for a moment. “Well, we’ll sort it out.”

  *

  That same morning Carter Benson sat down in Don Treadwell’s closet-sized office and carefully went over the food inventory Don had prepared for him.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Carter said quietly.

  “I know,” Don agreed. “There just isn’t enough food for a whole winter and maybe part of the spring. Not unless we go on rationin’.”

  “Then we will, of course. But it’ll depress everybody. Might even be dangerous. Damn it, you need four thousand calories a day just to cope with the cold, let alone anything in it.”

  “In winter? We won’t be doin’ much outside work.”

  “Fair enough. Unless there’s an emergency.”

  Don’s smile was wry. “An emergency? Here? You’re jokin’.”

  Carter’s round face went pink. “Yes — silly thought, isn’t it? What could happen? Anyway, thanks for the inventory. I’ll talk to Hugh about it. You coming to breakfast?”

  “Sure.”

  Each of them sat down to scrambled eggs, a small steak, fried potatoes, baked apples and four slices of whole-wheat toast with butter and orange marmalade. Halfway through his meal, Carter lost his appetite. He went on eating until his tray was empty; it seemed to take a long time. Don, usually a hearty eater, was equally slow. When they took their trays back to the kitchen, they stopped and watched Penny and Suzy scraping mounds of food off other trays and into the garbage hole.

  “What’s the matter with you two?” Suzy smiled. “Something you ate?”

  *

  Steve went quietly into Hugh’s room. It was a little larger than the bunkhouse cubicles, but seemed cramped and cluttered by filing cabinets, crowded bookshelves and a desk strewn with old print-outs. Hugh was sitting up in bed, a notebook propped against his knees.

  “Hullo, Steve. Have a seat.”

  Steve settled into the swivel chair by Hugh’s desk and crossed his arms. Hugh noted the uncertainty in the gesture. “How are you feeling these days?” Steve asked.

  “Much better, thanks. I wish I didn’t tire so easily. But each day’s an improvement on the last. How’s life treating you?”

  “All right. I’m working too hard, but it’s all fun.”

  “You know, I do believe you’re already wintering over.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?” Steve smiled. “Don’t tell me the plane’s waiting outside!”

  “There’s bugger-
all outside… Look, old son. You seem to’ve adjusted faster than most of us to this pickle we’re in. Are you aware of the morale problems we’re developing?”

  “Yes. There’s not enough public bitching.”

  “Mm! A lot of it going on in private, though. Have you given any thought to what it would be like to winter over with most of us living like monks and some of us — ”

  “God, yes.”

  “Terry and Suzy — no problem, everyone’s used to them, and Terry’s still in sick bay anyway. But these romances you and Will have got yourselves involved in — they’re bothering some of the fellows.”

  “I know. Ben Whitcumb can hardly stay in the same room with Penny. And Gordon’s jealous of Will, and takes it out on Ben.”

  “Ah… D’you suppose you and Will could, mm, suspend your liaisons till we’re out of here?”

  “I can’t speak for Will. For myself, no.”

  There was silence. Steve went on: “First, I like Pen very much. We’ve been through a lot together.”

  “Fair enough — ”

  “Second, and more important, if we stop living together somebody else — maybe two or three of the men — will be tempted to try moving in on her. The same would be true of Jeanne if Will left her. If we start fighting over women, there really will be a murder.”

  “Well, then,” Hugh nodded ruefully, “what do we do?”

  “We keep as busy as possible. And we get Gordon off Ben’s back.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  *

  After dinner that evening Hugh called Gordon in to discuss some of the technical aspects of repairing the radio masts. He listened attentively to Gordon’s complaints about the time required to get the drilling rig operating again.

  “I can see your point,” Hugh said. “But I think you should press on with the rig before starting on the masts. After all, we might get through with the jury-rig antenna Bruce is using now, and the Kiwis might even fly in without a radio contact. The bloody weather makes working on the masts almost impossible anyway. But the drilling rig is really important, and I think you’ve done miracles with the repairs so far. Nobody else could’ve done so much, so fast.”

  “Well, it’s what I know how to do,” Gordon shrugged, agreeably flattered. “And, uh, if you think the rig’s important — ”

  “Christ, yes.”

  “Okay, don’t worry about a thing. Another two-three days and we can start opening the hole again. Then I can go to work on the masts, and they shouldn’t take more’n, oh — two, two and a half days.”

  “By God, that’s the best news I’ve had in a long time. Excellent!”

  “Say, Hugh — long as I’m here — you thought any about maybe sending Al out again? Like to New Byrd Station?”

  “No — certainly not in this weather. Al hasn’t suggested it, has he?”

  “No, no. Just an idea some of the guys been kicking around.”

  “Mm, well, I’ll certainly think hard about it now you’ve raised the suggestion. By the way: there’s one more thing I wanted to get your advice on. Bit delicate, and I think you’re the fellow to take care of it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Some of the younger fellows are giving our American friend Ben a bit of a rough time. They look up to you, you know. Think you could put the brakes on ’em? Just a little?”

  “Well, uh, well — ”

  “You’re an old hand on the ice. You know how important good morale is — now of all times.”

  “Sure, Hugh. Sure, I understand. Well, I’ll do whatever I can. Just leave it to me.”

  “Good. That’s a load off my mind.”

  *

  The drilling rig went back into operation, but getting even one of the masts up was impossible: during the last week of February and the first week of March, Colin’s instruments never recorded still air. Average wind velocity was 62 k.p.h., with a high of 180, and the temperature never rose above -30°C. There was almost no respite from the resulting whiteout. In such conditions, outside work had to be done in five-or ten-minute bursts, followed by half an hour of rest and warmth.

