Chapter 4
Russian Station Vostok
Antarctic Plateau
Vladimir Sokolov prepared for the outside by adjusting his leather-lined goggles under his fur hat, and then tightly wrapped a wool scarf over all, concealing the prematurely gray hair that he allowed to grow long in the extreme isolation. The goggles covered deep-lined careworn eyes that appeared much older than his 47 years. The black leather coat was insulated on the inside with fur of some kind; the type of animal, he did not know. The pants were also made from leather. His mukluks, boots for polar travel, were cotton over felt. He tied them as firmly as he dared, enough to gain a small advantage in keeping his footing, but not so tightly that they slowed his circulation and led to frostbite.
When he was ready, he pushed the heavy steel door, which swung slowly on its hinges, screaming in protest in the brittle cold. His mukluks boomed on the snow, the very pack sounding like the frozen bits of ice were being torn apart one shard at a time. The sustrugi - snow that the wind has packed, sculpted, and then packed again for years on end - was firm under foot, until it settled under his weight as he walked, sending a low thunder reverberating through the surface.
He grabbed hold of the guide rope that led to the instrument array. Even in relatively mild weather, meaning windless, he held the rope, for it represented the thin line between safety and the certain death that so many others had found. He did not want to learn to forget to do it by not holding the line when it wasn’t necessary. He held it so as not to forget the others who had wandered off into the darkness, never to be seen again. Even now that it was again light outside, he held it. It was something that offered tangible security; something not easily let go of.
He reached the instrument array quickly, not wanting to stay out any longer than necessary, and began to clear away the drifted snow from the receptors and cables. The snow that drifted between the telescopes was a powder, like dust. It didn’t actually snow much at Vostok or anywhere else on the Antarctic Plateau around the South Pole. The snow that drifted there was blown from far away, possibly thousands of miles away, and from many years past, traveling endlessly, like the sands of the desert. In its travels, the crystals that made up the snowflakes had long since been milled fine by the relentless wind.
As difficult as it was to be out “in the environment,” as he thought of it, he found it preferable to being inside. As a scientist, he had almost looked forward to the chance to study there. But with the cold, the food (if one chose to dignify it with the label), and the lack of proper equipment, he had had enough. And that was without the consideration that even in that distant outpost, there was the political element, though it was unquestionably less than it would have been in Moscow.
A physicist by training, he was unable to reconcile the political climate of his country with his personal observations. He had been trained to question certain things, and being told that he mustn’t question others was infuriating. Science, by definition, required freedom of thought, which was the one thing he could not have. His brilliance as a physicist kept him in good standing, up to a point, at the university where he did his work, but it was obvious that his enthusiasm for politics was lacking. His friends saw what he did not, that only the work he produced kept him safe, and that was uncertain at best. They conspired to get him assigned to Vostok as a way of saving him, though he didn’t feel especially saved through the experience.
The work, however, kept him going. Exertion in the pursuit of knowledge was the highest condition of existence, he believed. Just as motion was the essence of travel, it was work that was the essence of science. Reaching a destination signaled the end of a journey. It was the journey itself that he aspired to, not the destination.
Vostok Station was situated beyond the mountains, and endless glaciers that separated the highlands of the plateau from the coast, as close to the middle of nowhere as it was possible to get. The United States had grabbed the South Pole apparently in perpetuity, so the Russians were relegated to a less geographically recognizable place, the “Pole of Inaccessibility,” a suspiciously vague description that appeared to lend gravity to the title, perhaps as some kind of consolation for not getting the actual Pole. The name meant that Vostok Station was the furthest place from all the Antarctic coasts.
When he finished with the equipment, he followed the rope back to the base. He went around to the other side of the main building from where he had come out. After taking another quick look around before going inside, he nodded imperceptibly to himself, noting that all was as it should be.
