Dark Winter

by William Dietrich

  “Jedediah Lewis, polar weatherman.” He shook.

  “Jedediah? Your parents must have been religious.”

  “More like hippies, I think. When it was a fad.”

  “But it’s Biblical, right? You’re a prophet?”

  “Oracle of climate change by temporary opportunity. Rock hound by training. And it’s actually just another name for Solomon. ‘Beloved of the Lord.’”

  “So you’re wise.”

  His head was pounding. “I take my name as God’s little joke.”

  “What do you mean by rock hound?”

  “Geologist. That’s my real job.”

  “So you come to the one place on earth where there aren’t any rocks? Doctor Bob will have a field day with that one.”

  “Who’s Doctor Bob?”

  “Our new shrink. NASA sent him down to do a head job on us before they plant too many people on the space station. He’s wintering over to write us up while we fuck with each other’s minds. He thinks we’re all escapists.”

  Lewis smiled. “Rod Cameron just told me we can’t quit.”

  “That’s what I told Doctor Bob! It’s like being paid to go to prison!”

  “And yet we volunteered.”

  “I’m on my third season.” Pulaski stretched out his arms in mock enthusiasm, as if to claim ownership. “I can’t stay away. If the generators stop like they did last night we’ve got maybe a few hours, but we always get them running again.”

  “Why’d they stop?”

  “Some moron turned the wrong valve. Rod went ballistic, which meant nobody was in a mood to confess this morning. But it was a stupid annoyance, not a threat. And you’re going to learn that as long as you don’t freeze to death things are really good down here, especially now that the last of summer camp is leaving and the bureaucrats are ten thousand miles away. I give you better food than you’d get back home and there’s no bullshit at the Pole. There’s no clock to punch, no bills, no taxes, no traffic, no newspapers, no nothing. After today everything calms down and this becomes the sanest place on earth. Cozier than most families. And after eight toasty months you come out with your head straight and your money saved. It’s paradise, man.”

  Lewis reserved agreement. “You got any aspirin?”

  “Sure.” The cook got a bottle from the kitchen and brought it back. “You feel like shit right now, but you’ll get better.”

  “I know.”

  “You even acclimate to the cold. A little.”

  “I know.”

  Pulaski went to the counter where food was passed. He bent under it to get a commissary-sized soup can, its label stripped and its inside cleaned to a bright copper. “Here, your arrival present.”

  “What’s this for?” Lewis realized he felt stupid from the altitude.

  “You’ll drink all day and pee all night, this first night. It’s your body adjusting to the cold and altitude. This can saves you about three hundred trips to the real can.”

  “A chamber pot?”

  “Welcome to Planet Cueball, fingie.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lewis’s room was windowless and just ten feet long. He could span its width with lifted arms, his fingertips brushing each wall. It was one of a row of cells on the second floor of the science building, another orange metal box that claimed its grandiose title by virtue of having a small computer lab downstairs. His room looked every day of its quarter-century age: scuffed, faded and leaking. The insulation had become soaked and frozen on the outer wall and there was another mold of frost inside, a white reminder of how thin their protective shell was. A few inches inside the wall the temperature was kept near seventy degrees by a blowing heater. The air was very dry and smelled faintly of fuel from the base generator. The mechanical drone was like being on a ship.

  “The dreaded Ice Room,” said Cameron, who’d brought Lewis here after the plane left. The station manager looked tired but was trying hard to be welcoming. “Being on the end of the building sucks, but last come gets last pick.”

  Lewis put his hand against the wall, the clamminess cold as aquarium glass. “What if my butt freezes to this during the night?”

  “We bring a blow torch every time you’re late for breakfast.” There was a pause, for timing. “Just don’t roll over the other way.”

  Lewis dutifully smiled. Sometimes you go to prison as a means of escape, he thought. Sometimes the very worst places offer the most possibility.

  “Now, we call this floor Upper Berthing, jargon left over from the Navy days. It’s perfect for you since you’re a beaker. You can crunch your data downstairs.”

