by Karen Dionne
“And you’d better remember to keep your hand on the flag line,” Kevin, a three-year veteran said.
Mac shot him a look.
Zo grinned. So much for Mac’s intimate little tête-à-tête.
“One time the winds were quiet, so I thought I didn’t need to,” Kevin continued. “Technically, I didn’t get lost, but I came back at a part of the station I wasn’t expecting. Believe me, I always follow the flag line now.”
“I think the isolation is the worst,” another station regular said. “You can cope with the snow and the cold, but being cut off from the rest of the planet isn’t so easy to deal with. NASA actually studies the people who winter over at the Pole to determine the effects of long-term isolation.”
“And you may have noticed,” Mac said, manfully attempting to wrest control of the conversation again, “it’s been a long time since—”
There was a tap on Zo’s arm. She turned around. “We have trouble,” Fernando whispered.
“What kind of trouble?” she whispered back.
“Your rat. He is gone.”
“Gone? Good grief. Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Most definitely, I am not.”
“I don’t believe it. How could it happen? That lid was held down with bricks!”
“That sneaky doida chewed a hole in the screen.”
“What’s going on over there?” Mac called.
“Nothing,” Zo replied.
“Zo’s rat has escaped,” Fernando announced to the room. “He chewed a hole in the lid.”
“Pinky’s loose?” Shana gasped and clutched Mac’s sleeve.
“Good one, Zo,” Kevin said. “Not only do you bring the rats to the station, you give them the run of the place as well. Why don’t you just set up a feeding trough in the dining room and be done with it?”
“It’s no big deal,” she said, thinking of the myriad places a rat could hide. “I caught him once; I’ll catch him again. I’ll set up my trap in the kitchen; that’s the most likely place he’ll head. In the meantime, you might want to keep the junk food out of your rooms. That is,” she added, looking pointedly at Shana, “unless you don’t mind the idea of acquiring a new bunk mate.” She left Mac to console his squealing girlfriend and headed for the mudroom.
“Where are you going?” Ross asked as she borrowed a dry coat off the rack.
“To the maintenance shed. I need to get a bucket.” She dug through the communal hatbox for a scarf and gloves.
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Au contraire, ma chérie, I do. Or rather, someone does. I presume you’re familiar with a principle called the buddy system?” He tapped the wind gauge mounted alongside the exterior door. “Station rules: Anytime the winds are over forty, no one goes outside alone.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I always do.”
He held the door for her and they went out. The wind whipped between the buildings, sweeping the ground clear in places and piling the snow higher than their heads in others. The sun shone weakly through the blowing snow, coloring the landscape a diffused, surreal yellow. High above, the sky was pocked with blue.
Zo broke trail while Ross gripped the back of her parka like an uninvited Siamese twin.
“So what’s it stand for?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder to speak his question in her ear.
She got a whiff of Obsession for Men—the same cologne Elliot wore—and shivered. She hadn’t been this close to a man in months. “What’s what stand for?”
“Your name. Is it short for Zoe?”
“No, it’s a nickname.”
“Then what’s your real name?”
She shook her head. “You’ll laugh.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. Everyone does.”
“Oh, come on, how bad can it be? Anyway, the door’s open; may as well walk through it.”
Indeed. Zo had been through this routine so many times before, she couldn’t believe she’d gotten sucked in again. She turned around.
“Amazonia.”
“You’re joking.” Ross’s mouth twitched. He looked down at her—something not many men could do ever since a teenaged Zo had topped out at five ten. A part of her wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, even as another part had to concede he looked good wearing it. With his thick black braid, chiseled nose, and swept-back forehead he could have been the model for the Indian-head penny. God, or the Great Spirit, had blessed Dr. Roundtree with looks and brains. Trouble was, he knew it.
She lifted her chin. “Told you you’d laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. I—oh, what the hell. So what if I am? You have to admit it’s a bit—unusual. What’s the deal? Were your parents hippies?”
She shook her head. “Environmentalists.”
He slapped his thigh. “Perfect! And so the girl named after the largest rain forest ecosystem in the world goes off to work in Antarctica. Wouldn’t Freud have fun with that?”
She didn’t answer. It wasn’t until they’d resumed their conjoined trek that she smiled. She’d often had the same thought herself.
Suddenly, her foot caught on something and she tripped, falling face-forward in the snow. Ross landed on top of her.
“Whoa,” he said as he rolled quickly to the side. “Are you okay? I didn’t . . . you know, hurt the baby?”
