“Not my call, John,” Ruger responded. “Besides, I’ve got my own camera equipment.”
Lightfoot leaned back. “So I hear.”
Just like I said, Ruger thought. No secrets in Antarctica.
The last day Field Team Ruger had spent on The Ice, he had taken a roll of photographs of the crevasse he’d discovered up on the western slope of the glacier. Ruger hadn’t told anybody, including Dr. Grimes, that he had taken pictures of the deep crevasse. The shots included the westernmost extended part of the crevasse opening. The photographs came out good, clearly showing the sheerness of the wall which was studded with debris all the way up the eastern side. Ruger had developed the roll himself, using the photo lab with the permission of the Navy lab technician. He didn’t think the man had seen the prints, as the technician had only been in and out of the lab and didn’t seem much interested. But the man must have noticed them. Probably innocently mentioned it to Lightfoot, who was always in and out of the lab himself. But by now, Ruger’s photographs should have been confiscated along with the artifacts. Obviously, not everybody knew Ruger had taken them.
“What are the pictures of, Mike?” Lightfoot inquired candidly.
This S.O.B. is a pain in the ass, Ruger thought. “Nothing of any interest to National Geo, John. Just some pictures of the field up on the glacier. Thought Grimes might want them.”
“Grimes doesn’t know you have them,” Lightfoot replied.
Ruger was silent, and sipped his coffee. “I didn’t offer them to him yet.”
Lightfoot slouched into the chair. “Level with me, Mike. You know something’s out there and so do I. Word has it that it’s alien. You know, Martian shit.” He sipped his coffee. “Although I find that hard to accept. I don’t believe in that sort of crap. You know?”
“Neither do I,” Ruger replied, then wished he hadn’t responded.
“But you found something pretty important,” Lightfoot continued, “or else the feds wouldn’t have taken it away from Hilly. Structural pieces, I heard.”
Amazing, Ruger thought. Over the past several months this guy has even hardly had a conversation with me about anything, and all of a sudden he’s acting like a long lost friend. Go pound ice up your butt, Lightfoot.
“Our guys lose a spacecraft or satellite or something?” Lightfoot asked. “That what you found?”
Ruger leaned back in the chair. “Look, John,” he said. “I’ll level with you. The whole base knows what we found. Nobody knows what it’s from. They took it all away. I could care less. Now, if you need any more information than that, go ask Jimmy Morrison.”
“Yeah, right,” Lightfoot replied disgustedly. Ruger was right. That’s where he’d just come from. And Morrison probably told him the same thing. Go pound ice.
Jim Morrison, the Base Manager, might give out government information. Lightfoot thought he might as well ask Dr. Bryson again for a roll in the hay. She was walking towards them. Mike Ruger turned around and watched her approaching the table.
It was no big secret around McMurdo that Mike Ruger was the chosen one. He had, on more than one occasion, screwed the beautiful Dr. Allison Bryson. “The Big German Bastard”, as the “unchosen” ones were jealously calling Ruger behind his back. They all had a case for her. But it was easy to get enamored. She was a real beauty, and the remoteness of the base—where all women looked great sooner or later to desperate men—had nothing to do with it. No secrets in Antarctica. Especially on a base like McMurdo where the cold metal walls echoed like a chamber if you wanted to put your ears close to them and listen long enough.
But nobody was ever going to blame Mike Ruger. In a land such as Antarctica where every human body, male and female alike, is kept perpetually wrapped in clothing, a lot gets left to the imagination as to what lies underneath. Bryson had to have one hell of a body, and it was the general consensus of the male population that she did. They all envied “The Big German Bastard” because he was apparently the only one ever to find out. Lightfoot like the rest had tried, but she was totally turned off by everybody except Ruger.
Lightfoot watched her approaching. Her long, black hair glistened, and Lightfoot thought that she must have just showered this morning for it to look so clean. God, what I’d give to see that. As she neared the table, Ruger smiled. Lightfoot got up, offering her the chair next to him.