  Beaker was polar slang for scientist. Lewis had already encountered this caste designation in New Zealand, where he was issued a punching-bag-sized duffel of cold weather gear at the American warehouse in Christchurch. “You get the shitty nylon because you’re a beaker,” the clerk had informed him, handing him insulated bib overalls. “The workers get Carhartt.” This alternative looked like tough canvas.

  “Scientists are workers,” Lewis had protested.

  “Scientists don’t spend twelve hours fitting pipe. You get the nylon.”

  Now his place in the hierarchy had dictated assignment of a room. Like a runt piglet jostling for a teat, he was on the outer end. Also growing out of his orange box were appendages that included an electric substation, hydroponic greenhouse and closet full of fire-fighting gear. Fire was the most feared enemy at the Pole.

  “Homey,” he offered.

  “A leaking derelict,” Cameron corrected. “The whole base had a life expectancy that expired five years ago and it’s slowly falling apart. A recent inspection turned up two hundred safety deficiencies, which means we really have to stay alert just to stay alive. The National Science Foundation wants to replace everything - in summer they fly in congressmen like a D.C. shuttle - but we’re under some pressure here to show some results. Practical benefits from basic research. You’ll find people are under a little strain. Still, the good news is that the Ice Room is warmer than outside, half-private - your one neighbor will still hear more of you than they want to - and the government is past complaining about tape or tacks on the walls. Just don’t put up a centerfold: we’re politically correct now.”

  “You mean you weren’t?” His question was wry.

  “It was so macho that the Navy guys had nudes laminated into the tables. Only way to remember what females looked like. Gone with the wind, man, and better for it. Things are more civilized now that we have women.”

  “What happened to the tables?”

  “They’re still in the old base, abandoned in ’75 when they built this dome. It’s snowed over and slowly being crushed by the ice. Unsafe and strictly verbotten, but a fascinating depository of cultural archeology. Beer cans. Frozen hot dogs. America at her zenith.”

  “But you’ve seen it.”

  “Winter-overs have been known to explore. Big Brother left on the last plane, you know. Except for moi. Which reminds me.” Cameron beckoned him down the hall and pointed toward the shared bathroom. “Our biggest shortage is melted water. That means the most onerous rule concerns the showers. No more than two a week, two minutes of running water each. You wet, turn it off, soap, turn it on, rinse off. We’re sitting on seventy percent of the world’s fresh water but it’s so hard to melt we might as well be in the Sahara. It’s rationed.” They could the clumping sounds of someone inside.

  “No shower for three or four days?” Lewis leaned back in exaggeration.

  “It’s so cold and dry you don’t sweat much here. Or if you do, people get used to it.”

  “Splendid.”

  The door opened and a lumbering bear of a man shambled out, naked except for a towel around his waist, his hair wet. He was bearded, hairy and huge, a veritable Sasquatch. He stopped in surprise at their presence. “What’s this, a line to pee?” The voice was deep, the eyes hard and squinty.

  “Just rising to join us, Buck?” Cameron looked at the man w
ith dislike.

  “Just cleaning up after trying to make some garage room for all the crap that came in.”

  “We had trouble getting the plane off on time.”

  “It got off.”

  “We’re both stuck here now. I need you on time.”

  “It got off. And I need you to stop nagging and let me do my job.” The two men held their gaze for a moment, a mutual glare, and then the big man’s slid and away and he looked past the station manager. “Who’s this?”

  “The new guy, Jed Lewis. Getting the tour.”

  “Another beaker fingie? Great.” The big man didn’t offer a hand. “You getting the Ten Commandments from Ice Prick? Learning how to fill out work requests?”

  There was an undercurrent of resentment that Lewis felt unsure how to respond to. What was the beef of this guy? “Just looking.”

  “Well, don’t look the fuck at me.” The man pushed past them, lurching down the hall, his fist clutching his towel in an attempt to maintain some dignity.

  “Buck, we’re on a team,” Cameron said after him. “Lewis here is part of the team.”

