Chapter 6
Russian Station Vostok
Antarctic Plateau
Vladimir Sokolov, along with the entire complement of the Russian base, met the American aircraft as it taxied to a stop. Although the courtesy call by the Americans had been planned long in advance, there was some confusion as to when they would actually be arriving. The repeated radio calls, first from McMurdo, and then from the aircraft itself, could not convince the Russians that the aircraft was currently inbound. When it passed overhead, everyone got the message. A ski-way was tolerably well prepared, confirmed by the flight crew who made a low-level pass to make sure it was serviceable. If they couldn’t communicate the simple fact that they were en route, they weren’t about to take anyone’s word for the condition of the landing strip.
The hasty reception was organized by rousting everyone out of the galley, the visitors having arrived in the middle of lunch. The American flight crew was ecstatic. It wasn’t every day that a Navy aircraft flew into a Russian base for “Distinguished Visitor” treatment. They brought piles of everything made in America they could find to barter with. Blue jeans and Navy uniforms had the best value. Russian fur hats and goggles carried the best exchange.
While the dignitaries were getting the tour, the one new permanent addition to the base was receiving his orientation. Sokolov had managed to arrange that the young American would room with him. The Russian helped by dragging his new roommate’s bags to the housing module, and having dropped them in the middle of the room, he pointed to the lower bunk, a concession that he, as host, felt obligated to make. Then he sat in the one chair and lit a cigarette, which made the American cringe. The Russian contemplated his new companion through the smoke.
“You are quite young,” he observed.
Trevor, the new arrival, shrugged. “I have a masters’ degree in atmospheric chemistry,” he said. “I’m just working as a research assistant while getting my Ph.D.”
Sokolov continued to look at him, wondering how much to say. He decided to make a conclusive test immediately.
“Who are the CIA in this group?” he inquired abruptly.
“What?” Trevor asked, caught completely off guard.
“Do not try to tell me you do not know.”
“We don’t have CIA in Antarctica,” Trevor said, flustered. “Jesus, I’ve never met anyone from CIA in my life.”
Sokolov looked disappointed; he was hoping this would be someone he could trust. Trevor looked back at him, confused.
“Honestly, we do not have CIA here - at least I don’t think so,” Trevor said with such sincerity that Sokolov decided to hold off making a judgment.
“Maybe not. But you do have political officers. How did you get them to let you come here?”
Now Trevor laughed.
“We do not have political officers,” he said, but he stopped laughing quickly enough when he saw the seriousness with which Sokolov studied his physiognomy.
Sokolov confronted the possibility that this was true. It would mean that what he had been told was a lie, but he suspected that already. It was his turn to shrug.
“Maybe not. We are told to expect this, you see. When we travel, we are always accompanied by such people. I visited your station at the South Pole last summer.”
“Really?” Trevor asked. “I just came from there.”
“Yes? Our group not permitted more than a moment’s separation from each other. This is typical. You and I must be careful of appearances,” he suddenly said, and with meaning. “It is inevitable that there be suspicion.”
The Russian scientist was reasonably certain that his quarters were not wired. The station was considered secure for obvious reasons. Trevor was quiet for a moment, considering.
“We hear things like this, of course, but actually seeing it is different. It is completely different from what we are used to.”
Sokolov looked at him intently.
“This is true? You are completely free of such things? At all times?” He had heard that from colleagues, but it was a much different story that came from the authorities. He had reason to disbelieve the authorities. His training required proof to convince him of most things, and this was too important to base his actions on wild speculation.
“Absolutely,” Trevor said. His thought processes were also trained to work a certain way. “Not that this doesn’t create problems of its own, you know.”
There were so many things Sokolov wanted to ask, to know, to hear. He knew that he had to keep his reserve, however, and tried to sound as if he were making disinterested conversation.
“Oh? There are problems with your governance?” he asked.
“Sure, always. Not that we would have it any different,” Trevor quickly added.
“There are always problems with this,” Sokolov said. “For us, it is like the weather. They come, they go. We do not say this, for we are very patriotic towards our government.”
“Huh,” Trevor mused. “I guess we are just as misinformed about you as you are about us. We hear that people in your country hate the government.”
“Our government knows what is best for us,” Sokolov told him, “and tells us quite clearly how we must act for our own benefit. It tells us many things. Very many things.”
Despite trying to sound conversational and detached, Sokolov could not, however, hide the outrage on his face, and Trevor’s face also began to betray that he, too, understood that this was not just a philosophical exchange.
“In our society, just having this conversation is against the law,” Sokolov said slowly, looking at Trevor with suppressed intensity.
“Then maybe we had better not,” the American said, smiling, but with alarm.
“You think not?” Sokolov asked, reverting back to his indifferent demeanor. “That would be your prerogative, if you should wish for it.”
“I think maybe we had just better to get to work,” Trevor said.
“That is, of course, why we are here, is it not?” Sokolov said, nodding sagely.
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 10