“I’ll sit here, John. Thanks,” she said, pulling up the chair next to Ruger.
“Hello, Allison,” Ruger said, smiling.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she replied, looking at Lightfoot.
There was a moment of silence. Lightfoot sensed her body language. Hit the road.
Lightfoot stared her down, then leaned forward. “Maybe you can tell me what’s going on around here, Allison. Mike won’t tell me anything.”
Dr. Bryson looked back at him. “Why, John. How would I know? I have my own research to worry about.” Bryson, along with Drs. Darriel Marsden and Olaf Andreassen were conducting marine research along McMurdo Sound coastline as part of a joint international project.
Lightfoot snickered, an annoying habit which was probably one of the reasons people disliked him so much. He always seemed to be looking down on people, as if he knew so much more than you. “Oh, well,” he replied, gesturing surrender with his arms. “I might as well go ahead and ask Jimmy Morrison,” he said to Ruger. “Besides, Allison,” he said as he got up to leave. “You have lust in your eyes.” He walked away, snickering again.
“I can’t stand that man,” she said angrily, visibly annoyed by Lightfoot’s arrogance.
Ruger smiled. “That’s what he wants you to do. Get annoyed. Works on you every time, Allie.” He called her that when nobody was around.
She looked into his face. He said, “You’re not so beautiful when you’re angry, you know.”
“Why doesn’t he just leave?”
Mike Ruger watched Lightfoot disappear through the door, closing it behind him. “Because he’s a journalist. And he senses a story. And he’s probably right. Can’t take the man to task for that.”
“Stop defending him,” she said in a huff.
“I’m not. I can’t stand the bastard either.”
“He canceled his seat out, you know,” she said.
Ruger looked up. “No. I didn’t know that. He wants to go out on The Ice with me.”
“You’re not taking him, are you?”
“I guess that’s where he’s going now. Back to beg Morrison to let him go along.”
She took him by the arm. “Mike?” she asked, seriously. “What were those things you brought back? I really am curious, you know. Really.”
“Don’t know,” he replied honestly, shrugging his shoulders.
“Don’t play games with me,” she implored. “You don’t have to, you know. You know I wouldn’t tell anybody.”
He touched her warm hands. “I know that. If I knew what they were, I’d tell you of all people. But I really don’t. Honest.”
She looked into his blue eyes. She believed him. Mike Ruger wasn’t capable of telling lies. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t falling in love with him. It had to be the remoteness. Nonetheless, Mike Ruger was a kind, gentle man on the inside. Quite a contrast to the rough exterior which was tougher than The Ice itself. But Allison Bryson knew she had reached the summit of Mike Ruger’s emotions. His mistresses would always be the wildernesses of the world. But she had probably gotten much closer than anyone ever had.
She playfully tugged at his arms. “Are they alien like everybody says?”
God, you’re a beautiful woman, Allie, Ruger thought, inwardly responding to the warm feeling rushing through his body. “They say they are. I don’t know anymore than that.”
“You’re going back out. There must be something to it.”
“I would imagine that’s true,” he said. “And I’m only going because they gave me a good offer. I couldn’t turn it down.”
“You don’t need money, Mike Ruger
. Don’t fool me. You sense adventure.”
He smiled. “I guess so.”
“Who’s the team coming from the States?” she asked.
Ruger raised his eyebrow, teasing her more. “How’d you know that already?” He’d just found out himself less than an hour ago.
“Darriel told me.”
“How did she know?”
“Morrison told her.”
He let out a subtle laugh. “These government guys think they’ve got some top secret project here. They’re in for a big surprise.”
“When are they due?”
“This afternoon. They’re flying them in special along the New Zealand route for some reason. Plane’s supposed to stop, I pile in with all the gear, and we head right out to the Mulock. Put ‘em down right where I left off with Hilly’s gang.”
“They looking for more alien artifacts?”
“I suppose so,” he replied. “I presume they’re going to try to find the source. I would.” Ruger smiled.
It took her a moment to catch on. “You’ve already found it, haven’t you?” she asked quietly.