  The big man turned. “It ain’t a team, it’s a caste, and it’s beaker glory on G.A. frostbite. If I could have waved goodbye to this zoo I would’ve been on time for that.” He sized up the newcomer, who was wondering what G.A. meant, and pointed a stubby finger. “You watch your ass around here, Lewis, because it’s cutthroat island among the beakers whenever someone throws grant crumbs our way. You got any sense, you’ll look out for Number One. And don’t pay any attention to the all brown nosing, middle management, ass-kissing bullshit, either.” His finger swung at Cameron. “I’ll take a fucking shower when I fucking want to.” He went in one of the rooms and the door slammed.

  The station manager was looking after the man unhappily, his mouth working as if he was still deciding what to say.

  “Who the hell was that?”

  “That was Tyson. Our mechanic.” It was a mutter.

  “The guy they said was sullking?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him.” Cameron shook his head unhappily. “He fought to get hired down here and has bitched about it ever since. He’s a malcontent and a loser.” The station manager frowned at his own candor. “He’ll come around.” Cameron glanced at his watch, suddenly losing interest in the tour. “Listen, I’ll finish showing your around tomorrow, including where you work. You’ll be up for it then. For now, just take it easy, try to get used to the altitude, get over the jet lag, and unpack. Okay?”

  “Is that guy having a bad day, or what?”

  “Every day’s a bad day for him.”

  *************

  Lewis went back to his room, sat on his bunk, and scratched the frost, watching a strip peel off under his fingernail. Pulled into the path of heat, the crystals began to melt. Welcome, fingie.

  He decided to remain philosophical. First of all, he’d volunteered for this. Walked out of his oil patch job and straight into unemployment in a fit of righteous environmentalism and self-doubt. It was a miracle he’d met Jim Sparco and fit his emergency need for a polar research assistant. A miracle he’d been given a purpose again. There was no question he was meant to be here, was there? Expertise, desire and opportunity had all neatly fit.

  And second, he knew, sailors, inmates and astronauts had certainly endured worse. Despite the spongy outer wall his room was toasty enough - except that he couldn’t use the word toast. That was Antarctic slang for burn-out, that late-season time when the monotonous lack of color and smell and sound and variety left a winter-over with an Antarctic stare, the mood of the condemned, and the social skills of roadkill. They’d warned him about it at the headquarters of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in Boulder, the agency that employed him. Toast, toasty, toasted, crouton. Not a nice thing to be. So let’s just say warm. Cheery. Anticipatory. Nervous. And someday, even if not toast, perhaps depressed, bored, loopy, horny, hungry, sleepy and dopey. They’d warned him of all those things, the list sounding like a casting call for “Snow White.”

  At least he had his own room, a polar luxury. The winter-overs had cheered and whooped when that last LC-130 roared away, its engines burning so rich in the cold that they left four black streaks of soot on the snow. The departure meant independence, room, a tiny cell of privacy. Lewis understood the reaction. They were beginning! The plane lifting off left him feeling both trapped and satisfied, newly secure. He’d made it! All the way to the South Pole! Every problem he’d ever had was temporarily gone, lost across a no-man’s land of ice. Every relationship was a fresh start. With just twenty-six souls, every person was important. Vital. Even that grump Tyson. Jed had an important job with clear parameters, unique opportunity, and no everyday hassles for the next eight months.

  No escape, either. No backing out.

  He liked the finality of it.

  “My fellow fingie!”

  Someone new filled the door of his room, smiling. Clean-shaven this time but a skull as distinctive as the cook’s: close-cropped stubble except for a darker Mohawk streak on top. Despite this bizarre choice he was a handsome man a decade older, Lewis judged, late thirties, with bright blue eyes that flickered curiously around the barren chamber like a detective’s. Nothing much to see yet, of course, so they came to rest on Lewis. “Robert Norse.” He put out a hand. “Recent arrival and resident shrink.”

  The two men had to stand at the foot of the bed in the cramped quarters, squeezed too close. “Jed Lewis.” He took the offered hand, hard and dry.