  Hugh invented scores of new inside jobs, and kept everyone too busy to worry. The nightly seminars became twenty minutes of brief weather reports, duty assignments and idle speculation about the outside world; those who were still awake after that rarely lasted long enough to get in more than an hour’s drinking and Monopoly.

  On the evening of March 10 the seminar was even more perfunctory than usual; its only surprise was Colin’s prediction of clear weather for the 11th. As everyone was about to adjourn for a beer or bed, Ben Whitcumb stood up and cleared his throat.

  “I’ve got a suggestion,” he said.

  Carter was presiding. “Sure, Ben. Let’s hear it.”

  “We seem to’ve given up reconnaissance flights since the second trip to McMurdo. I know the weather’s been pretty bad, but we’ve had a few good days. Colin’s just said we’re due for another good one tomorrow.”

  “Where d’you wanna go, Ben — Hawaii?” Ray Crandall asked.

  “How about New Byrd?” Ben answered. “It’s not all that far — ”

  “Eight hundred kilometres,” Al interrupted through a cloud of cigar smoke.

  “Okay. That’s in range; the Otter’s got extra fuel capacity. New Byrd — it’s a big station, three times our size. If they’re okay, they’ll have plenty of fuel for Al to get back on.”

  “And if they’re not okay, I can walk home,” Al muttered.

  “Say, that’s a pretty good idea,” Gordon said. “Y’know, Al could even refuel and go on to the Peninsula. Then we’d be sure of getting evacuated before winter.”

  Though Gordon had been leaving him alone lately, Ben didn’t look pleased with his new ally. “Hey, I’m only suggesting a reconnaissance, not a flight across the whole doggone continent. For all we know, New Byrd is wrecked, just like Amundsen-Scott. But there might be some help for us, or help we can give them.”

  Carter looked uncomfortable; Hugh, sitting up on a couch, impassively stroked his moustache.

  “Ben,” Steve asked, “what’s the best result you can foresee from this flight?” His face was as inexpressive as Hugh’s.

  “Uh, I guess a quick evacuation, if they’re intact and they’ve got a big enough plane. Or radio conditions could be better there, and they could call in help for us.”

  “What if the station’s wrecked, but there are survivors? Does Al bring them back here?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just wish I could’ve got those guys off Observatory Hill,” Al put in. “Sure I bring ’em back, Steve. What’s your point?”

  Steve turned to Don Treadwell. “How’s our food holding out, Don? Have we got enough to last until spring?”

  “Well now, that’s kind of, ah, hard to say, you know?” Don looked at Carter, who nodded slightly. “If we stay at normal rates of consumption, we will be out of food by the end of September. And we won’t be eatin’ well in August.”

  “Suppose we got eight or ten new people?” Steve asked quickly.

  “Then we are out of food almost two months earlier. The middle of winter.”

  “Steve, are you suggesting that we just forget about helping anyone who needs help?” Al asked.

  “No, I’m not. But we’d better be aware of the consequences.”

  “Steve sounds like a convert to Dynamic Self-Reliance,” Carter remarked dryly. There was a flutter of laughter. “Ah, he has — he’s raised a point I’ve been meaning to bring up soon anyway. We’re going to have to start rationing. It’s a hell of a note, but it’s the only way we’re likely to get through to spring.”

  “The implication,” Ben said, “is that you don’t want Al to fly anywhere if he might bring back inconvenient people.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Carter snapped. “Don’t be pig-headed. If there were a hundred people at New Byrd, we’d take ’em all, and you know it. And we’d eat the bloody sweet peas in the g
reenhouse if we had to.”

  “Carter’s right, Ben,” Steve said. “The problem with a flight is the risk of losing Al and the plane.”

  “Great!” snarled Gordon. “We got a plane, but we can’t use it. That makes sense.”

  There was a moment’s silence before Hugh spoke. “There’ll be no flight to New Byrd. The risk is too great for the benefit we might get out of it. And now I suggest we adjourn.”

  *

  That night Penny picked a fight with Steve as they lay in bed.

  “You didn’t need to cross-examine the poor jerk. You could’ve just said what Hugh did.”

  He lay very still beside her in the darkness. “Ben was getting support from Gordon, and Gordon represents almost half the people here. He could have talked the rest of us into the idea, before we all understood what we were getting into.”

  “I still think it was crummy of you.”

  Steve turned away from her, and she automatically moved with him to keep close to his warmth. It was hard to stay combative when her breasts touched the hard, smooth skin of his back, but she worked at it.

  “Pen, you don’t understand. Ben’s idea is a good one. But it’s too risky. If we knew there were survivors at New Byrd, I’d volunteer to go with Al to help load ’em aboard. Gordon doesn’t give a damn about that; he just wants to get out, and Ben’s suggestion was a smokescreen for him.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with getting out, may I ask?”

  He sighed. “Even if Al could get all the way to the Peninsula, and then get in touch with home, there’s no chance now that we could be reached until September or October, especially with this weather and no radio. Then we’d be stuck here with no plane and no pilot; what if a real emergency breaks out during the winter? How could we get anyone out?”

  “You’re talking complete bullshit. First, you don’t know that we can’t be reached until spring. Hell, it isn’t even winter yet, and they’ve been making winter flights down here for twenty years. Second, this is a real emergency. How could things get so bad that we’d have to send Al for help? And if they did get that bad — like the island was breaking up or something — what chance would he have of getting anywhere?”