Heller doesn’t know whether he tripped first, then hit his head, or hit his head first, then tripped. The sequence matters greatly—because if he hit his head first, then he’s confused by how and why he could have hit something on the way down that was not in his path on the way up. Both Dolan and Pritchard were just above him as they descended the scaffold. So when he tripped and fell, Dolan had acted pretty quickly to grab him by the collar. Quicker than Pritchard, Heller notices.
He doesn’t know whether it was some strange symptom of T3 he experienced—a sudden disorientation, a momentary mysterious symptom with particularly bad timing. Something unstudied so far. The extreme cold triggers all kinds of physical strains and reactions. That’s why NASA was here. That’s why it all still needs study. Especially when combined with mild or moderate hypothermia, according to Calloway.
But the blow to the head has certainly not been enough to dislodge an observation already planted there. That’s already taken root and is slowly, slowly growing.
“Let me ask you something,” Heller says to Dr. Calloway, as he is about to be released. “Those red needle marks at the back of Sandy’s and Trish’s necks. Reasonable to assume the poison entered that way, right?”
“Yes. Some fast-acting poison. Something very sophisticated.”
“And what about that choice of entry point?”
“Just about perfect,” says Calloway. “No more efficient path into the nervous system and the bloodstream.”
“But it’s been hard for me to figure out when a killer would have done it. If it’s someone sneaking up on them in their sleep, let’s say, and it’s a fast-acting poison, as you say, why aren’t they dying in their bunk? How and why are they dying dressed, out in the snow? But if they’re awake and aware and dressed, like god knows you are in the snow, how is a killer, or killers, able to place it so perfectly, so accurately? And twice? Why isn’t there evidence of them defending themselves? In that situation, it’s a very risky, impractical way for poison to enter the body.”
“Okay, granted,” says Calloway.
“And certainly it’s not the typical way for a poison to enter a body.”
“No.”
“Other methods . . . food, gases . . . are much more typical.”
“Certainly.”
“Dr. Calloway, could those needle marks . . . could they be nothing?”
Calloway looks confused. “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”
“Just . . .” Heller shrugs. “Just that. A needle mark? Just . . . misdirection?”
Calloway smiles. “Well, with ideas like that, I think I have to keep you here longer for observation. The T3 seems to be talking.”
“I know it’s a little elaborate. Borderline crazy. But unexpected—you’d have to give it that, right? And if someone knew your autopsy was going to be limited, it’s a smart piece of misdirection, isn’t it?”
“Bizarrely smart. As an actual act . . . and as far as your even thinking of it . . . I’d say, yes, borderline crazy.”
Heller shrugs. “Just a thought.”
“A very weird one,” says Calloway.
Okay. A very weird one.
But it’s Antarctica.
You gotta adjust your thinking.
57.
Heller stands just outside the doorway, listening to the prayer meeting.
He feels like an intruder. But he also feels like he has to know what’s going on. That he has to know if it goes beyond simple prayer. From thought to action.
“O Lord, we ask you to watch over us. Because, Lord, this kingdom of ice has never known a more fiery time. It is a fire—an unknown fire—that burns a thousand miles beyond us, but it is an equal fire that burns within us. The fire for survival with your truth. For survival in your trust. In your capable hands. We put our hearts in your hands, O Lord.
“For you have just proven your might to us. If we ever doubted it—and certainly we did, for we are scientists, secularists, many of us, so doubt is our job. It is our professional nature to doubt. And as if to answer our doubt, O Lord, you have unleashed a poison on the globe, to prove again your might, and as before, you have kept a chosen people, a chosen few, as witnesses—and what better witnesses than a scientific community, O Lord. How well chosen—proof of your own superior and almost scientific intelligence—to have chosen this community as your witnesses, as your way forward, but this time, forward in your name, forward in your shadow. This time, we walk with you.
“These are the end-times. The end-times that we have always heard about and assumed were far off—an issue for our progeny many generations from now—but you have reminded us of our responsibilities to you. Of our current responsibilities. You have reminded us of your presence, in a way we doubters cannot doubt. You through your word in the Bible you have given us, have always warned of end-times, and now in your mercy, you give us the chance to heed your warnings.”
And clearly it is answering a vast hunger in them. A hunger that has gone unanswered. A hunger that is spreading, for today there are almost forty of them. A hunger that, like the food he serves, Manafort seems to know just how to season, how to make it taste, how to serve it up hot and flavorful and palatable.
Does Manafort believe it? It seems like he does. But it hardly matters, since they believe it. Since they have clearly been waiting to believe it.
And if Manafort does incite them, what is Heller supposed to do? What if that’s what the majority wants? What if they want Manafort’s leadership? What if they buy into his point of view? Won’t Heller’s responsibility then be to defend them? To make sure the will of the majority gets done?
He has been looking for a poison. An exotic, custom poison.
But he realizes there are many poisons.
Seeping, leaking and leaching, insinuating themselves.
The unknown poison that has so speedily and efficiently, it seems, afflicted and infected the planet above them. And whether its doom turns out to be nuclear or biological or chemical, natural or man-made, accidental or purposeful, whether they discover what it is or not, it is a poison in every sense. Spreading lethally, uncontrollably. A powerful poison that appears to have changed the world.
But there is this other poison too. The poison he is hearing spoken now. A poison seeping, leaching, leaking into consciousness, into susceptible minds. The poison of belief. The poison of magical thinking. The poison of T3, come to think of it.
He thought he was dealing with only a specific poison.
But he is now investigating other poisons. Far subtler. Far more lethal.
