by Hannah Ross
Zoe wrinkled her nose. "They know bugger all about how to make decent soufflé. They really should try my recipe - it only contains three ingredients, it's vegan, and it always turns out well."
Scott was not that exacting. He was pleased enough with his soufflé, though it was a little too dense, and took a second helping before heading back upstairs. He was never told so explicitly, but he assumed he had today off for settling in and resting after his journey, and he really needed a nap, a feeling that was probably exacerbated by his morning dose of Aquavit. There was nothing pressing on the agenda until dinner, when he was supposed to meet Lindholm again.
He heaved the backpack off his bed, briefly checked his email - no messages - kicked off his shoes, pulled the blind partially down the single window, and crawled in under the blanket. The bed, for all its Spartan look, was warm and cozy and clean-smelling, and he fell asleep within minutes.
He woke up much refreshed and a bit disoriented. The light outside the window told him little about the time of the day - at this season, it was all pretty much one long day on Ross Island, with only a short spell of bright twilight by night - but a look at his watch made it clear that it is only four o'clock in the afternoon, and thus there's plenty of time to go until dinner. He decided to spend the remaining hour unpacking.
All of a sudden, he heard his cell phone beep with an email alert. It was a message from Anders Lindholm. 'Hello, Buck,' it read. 'I hope you're settling in and enjoying your first day at McMurdo. If you don't mind, I'd like you to join me for dinner in my quarters at 18:00. It's vegetarian paella at the galley tonight, so I can assure you you'll be a gainer. Let me know as soon as you can. Anders.'
There was only one possible answer to such a message, of course. Scott promptly emailed back his assurance that he would be most happy to join Mr. Lindholm for dinner, and got to unpacking. There wasn't that much to do, and well before the appointed hour all his belongings were tucked away at their appropriate places, with his shaving gel and razor in the bathroom, and his and Brianna's framed photograph on the little desk.
Anders Lindholm's quarters weren't in building 155, but in another, smaller living compound not far off. Scott had no difficulty finding his way. He had had a slight inner debate over what he should wear, and eventually decided that here at McMurdo, simple work attire would do. He had packed a lone tie for formal occasions, but it would look ridiculous combined with the orange parka.
Lindholm was already waiting for him, and rubbed his hands with satisfaction at his punctuality - the clock showed precisely 18:00 when Scott knocked on the door.
"You're on excellent time. Everything is about ready. I'm just taking the potatoes out of the oven."
Lindholm's quarters were no nest of luxury – just like Scott, he commanded an area which was living room and bedroom combined, and a kitchen that was no more than a little nook. In fact, the room looked even smaller than it actually was, due to a pile of cardboard boxes that occupied one corner.
"The accumulated possessions of three decades," Lindholm said, noticing his glance. "Somehow these things add up, even when one lives as minimalistic a lifestyle as Pam and I had. And, mind you, after her passing I weeded out half our stuff. Hang on, I'll check on the sauce... yes. Everything is in order. Come along into the kitchen."
The little kitchen table was simply and neatly set for two. A pan of something delicious-smelling was bubbling on the electric stove, which Lindholm proceeded to turn off. He picked up a ladle and a plate.
"Swedish meatballs," he said, "I hope you like them. I made them myself – it was always my prime dish, but Pam used to make them far better."
"Do you often cook?" Scott asked, accepting the plate from Lindholm and sitting down. Lindholm took a thick glove and pulled a tray of sliced, savory-smelling baked potatoes out of the oven. He slid a heap of the crisp golden-brown wedges onto each of their plates, along with the meatballs.
"Mmm. This looks excellent, if I do say so myself. Do I often cook? Whenever the mood strikes me. I started doing it more frequently after I lost Pam. Going down to eat at the galley was too much for me, and after a while I got tired of sandwiches and canned noodle soup. Cooking turned out to be therapeutic. Mind my words, young man - whenever you are feeling down, throw something on the stove, even if it’s just a couple of eggs with tomatoes and garlic. It will make things seem better at once. Well, and why aren't you eating? Your food will get cold."
