The Pole of Inaccessibility

by Alan Bronston

  ***

  Sokolov lay in the cot in the Jamesway. The breeze that had begun was keeping it from being unbearably hot inside, which it would have been were there no wind. The sun on the canvas burned through, however, and he could feel the radiant heat on whichever side was facing the wall. It was dark, as it always was, even when the lights were on. The dark green of the material walls absorbed any light that made any attempt to illuminate it, from within or without. The heat on the canvas enhanced the musty smell and it reminded him of being a boy and camping on holidays in the Steppes. That made him reflect upon what he used to think of, but was no longer, home for him. In the hollowness of his heart, there remained the memory of a family, all long gone and who were to be missed, though being back in the place where they once were would not bring them back to him. Still, there were moments of happiness he remembered and one could not entirely separate the place from the time.

  He could hear the breathing of his two countrymen nearby. The driver was in pain and moaned in his sleep. Gregore snored under the influence of the narcotic that he had finally accepted. Shock, and the adrenaline of the accident, as well as the duty that was necessary to be carried out, had kept his suffering at bay, but when he finally gave in to it he surrendered completely and sank into the drug-induced stupor.

  The scientist had to admit that he was impressed with the political officer's performance so far. He had long thought of him as being weak and venal, the embodiment of all that he despised about his soon-to-be former country. But the man had acted somewhat courageously, and with a commitment to duty that he hadn’t thought possible. When they arrived at the American base, Gregore, despite his injuries and being indebted for their rescue, told the Americans straight out that he knew of the plans to exploit the natural resources, shocking Russians and Americans alike. He registered his complaint professionally, then gave each of the scientists a bear hug and thanked them for saving what was left of his crew. Someone produced a bottle of vodka, frozen to the proper temperature, and Gregore saluted them in classic form before the drugs and fatigue overtook him.

  In the relative quiet, he tried to calm his heart and to keep the fear from taking hold. Yet again he chastised himself for being simplistic in his expectations. He thought that his message had been delivered in as adroit a fashion as might be expected and that someone, perhaps the mountaineer from the crevasse, would have come for him, and that would be that. Now, as he listened to the pounding in his chest, he cataloged the innumerable reasons that they might give themselves for denying his request. And the fear continued to grow. Why had no one come? Would they, in the end, signal their willingness to free him from the destiny that otherwise would be his, or would they refuse him for reasons that he might never know? There was nothing he could do but wait and count the passing moments. It would not be long, he thought, but that was not how it seemed at the time.