From that side of the building, he entered the galley. The heavy outer door swung open, allowing the frigid air to swirl through the room, instantly joining with the warm moisture inside the building, turning it into fog, and creating a small tempest where the two vastly different climates clashed and did battle. When the door was again closed, the storm began to abate, and as the fog dissipated, the frost-bound figure of Sokolov was left standing by the entry. He began the process of removing the stiff, frozen garments from his body, unnoticed by the others in the room.
At one of the tables were two laborers who had been genially sharing a bottle of vodka. As the contents of the bottle became less, each of the two, who had previously been so amicably dedicated to the project, grew steadily less enchanted with the other’s company and gradually settled upon a wide area of disagreement. It was concluded that they should dissolve their partnership instantly and fully. Both claimed possession of the bottle.
Each lunged for it at the same time, missing, but sending the bottle shattering across the floor. By now, both were fully enraged and the one grabbed the broken bottle by the neck and addressed it towards his companion’s throat. The other, seeing the threat for what it was, grabbed the butchers knife that was lying on the table and prepared to parry the ensuing attack.
Everyone who was in the room saw what was unfolding and leapt up, taking defensive positions and arming themselves with whatever was available in case the melee were to escalate into a general conflagration. The sudden violent turn of events came to an abrupt standstill when each had staked out their positions relative to the others and they all waited to see what events would take place next.
As the combatants stood their ground, Vladimir Sokolov, now finished with the process of shedding his outer garments and hanging them on a peg, walked through the galley as if oblivious to the whole affair. He went to the urn where hot tea was always to be found, filled a cup, and put a stale biscuit on a plate. He then walked over to the table where the two had been drinking, placed himself between them with the knife pointing towards one ear and the broken bottle towards the other, then sat down and began to eat.
The drunken adversaries looked at him as if he were mad; and they were behaving in a perfectly rational manner. At that instant, the door to the communications room opened and a figure clad in a dark-grey turtleneck sweater, over which lay a well-trimmed jet-black beard, peered out over the room.
“Is there a problem in here?” he asked calmly in Russian to no one in particular.
At the sound of the question, the weapons that had recently been so clearly in evidence, disappeared as if they had never been present at all. The bodies that had been frozen in action all began to shift, moving in harmony, as if choreographed, back to the positions where they had been before. The tension in the room evaporated as had the mists of the cold air sweeping through the open door, and calm once again prevailed.
When order was restored, the communications operator, of the sweater and black beard, whom everyone knew was much more than a mere radio operator, came to sit opposite Sokolov. Sokolov acknowledged his presence no more than he had the battling drunkards and continued with his tea and biscuit.
“I have heard from Moscow,” the radio operator, whom Sokolov only knew as Gregore, told him. “Your wish to extend the overland journey to collect meteorites near the mountains was approved several weeks ago.”
Sokolov bobbed
his head once to signal that he had heard, but gave no other indication that he had any intention of engaging in conversation. His dejectedness had by then come to be such a tangible presence that none considered it to be to anything other than ordinary. Certainly not to the political officer who sat across from him. It was an air of forlorn melancholy; the look of which he had come to be exceptionally well acquainted. When it became apparent that Sokolov was not going to contribute anything to the conversation, he continued, “And the Americans will be sending their atmospheric chemist here any day now,” Gregore said to the granite-faced mass before him.
For an instant, Sokolov, whose cup was lifted towards his lips, held the cup before him. Catching himself, he continued on and drank the remnants of the brew without flinching. He nodded his head twice this time to indicate that he thoroughly understood. It suddenly struck him that showing too little interest might seem suspicious in itself, so he asked as innocuous a question as he could think of.
“The French?”
“Should be here at roughly the same time,” Gregore confirmed.
“And we shall be leaving?” Sokolov inquired.
“In about three weeks.”
Sokolov sat in stony silence for another long pause.
“Very well, then,” he said quietly, setting aside the cup and plate. “I will continue with the preparations.”
“Good,” Gregore said, smiling at this display of animation from the newly-invigorated figure across from him. He approved of a high morale on station. “We will have a very interesting journey back to the coast, I am sure.”
“Yes,” Sokolov agreed. “I am certain that it will be.”
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 8