***
The hatch of the ornament opened and Crystal, her dreadlocks frozen like candy canes, came breathlessly into the compartment. She looked at the group leader, Frodo, with eyes wide, catching her breath. He continued to look at the letter he had just written, and which he intended to post with a flight that a Kiwi was taking the next day. He let her stand for a moment until he found it convenient to look up.
“What are you all worked up about?” he asked her. He had grown into his role as leader, and as such, felt it important to remain somewhat aloof. It was especially important with this one, since she had by then been sharing his bunk for several weeks. He was determined not to allow his personal life to interfere with the mission.
“This!” was all Crystal said, holding out the copy of Der Spiegel that she had lifted from the Kiwi mess. On the cover was the picture of the Americans' drunken orgy with the South American liquor. The story referenced how the Green Organization had broken the story from the ice, and how the tabloid was able to gain independent confirmation on the ground. He was ecstatic.
“We got them!” he shouted, throwing his arms around her. She was as excited as he was about the story, and his happiness warmed her heart.
“Should I go get the others?” she asked.
“Yes. No. Wait,” he said, still holding her in his embrace. “It can wait a few minutes. Let’s digest the information a little bit before we decide what to do.”
She looked up at him knowingly. “Yeah, I think you might be right.”
“That’s my job, you know, to be right,” he said. It was only a short step to the bunk that was built into the wall of the ornament. They were nearly there when the hatch opened again, and Crystal jumped out of his grasp with a squeak.
“What?” Frodo demanded of Thumper, who was the first one through. Frodo was not pleased with the interruption, though the orb was as much their shelter as his. His expression changed when he noticed the stranger behind them. The man was perhaps forty years old with deep crows-feet around his eyes; a bushy mustache marked his face. The flight jacket carried insignias that showed him to be a charter pilot of the type of craft that did much of the short-hop work that the big C-130’s could not. Frodo knew instinctively that this man was not someone he could intimidate, and he naturally slipped into the persona he reserved for dealing with one he considered an equal.
The pilot did not consider the leader of the environmentalists an equal. He was a pilot, and that was all that was necessary to say about that. He was, however, sympathetic to the cause and found the other female member of their expedition, Sierra, to be somewhat attractive. This made him pliable. The pilot had heard the environmentalist leader pontificate in the Kiwi bar and thought he was an idiot, though that did not make the young lady any less desirable.
There had been many discussions around the ornament in which the members of the team bemoaned the fact that they were limited to an area of operations that could only include the Ross Ice Shelf, and they were certain that their presence was required in many places that they could not reach. When Sierra, who, as well as Crystal was in her mid-twenties and was in fact quite pretty, began to perceive the interest of the pilot, she sensed an opportunity that required exploration. While discussing many things over the Irish whiskey, she hit the jackpot. He was even kind of cute.
“This is Max,” she announced to the others. “He has to fly a nearly empty flight to the top of the Beardmore to drop a part for some group out there. He can take us with him and make a stop at the camp.”
“Just a matter of fuel, is all,” Max said with a smile and a wink aimed at Sierra, his Australian accent sounding enchanting to her. Frodo nearly lost his breath at the unprecedented opportunity.
“Look at this!” he said to the two of them, handing over the paper. He was not quite as ignorant about some things as people perceived him to be. He was aware that, in his line of work, people were fueled by indignation and he was actually very good at inspiring it. Telling people why they should be offended was not motivating. Presenting the right information in the right way and letting them come to the proper conclusion on their own worked much better. In the tiny shelter on the ice, it was a foregone conclusion how they would react.
“I’ll be damned!” the Aussie said. “Bloody bastards really mean to do it. Look right pleased with their selves, too. Wallowing in it almost, pigs in mud.”
“That’s exactly what they do, everywhere,” Frodo agreed. “Unless we stop them.”
“Certainly give it a try,” the pilot said. He was aware that his personal indignation brought him closer to Sierra, and he now felt free to give her a little squeeze, which she did not refuse.
Thumper, the fourth member of the group, the source of whose nickname remained uncertain, sat sullenly in the corner. He watched with disgust the flagrant flaunting of Sierra’s charms toward the stranger. He wouldn’t have objected to using her sexuality as a tool toward obtaining an end; it was her obvious enjoyment of her role that bothered him. They were all just so many adventurers he thought, on a romantic journey. Not truly committed to the cause, like he was. He had already made plans for his departure from this silly group, but now decided to put it off for a while. Things might just be starting to look up.
“When are you planning on going?” Frodo asked.
“Tomorrow morning, early.”
“We’ll be there.”
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 32