He felt the warmth again emanating from her body through her hands. She looked at his face, which still held the same expression. “Maybe,” he replied just as quietly, the smile transparent behind the mask.
“You’re a shit, Ruger. You know that?”
“Sure. Want to do it?”
“They’re the pictures you were developing in the lab, weren’t they?”
Ruger sat back. “For Christ’s sake, Allie. Is there anybody who doesn’t know what goes on around here?”
She snuggled closer to him, and Ruger knew that everybody in the lounge was enviously watching from a distance, if only out of the corners of their eyes. “There are some things not everybody knows,” she whispered in his ear.
Don’t kid yourself, he wanted to say, but knew better not to. Especially to a woman. Ruger smiled at her. The brilliant Dr. Bryson was indeed beautiful. But then again her naiveté…well, it was probably one of the things that attracted him so much to her. If he was ever going to fall in love with a woman…
“So, what’s new with your research?’ he said, surprising her with the sudden change of subject.
“I thought you wanted to do it?”
He blushed. She loved the way he did that.
“Nothing’s new,” she replied. “We’re setting up the parameters for the next phase. April through October. Wish I was staying on a little longer this year. Not because of you, of course,” she lied.
“Why’d you have to say that?” he said, knowing she was teasing him.
“Because it’s true. You might meet somebody else.”
They both laughed. The population of the whole continent in another month would be down to only ten percent of the present population. There would just be a skeleton crew at McMurdo, mostly support personnel. It was an intimate joke between them. At least they could both laugh about their relationship. Both knew their boundaries and limitations. The perfect arrangement for a land such as Antarctica.
Ruger and Bryson hadn’t even noticed that Dr. Darriel Marsden and Dr. Olaf Andreassen had come into the club and were approaching the table. Both were sitting down before they realized it.
“Good morning, Michael,” Dr. Marsden said, cheerful as always. She was an older woman, and Ruger always thought she looked too matronly to be out here on the continent doing scientific research. But he liked her. She was nice person. Dr. Andreassen, on the other hand, was a grump who was quite a few years younger than his research compatriot. The two of them were constantly in each other’s company. He and Allison had often speculated about whether they had an intimate relationship. If they did, that was the best kept secret in Antarctica.
“Good morning, Darriel,” Ruger replied. “Dr. Andreassen,” he said, acknowledging the doctor like everybody did, never using his first name.
“Before I forget, Allison,” Dr. Marsden said. “Jimmy Morrison wants you over in his office. Says its important.”
“Right now?”
“Uh-huh. Said its urgent.”
As she got up, Ruger cast a glance. Lightfoot was right. She did have lust in her eyes.
“See you in a few, Mike,” she said, a signal that Ruger was to come by her quarters in a little while. He had time, and smiled back.
“Maybe he’s sending you out on The Ice with me,” Ruger called jokingly across the room.
“Very funny,” she replied as she walked away toward the door.
Both Mike Ruger and Dr. Allison Bryson were in for a big surprise. Major General William Korbett did indeed have many friends over at the National Science Foundation. But sometimes even he had to pay back some of the favors. And sometimes he didn’t know what form those favors would take.
10:30 A.M.
McMURDO STATION
ADMINISTRATION COMPLEX
John Lightfoot emerged from the cavernous complex of aluminum shells and stepped into the face of a frigid wind that several hours ago had begun howling like a wild banshee across the white carpet of ice. Tiny pieces of fine white crystals—called diamond dust—stung his face reminding him he had forgotten to don his woolen mask in his excitement to get over to the communications center. Lightfoot turned his face away from the wind, twisting his neck as far as he could manage inside the furry hood of his parka. Already, ice crystals were forming a coating on his thick beard.
It was a relatively short walk to the main complex of Quonset huts where the administrative building housed the communications center. But in temperatures of minus fifteen degrees, the walk could seem like an eternity. The sun, which had been shining continuously for the past four months, loomed precariously just above the horizon, enshrouded by an ethereal glow that seemed to diminish its life-giving power over the desolate land beneath it. Lightfoot shuddered, not bothering to wonder if his reaction to the cold was from the icy wind penetrating his clothing or his subconscious humility. He had been photographing this land for three months. It was a humbling experience.