Scott cut a meatball in half, put one of the halves into his mouth, and chewed slowly. "The best Swedish meatballs I've ever tasted," he said.
Lindholm smiled. "I hope you aren't just saying this to flatter me. There's no need to, you know - you've already got the position, and I will be gone in a matter of weeks."
"No, no, I mean it," Scott started on another meatball. "I'm fond of cooking myself. Brianna and I met over an Italian cooking weekend course. My sister had bought me the voucher for my birthday."
"By the way," Lindholm said, as if recalling something, "if you want to have these quarters when I'm gone, you're very welcome to, you know. They are slightly larger than the ones you were given, I think."
"Thank you, but I'm perfectly comfortable - I don't have a lot of things, you know. And," he heaved a sigh, "I'm not sure at all that my wife will actually come."
Lindholm gave an understanding nod. "She will eventually, I think," he said. "It might take her some time. A lot of people overwinter here without their families. It's tough, but you pull through if you have enough to keep you busy, as I'm sure you will. Speaking of," he got up for another helping of meatballs, "I hope you're settling in?"
"Oh yes, thank you. I'm all unpacked and rested, and ready to begin my duties tomorrow."
"I'm glad to hear it. You're going to have to do a lot of learning about all the nitty gritty of running the station, supply sheets, personnel data, and so on. Victor will be a great help with that, he knows it all through and through. But the first thing will be to get you through the safety course. I have you scheduled for it first thing tomorrow morning, and it will probably take the first half of your day. You will learn about surviving in field camps, hiking, safety precautions when driving a snowmobile or flying in a helicopter, and so on. It's common sense, for the most part, but that's the procedure - without it, you won't be allowed to leave the research station."
"Of course," Scott nodded. "I'm looking forward to getting out and about when I can, and dabbing a bit at my independent research, but... is this urgent? Not that I mean to question your judgment," he hastened to add, "but I rather thought that my job will be mostly done here at the office."
Lindholm looked thoughtful. "That is true," he admitted. "Officially, you aren't part of any research team or support staff, but..." he trailed off, but fell silent and instead proceeded to collect his plates and dump them in the tiny sink. Then, with a gesture, he invited Scott to get up and follow him to the tiny sitting area in the living room. He opened a little cabinet and, unsurprisingly, pulled out a bottle and two glasses.
"Just a little bit, if you don't mind," Scott said apprehensively, noticing that it's a cognac of a label he wasn't familiar with. He really felt he had had enough strong liquor for one day.
Not heeding him, Anders Lindholm filled both their glasses to the brim, raised his in salute, and took a contented sip. "The only thing that's lacking right now is a good cigar," he said confidentially. "I have a box of excellent cigars here, but smoking in any of the living or working areas is out of the question."
"I don't smoke, but I won't mind if you do."
"Thank you, but the smoke detectors would be upon me at once. And I hate the little public smoking areas. When I get to California, I'm going to enjoy a cigar on the front porch of my beach house every night." Lindholm took another sip of cognac, and Scott did as well.
"Thank you for the dinner," he said.
"My pleasure," Lindholm nodded. "So, as I was saying, Buck, you aren't part of a research team, and yes, most of y
our work will involve sitting your rear end on the office chair and plowing through reports and numbers, but you are the overseer, the all-encompassing coordinator at McMurdo, and there are... some things you need to see with your own eyes in order to get a clear picture."
Scott wasn't quite following the thread. "You mean things outside the station, sir?"
"Anders, please. Yes, that's just what I mean. And, as the retiring overseer – as the one who is passing the torch to you, so to speak – I feel it my duty to do the showing and explaining myself. It will be my last important task at McMurdo. We will set out right after you get your clearance from the safety department - that is, tomorrow."
"Where will we go?"
"To field camp AN-85. That's an hour and a half or so away by helicopter. You could plow there with a snowmobile in nice weather, but I'm no longer fit to do that. A chopper is a must for old bones like mine."
"Do I need to pack anything?"