She searched his face for signs of sarcasm, but either Ross was a consummate actor, or his concern was genuine. “I’m fine. I’m only three and a half months. The baby’s not much bigger than a pea. Plenty of room in there for it to bounce around.” She brushed the snow off her knees and pointed. “Something’s down there.”
He knelt and dug through the snow. “My God,” he said and stood up, his expression grim. He grabbed her arm. “Come on. We’ve got to get back to the station.”
“Wait. What is it? Let me see.” She tried to twist free.
He tightened his grip. “Believe me, you don’t want to.”
“Oh, good grief, Ross.” She felt like slapping him. She hated when men played their stupid chauvinistic games. “I’m not Shana. I’m not going to fall apart at the sight of a little blood. If it’s another penguin carcass, I need to bring it into the sta—Jesus!”
Her hand flew to her mouth as Ross stepped to the side. It was another rat kill, all right, a bloodied, masticated mess. Only this time, it wasn’t a penguin carcass.
It was Sam.
Chapter 20
lceberg, Weddell Sea, 68° S, 60° W
Forty-eight hours after Eugene dispatched Ben’s entire supply of water testing kits with a single blow, Ben opened the incubator door. As he took out the two surviving samples, he felt like a fool. By themselves, the results were worse than useless; all they said was that two days ago, the ice outside the Quonset hadn’t been tainted. But Eugene was so appalled by what he had done, and so contrite, hanging around Ben’s heels like a scolded puppy, that Ben didn’t have the heart to punish him further. And so as he held up the purple liquid for everyone to see, he made a great show of being pleased before he tossed the test tubes in the trash.
That done, he symbolically wiped his hands of the mess. The water would have to be tested after the tanker arrived in Los Angeles. Gillette was going to be furious, and rightfully so—the whole point of the tests had been to keep the possibility of contamination from an interested public. Ben had delegated Quentin the job of breaking the bad news. May as well get some use out of Quentin’s much-vaunted status as Gillette’s number two.
Announcing the Big News, however, was a privilege Ben had reserved for himself, and if all went according to schedule, as soon as the next communications window opened, he would be making that momentous call. Toshi’s latest fix seemed to be holding; everyone else was as ready as he; and so barring any unfore
seen last-minute developments, Ben had declared today D-day. Or “B-day,” as Phil jokingly put it: the long-awaited auspicious day in which the cosmos would give birth to a brand-spanking-new microwave beam.
“How do we look?” Ben asked Toshi.
“Great,” Toshi said. “Still holding steady. No sign of satellite drift.”
“Susan?”
Their systems engineer raised both thumbs. “All systems go.” Susan had come to them straight out of four years at NASA, and it showed.
“Phil? You done there?”
“Almost.” Phil typed a string of numbers into his computer, studied them for a long moment, and sat back. “Okay. Ready.”
“You sure?” Eugene asked. “Cause we sorta got a lot riding on this, you know.”
Phil’s face fell. “Of course I’m sure. Twenty-five joules per cubic centimeter melts water. The solar constant in space is 1.5 kilowatts per square meter. Our solar array spans 1.8 million square meters, and we want our target lake to be one meter deep, spread out over a one-kilometer area. That means we’re looking at a total of 2E13 joules, or 20 trillion photons—5.5 million kilowatt hours.” He checked his figures again. “I’m sure that’s right.”
“I know it is.” Eugene punched Phil’s arm. “Don’t take everything so seriously, man. I was just messin’ with you.”
Phil glared.
“Okay guys,” Ben said. “If we’re done with the fun and games, let’s get this show on the road. Everybody ready?” He glanced at Quentin. “Let’s do it.”
Toshi raised his index finger, held it dramatically over his keyboard while he made sure he had everyone’s attention, then hit “enter” with a flourish.
Nothing happened.
Nothing visible, that is, which was exactly to be expected. If everything was working as it was supposed to, Toshi’s keystroke had initiated a three-part pilot beam emanating from the center of the rectenna grid that had been constructed over the melt zone. The beam was shooting thirty-six thousand kilometers into space to Soldyne’s three orbiting satellites. Circuits in each satellite’s antenna subarray were comparing the pilot beam’s phase front with their own internal clock phase, then following the pilot signal back to the ground. In theory, it was a fail-safe method of beam targeting, but in practice . . . well, the “practice” part of the equation simply hadn’t been done yet.
Ben counted off the seconds. Exhaled after thirty. A minute crawled past; then two.