  Norse pumped vigorously. He looked fit, muscular, his frame erect with an almost military tautness. There was an intense energy to his friendliness. His teeth were perfect, his eyes assessing, his smell of aftershave. The scent made Lewis realize how little there was to smell at the Pole beside what people brought with them. By the end of the winter he’d know everyone’s smell, he supposed. Their voice, ticks, expressions, inflections and flaws. Their past and intended future. It had to be a psychologist’s paradise.

  “Except everyone calls me Doctor Bob. Nicknames are endemic here, and you’ll get one too. I only arrived a week before you.”

  Lewis looked pointedly above Norse’s brow. “A psychologist? So explain the haircut, Doc.”

  Norse smiled, running a hand along the crown of his head. “I got this at McMurdo on a dare. Polar plunge sort of thing. Supposed to add to solidarity. I’m hoping it helps me fit in. Be one of the gang.”

  “Isn’t that the kind of thing you do in junior high?”

  “People try to fit in from pre-school to the mortuary, without exception, instinctually. Basic monkey behavior. Everyone wants to belong without questioning why. You do want to belong, don’t you?”

  “I guess.” Lewis thought about his answer. “I want my life to stand for something. I’m willing to join a team to do that.”

  “An idealist!” Norse grinned. “And you think before you talk! A self-examined man!” He nodded. “I’m impressed. Maybe.” He pretended to consider the issue. “Or, are you simply a joiner? A conformist? A follower? Is the way to self-realization through society? Or inside yourself?”

  “I’ve got a feeling you’ve got the answer.”

  “I came down here to get the answer. And being a shrink is like being a cop or a priest or a journalist. Everyone tenses up. So I have to adopt camouflage.” He knocked the top of his skull. “A haircut. And, unlike tattoos, this goes away.”

  “We’ll probably tattoo each other, too. The cook said we’ve volunteered for prison.”

  Norse nodded. “Then the Philistines seized him,” he suddenly recited, “gouged out his eyes and took him down to Gaza. Binding him with bronze shackles, they set him to grinding in the prison. But the hair on his head began to grow again...”

  “Say what?”

  “Story of Samson. Every read it?”

  “I think I caught the movie.”

  “Instructive story. Watch out for Delilah.” He winked.
>
  “Is there something religious about this place? The cook asked about my name.”

  “Oh no. Just literate.”

  Lewis sat on his bunk to get some space. The guy seemed friendly enough, but he didn’t know what to make of a psychologist. Especially one who so blandly gave himself away. “I heard about you. I was told you’d want to analyze me.”

  Norse took half a step back, as if exposed. “Really? Analyze what?”

  “That I’m a geologist in a place with no rocks.”

  “A geologist? On an ice cap?” Norse nodded sagely, considering, and then leaned forward like a mock confidant. “I’m sure the Freudians would have something to say about that. So. Why are you in a place with no rocks?”

  “Because it has no rocks.” Except it did, of course, but Norse didn’t need to know that.

  “I see.” Norse mulled this over. “Makes perfect sense. Like a shrink in a place with no complications. You’re quite sane, aren’t you?”

  “I’d appreciate a professional opinion.”

  “Ah. That will cost you. And I didn’t bring a couch. So...” he thought. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

  Lewis looked around.

  “Wait, I think I’ve got one.” Norse pulled out a sheet of folded paper from inside his sweater. It was blank. “I carry this around to make notes. Dumb idea, because it scares hell out of people when you do. Anyway, sign your name. Instant handwriting analysis.”

  Lewis was curious and did so, handing the paper to Norse. The psychologist studied it. “Oh dear. My quick and dirty judgment is that you’ll fit in with our group quite well.”

  Lewis smiled. “So what are you doing here, Doc?”

  “Me? I’m using us all as guinea pigs for a future trip to Mars. The Pole is like a space ship, NASA hopes. Communal. Also confined, hostile and dark. Months of isolation. How does that make us feel?”

  “I feel nauseated.”

  “That’s the altitude. Took me three days to adjust. Some never do - I think it was your predecessor who rotated out a few weeks back. And mentally? I’m still adjusting. Will be for eight months, I suppose. That’s why I dropped by. Antarctic veterans have one perspective, but newcomers another. I’m hoping you’ll share your observations as the winter goes on.”