"Nothing at all. It is to be a short tour, and we'll go back on the same day. We'll be a small party – just you and I and the pilot."
Scott nodded. "And... I take this is important?" he asked.
Lindholm nodded. "Very much so. It has to do with the secrecy clause in your contract."
Scott didn't quite understand, but nodded anyway. He knew there was some classified research going on in the areas of Antarctica claimed by the United States, and he certainly had no objection to taking a peek at it – it was, after all, his own field of expertise. He felt a surge of excitement.
"I will look forward to this."
"You definitely should. It's... well, there is no use trying to explain. You have to see it with your own eyes. And remember, Buck – the safety course starts at 7:30 AM, so be sure to get your breakfast early."
Chapter 5
Having consumed his portion of fried eggs, bacon, toast and coffee by 7:00 AM, Scott took a leisurely circuit to the lecture hall, and found a seat by 7:15. There were three other new employees – a computer technician, a paramedic and a geologist, with whom he exchanged a few polite words before the course began.
The material was pretty dry but efficiently presented, with due consideration for the people's time. He learned about the dangers of hypothermia and sun reflection, the importance of sunscreen and sunglasses, and what to do if one of the team members gets frostbite on a field trip. By noon, having received the safety clearance stamp, Scott walked out of the lecture hall, his head buzzing with facts and rules. This was a mere formality, though - to understand and appreciate field conditions, one would need to have a taste of them, which he was about to do.
He glanced at his watch. Lindholm was sure to be waiting for him at the helicopter pad already, but he wasn't quite sure where to go. Just as he was about to whip out his staff guide and take a look at the station map, however, Victor Nash appeared in front of him as if from nowhere.
"Hello. I take it that you have completed the morning course? Mr. Lindholm and the pilot are waiting for you."
With brisk and polite efficiency, Nash pointed him in the direction of the helicopter pad, set him on his way, and wished him a good journey. It wasn't until he disappeared from view that Scott stopped to ask himself why Nash, who was supposed to be Lindholm's - and now his - right hand, wasn't included in the field trip. He briefly wondered how Nash himself felt about this. There was certainly nothing hostile in his demeanor, but there was nothing friendly either. The man simply gave off no vibes at all, which was a little disconcerting.
Not that there was any use or, indeed, any time to think about it - the helicopter was within view, and two figures in orange parkas were standing next to it. One, long and pale and lanky, was Anders Lindholm. The other, black, squat and square-shouldered, Scott presumed to be the pilot.
"Glad to see you found your way alright, Buck," Lindholm said by way of greeting him.
"I was a little confused there for a moment, but Victor Nash showed me the way. I had assumed he would be joining us," Scott added after a brief moment's hesitation.
"Someone has got to stay behind and take care of running the station," Lindholm said. "A lot can happen, even in a couple of hours. Well, up you get, Buck - we have all the necessary equipment, sunglasses and so on, with us. Stan, this is Scott Buckley, who will shortly be taking over from me. Buck, this is Stanley Hyman, our very capable pilot. We are in exceptionally good hands today."
"Nice to meet you," said Stan, briefly gripping Scott's fingers. "You're in luck - the weather is great for flying and, barring anything unexpected, we should make it back in time for dinner."
The chopper looked rather old and battered, but since neither Lindholm nor Stanley showed the least concern, Scott decided to play along. Suppressing his trepidation, he stepped up into the little aircraft.
"Anyone in AN-85 besides us today, Stan?" Lindholm asked, stepping in after him and flipping back the hood of his parka.
"Not that I know of. We'll have to make our own lunch. I've brought canned beans and sausages, and there are some wrapped sandwiches to eat along the way if you're hungry."
"Sounds fine to me."
"I just hope," a look of concern flitted over Stan's face, "that I didn't forget to bring ketchup. Sausages just aren't the same without ketchup."
And they were off. The chopper rose, leaving the buildings of McMurdo station below. Scott was heading for inland Antarctica for the first time in his life.
