***
“Jiminy frickin’ Cricket,” Chuck Stoddard muttered, a compromise to the oath that hovered on his lips now that it was no longer politically correct to say what he really meant in the Washington D.C. office. As the head of the National Science Foundation, it was Stoddard’s job to catch hell for whatever gaffs came out of it, but to be fair, it was also his job to take credit for things he had almost no knowledge of, either. This time, it would be just pure hell.
“We just barely decided to start thinking about thinking about this. How in the hell did it end up here?” he asked, waving the copy of Der Spiegel. Shoulders shrugged, heads shook; personalities that were drawn near to the source of power looked for metaphorical cover in their minds. He sighed, knowing the rhetorical question had no chance of getting answered here. He, on the other hand, would no doubt be offering answers to a Senate subcommittee in the very near future. And he hadn’t the damnedest idea what answers he would find.
“When is the next time we can talk to McMurdo?” he asked. But before anyone could start to do the mental calculation, he stopped. “No, wait. That is the last thing we need now, open channel voice communications. I’ll send a plain-text message. How can we do that?”
An aid was ready with an answer.
“Remember that experimental satellite we turned over from NASA to Polar Programs? It still has a single channel operating. We can send messages on the VAX computer while the bird is over the horizon. It’s nearly extinct, but it still works.”
“Good. Can it be monitored?”
“Unlikely. There is the ULF if you want.” The ULF (Ultra-Low-Frequency) equipment was Korean War surplus that dated back before Admiral Byrd. It was slow, but reasonably reliable. He waved the suggestion off.
At that time, universities and other scientific organizations, principally, were using the Internet. Prominent people, such as the Director, regardless of their other technical acumen, still did not understand much of its workings. He picked up a lined yellow note pad and wrote in longhand.
“To the Director of Polar Programs, ,” as if it were a telegram and not E-mail that he was writing. “Environmentalists have published accounts of our upcoming project, . Claim information uncovered from your end, . We will, if pressed, say that research is just part of normal geological mapping . Keep the damn lid on !”
He handed the pad over.
“Okay. Get this out and for Gods’ sake Let’s keep a lid on it here, too!”
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 14