Even though the population of McMurdo still numbered about twelve hundred, Lightfoot at the moment was the only human in sight. Off in the distance toward the polar observatory, he heard the whining of a snowmobile, probably one of the astronomers checking out the facility about a half mile away. They were setting up for their long stay over the winter when they could observe continuously because the sun wouldn’t be shining for about five months.
He turned to look toward the observatory, a distinct dark silhouette against a bluish terrain. He’d gone out there on occasion to photograph the impressive telescope complex as part of his assignment. It was incredible how the terrain was so different in just the distance of a half mile. On an overcast day—such as today and the last time he was out there—the darkness, lack of contrast, and the icing up of your goggles made the visibility almost nil as you zipped along on the snowmobile. And when the wind picked up blowing the diamond dust around, you could easily inadvertently wander off the well-trodden path that led to the observatory. The sastrugi would then get you for sure, and more than one astronomer had admitted to driving a station snowmobile into the deep sastrugi ruts that hadn’t been there the day before.
Turning his head back toward the administration complex, Lightfoot quickened his pace. By human reckoning, Antarctica might be a place of isolation, but the isolation was certainly not absolute. The human footprint was indelibly imprinted. Off to his left, the industrial sprawl of McMurdo was evident. He recalled the first time he had experienced that. It had stopped him in his tracks. A rather large scale junkyard and a still-fuming garbage dump were omni-present to grab even the most disconcerted observer. It was a sad commentary on the level of activity that had been here at McMurdo for the past several decades. Moving into the new millennia didn’t change a thing. They’d promised to clean it up, and Lightfoot had made sure that his portfolio was filled with enough depictions of the smoldering dump. You had to put it all into perspective,
though. McMurdo was a human haven for scientists, laborers and adventurers alike—all of them vying for control over this most mysterious of lands that reeked with desolation and beckoned like the call of a temptress simply because it was there.
Lightfoot turned onto the last leg of his jaunt and scurried down the ramp through the doors of the administration complex. Once inside the aluminum plated foyer, he waited until the door was securely latched before removing his goggles. It was quite a bit warmer in here—probably in the upper twenties—but relatively cozy because the wind wasn’t dropping the chill factor.
It took a minute to walk the length of the hallway tunnel where he entered the more hospitable area of the human comfort zone. The communications center was always a bustle of activity. Antarctica has no telephone lines. All communications are accomplished via satellite. Unfortunately, the placement of satellites into orbit around the Earth are at the mercy of celestial mechanics. The Earth spins on its axis much like a top spins on the floor. Satellites that are placed directly overhead in a polar orbit—circling from north pole to south pole along longitudinal lines—would only be available for short periods of time before they would quickly pass out of range below the horizon. As it is, the most efficient orbital pattern can be achieved closer to the equatorial plane, which results in communications satellites moving closer to parallel along the latitudinal line. It optimizes the time period when communications are available. But unfortunately, the link-up is typically still only available for a few hours per day. And these few hours are crucial to the residents. Everybody is continually vying for time to transmit outgoing messages and research data. Fortunately, the Internet has a good link, and a lot of communication activity is maximized.
Like everything else in this land of isolation, even outgoing communications are prioritized, and John Lightfoot knew it. The center’s administrator—a congenial fellow named Gittleman—had been very accommodating to Lightfoot over the past few months. A lot of data had been sent back to the editorial office in Washington, but Lightfoot never had to “jump line” to get his data ahead of other priorities. There simply wasn’t the need because Lightfoot’s deadline was long-term and never needed to be time-tested. But Lightfoot had a priority now. It didn’t matter that the agenda didn’t fit the magazine’s. Nobody would know the difference anyway. Abuse of privilege was the name of the game to survive in this business.
The Nexus Colony Page 9