The austere scenery below, all in shades of black and grey and mostly white all around, made him catch his breath. He felt like a moth hovering above this magnificent frozen landscape, which has so far repelled the advances of men despite modern technology and the best-fitting gear. This was the last place on earth to get a respite from the throes of civilization, with its insanity and chaos and the mad dash for grabbing, holding and owning.
After a short and uneventful journey, the helicopter landed at a nondescript little pad on the edge of a snug, deep and dark valley nestled between two majestic white mountains. There were the remnants of a recently occupied field camp, as well as several signs saying, 'Camp Base AN-85 - United States Territory - Scientific Research - Classified - Do Not Enter'. Scott and Lindholm bade goodbye to the pilot, who preferred to stay inside his cabin fixing lunch and reading a book and, having carefully zipped up and raised the hoods of their parkas, ventured out.
It was a bright, snowless day, but they were met by a brisk, freezing, dry wind, and Scott instinctively lowered his face. He noticed that Lindholm was leading the way down a narrow trail and, his curiosity peaking, he followed. "Is it a far walk?" he asked.
"Nothing you might have to apprehend. I was a fair hiker in my day but, I assure you, in my eightieth year I am no match for you, my friend."
As they were walking, Scott noticed Lindholm take out a little thermal flask and briefly apply it to his lips. He didn't ask, but he suspected it didn't contain water.
The trail descended into the valley. It was mostly sheltered and snow-free, but the slippery icy boulders made walking a challenge. Scott wasn’t sure how safe it actually was, just the two of them heading down alone. Granted, he had the portable radio and could call out to the pilot for help at any moment, but still. Anders Lindholm, however, appeared unconcerned, and kept choosing the best places to step on with the agility of an old, experienced mountain goat.
After about half an hour, they both simultaneously stopped, being out of breath. "Does it just seem to me," Scott ventured, "or is the air here... warmer and, I don't know, less dry?"
A small smile flitted at the corners of Lindholm's mouth. "Only a little farther," he said.
They kept going down. The descent was steeper now, and Scott knew that he was not mistaken - it was definitely getting warmer and more humid. He would have been tempted to throw back the hood of his parka, if it didn't go so strictly against all the safety regulations the instructor had hammered into his head that very morning. He did, however, take off his sunglasses - there was hardly any snow a
round, and the rays of the sun that filtered down were relatively gentle and soft.
Finally, the valley was in front of them, and Scott stopped, gasping for breath. This surpassed anything he had dreamed of.
It was as if a mere few steps separated the realm of winter, on the edge of which he now stood, and a completely different land. It was as warm as he could have expected it to be at the southern parts of New Zealand, and the land was covered with color he hadn't seen for a long time - green, all shades of green. There were mosses and lichens and lush grasses, some of them flowering. There were even woody plants that looked like a cross between shrubs and trees - short and twisted, but still, it was wood growing in the middle of Antarctica, a thing Scott would have deemed by any account impossible. He heard the noises of life, a small animal darting somewhere through the grass, the twitter of a hidden bird. And there was something like steam or vapor raising from cracks in the rocky walls of the valley.
"Geysers," Lindholm explained, enjoying his evident astonishment. "Antarctica has a very active volcanic profile, as you know. This valley has a unique microclimate, with a flora and fauna that aren't found anywhere else in the world. The biological balance is very delicate - I am always afraid to venture within, out of concern that some foreign bacteria might penetrate this tiny domain. I do have this antiseptic spray here, however, for us to mist ourselves with."
They walked a little way within and, as their feet stepped on soft moss, Lindholm unzipped his parka. Scott did the same. They were standing right by a crack that emitted vapor, pleasantly warm but giving off the sulphuric odor of rotten eggs. "It's warm enough here for much taller trees to grow," Lindholm kept talking, "but the problem is the light. Every year, the region is plunged into a night that lasts six months, so plants are entirely cut off from sunlight, and all that can survive are annual grasses and mosses, and these little trees that fall into deep slumber for half the year. They are a unique species - related to some arborescent shrubs found in the south of New Zealand, but it appears this particular tree has evolved right here in the valley."