“How long is this supposed to take?” Eugene asked.
“How are we supposed to know?” Quentin snapped. “Why don’t you shut up for once, and just wait like the rest of us.”
“You shut up.”
“You—” Quentin half rose from his chair, then shot Ben a he’s hopeless look, and sat back down.
Another minute passed.
Then, “Temperature’s rising,” Phil said, his voice crackling with excitement. “Up point-oh-three degrees.”
Ben hurried over. “Where? Which sector?”
“Right there.” Phil tapped his screen. “Sector thirteen. Right smack dab in the middle of the melt zone. Sensors twenty-three and twenty-four are going up as well.” He pushed back his chair and let out a whoop. “We did it! It’s working! Just like it’s supposed to.”
The room broke out in cheers. Susan and Quentin embraced. Phil, Toshi, and Eugene traded high fives, then laughed as Eugene pretended to hike up his skirts and danced a jig.
Ben laid his glasses on his work surface and scrubbed his face. So many hours . . . so many dollars . . . the years of R&D, the months of waiting, the last-minute problem solving . . . all culminating in this historic moment at the bottom of the earth, ten thousand miles from home and family in a cramped Quonset littered with candy wrappers and soggy parkas. Finally, finally, the tanker that was costing a small fortune as it waited in the lee of the berg could be filled and sent on its way. The water would reach L.A. in three or four weeks, by which time Ben would be back in his office, ready to celebrate its arrival along with the rest of Soldyne’s staff and the investors with all the hoopla of a ticker tape parade.
He closed his eyes and massaged his temples to ease the tension headache he hadn’t even realized was there. It worked. It actually worked.
Eugene jostled Ben’s shoulder. “Hey, boss. Wake up and join the party.” He handed him a paper cup and cracked open a thermos. “Technically, it’s not first water,” he said as he poured, “but it’s still water from the melt zone. Come on, everybody! Drink up! A toast!”
Ben looked from the cup to his team’s expectant faces. He didn’t want to drink. Then again, the odds of contamination were so low, and their spirits so high, he supposed it wouldn’t kill him just this once to go along.
He raised his glass to their success and took a single, discreet sip as Eugene and the others guzzled theirs down.
Chapter 21
Ten minutes later, Quentin closed the door on the celebration and walked over to the bank of snowmobiles parked outside the maintenance hut. He brushed the snow off his favorite, pulled on his helmet, threw a leg over the seat, and turned the key. According to the manufacturer, the machines could do zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds, and every time he took one out, Quentin proved their claim. He was an expert rider who could handle a snowmobile on any terrain—even skip over open water in an emergency if the need arose. His father had taught the maneuver to both of his sons; Lake St. Clair near their home north of Detroit was notorious for ice-fishing conditions that could deteriorate without warning. Every spring, the Coast Guard had to rescue dozens of stranded anglers, and Quentin’s dad wanted his boys to be able to handle themselves. Quentin’s brother could barely work up the nerve to attempt crossing a six-inch crack, but as soon as the fifteen-year-old Quentin learned that a machine going seventy-five could power across three feet of open water, he’d gone looking for the chance to give it a try.
Here, the thin crust of snow over ice presented its own challenges. He eased back on the throttle when the machine started to skid, then accelerated once he found good cover again. A steady sixty would have him at the pumphouse in less than five minutes. Another five to make his call, five more for the return, and with luck he would be back at the op center before he was missed. Not a bad pay-off: fifteen minutes in exchange for Ben Maki’s career.
He laughed to think that Ben had actually charged him with reporting the testing fiasco. Ben was an idiot, and Eugene was toast. Once Quentin told his version, Eugene would be tossed off the berg like a lame contestant on a Survivor show, with Ben right behind him. It was too bad Ben had managed to get the satellites turned on—Donald was not going to be happy about that—but the day was young, and Quentin was an optimist. There were still plenty of things that could go wrong.
He gave the throttle a twist, and the machine leaped forward. That was one of the things he loved about snowmobiling. Maintain your equipment, and it did exactly what you wanted. People were so much more difficult to maneuver. Still, he’d managed to best Ben back at the op center when he caught their fearless leader sipping his water like he thought it was poisoned. The others had seen it, too. Quentin had read the disappointment on their faces, and so he’d grabbed the moment by polishing off his own cupful and tossing back Ben’s as well, then capped his victory by exchanging Eugene’s watery toast for whiskey and beer.