And these poisons, can he discover their ingredients?
Can he check their spread?
Can he contain it?
58.
Manafort is in Hobbes’s office.
The two men are across the desk from each other. Both standing.
Manafort has asked for the meeting. He has brought a couple of people with him. Holson. Pike. Heller recognizes them from the prayer meetings.
Hobbes has asked Heller to be here for this meeting. Hobbes must have asked Simmons too, who is at his side.
There is obvious tension in the room.
“Okay, Bobby,” says Hobbes, trying at the outset to disarm it, informalize it. “What’s this about?”
“We are praying for your able leadership,” says Manafort, formal, almost scripted, as if from the pulpit. “But our membership—our membership growing daily,” he adds, with a little smile, “is having some questions, some concerns, which are getting in the way of their faith in your leadership.”
“And you’re here to ask those questions, voice those concerns, in the hope of bringing back some answers to your group, yes?”
Manafort gives a little nod—he has no choice but to say yes.
“Well, as I’m sure you know, Bobby, I’m doing my best under some trying circumstances,” Hobbes says. “And I think you have to cut me some slack on that. I think we all have to work together, do you agree?”
&n
bsp; How can he not? But Manafort says nothing. An aggressive, insolent silence.
“So how can I help, Bobby?”
“The food supply,” says Manafort. “We’re concerned that you’re not being honest about the food supply. There’s a feeling that you’re putting aside some food for the self-appointed leadership, stashing emergency supplies.”
This is of course a surprising question for Hobbes. Because there is one other person who knows exactly what the food situation is, and that is Manafort. In fact, he presumably knows it even better than Hobbes. So he is not really talking about the food supply. He is talking about something else.
“Well, you’ve seen how we’ve ramped up the hydroponics program. We’re lucky that was in place, and it’s expanding.” He sounds a little like a salesman, a huckster. “It’s no longer supplemental and experimental. Now we have to count on it . . . and the thing is, we can.”
“And then there’s the matter of the guns,” says Manafort.
“What do you mean ‘the guns’?” says Hobbes blankly, evenly.
“Rumor has it they’re here and locked up, and you have the keys,” says Manafort.
Hobbes pauses for a moment, before answering. “Rumor has it right.”
“Well, there’s a problem with that. Why do you get to decide about stashing and locking guns, at this point?”
“Because I think that’s the safest option, under the stress of our current situation. That’s the way to reduce the risk of anyone getting hurt or killed with them. Obviously.”
“And you presumably are the only one with access. You and your lieutenants.”
“Well . . . yes.”
“And given everything that’s happening, Emmanuel Hobbes is now simply in charge? No discussion? No decision?”
“Bobby, this is still a research facility. A science center. The National Science Foundation and the US Marshal’s office have put me in charge. You know that.”
“But things have changed. Dramatically. You’d certainly agree with that, yes?”
“Yes, but maybe only temporarily. Let’s not jump to conclusions. It still might be a communications issue only.”
“You’re deluding yourself.”
This from the leader of the daily prayers, thinks Heller. Hobbes stays silent.
“Maybe we need to elect someone,” says Manafort. “Someone we all agree on to be in charge here.”
His implication is clear. That Hobbes’s leadership is provisional, previously appointed under different circumstances, and actual leadership has only now been called upon in this extraordinary current situation. That Hobbes is not the leader they need.
“We need access to those guns,” says Manafort.
“What, to shoot each other?”
“To defend ourselves against each other.”
“Listen to yourself, Bobby. Defend ourselves against each other. Does that sound like the society we should be heading toward?”
“Don’t be naive, Manny. We both know what the food supply is.”
“Ah, so you admit it. You know we’re not hiding any.”
“We both know what kind of world we could be heading toward. What kind of competition.”
“But it’s up to us to stop that kind of world. To be smarter than that. To head it off before it happens.”
“More people should have access to those guns. People who everyone agrees on. That’s only fair. That’s only democratic.”
That’s the problem with democracy, thinks Heller. Everyone gets to claim it as their own. No one’s in charge. Not the best system when survival is at stake.
That’s only fair. That’s only democratic. Heller understands for the first time that Manafort is being authentic. That Manafort not only is a believer but truly believes he is doing right. A righteous man. A particularly dangerous thing.
Hobbes looks evenly at Robert Manafort.
“So you’re saying that if more people have access to those guns, that’s going to make us all safer? Is that really what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying that it’s wrong that the only person who has access is you. You and your lieutenants. You’re playing God, and only God gets to be God.”
“But you’re putting your faith in God, yes?”
“God is the only fair one. The only unbiased one.”
“And what sort of God, Bobby? A kind and benevolent one? Or a cruel and harsh and vindictive one?”
Manafort’s only response is a smug, superior smile. Smug enough, superior enough that Heller feels he can read the thought behind it. Whatever kind of God it is, he’s on our side.
“We need access to those guns,” says Manafort. “We can’t have a society of haves and have-nots, because the have-nots in this case risk having nothing. Nothing but death.”
There is silence in the conference room. Theatrical, threatening, extended, operatic. Hobbes stares balefully at Manafort and his sudden lieutenants, Holson and Pike, who stare back. A stare-off. A standoff.
“How many guns are there?” Holson asks.
“Too many,” Hobbes answers.
“And where’s the ammunition?”
“Not with the guns,” Hobbes lies. Fluently, easily, Heller notices. A stalling tactic, Heller figures. “Keeping them separate creates one more chance for safety. One more hurdle against chaos.”
“No ammunition? What if we do have to defend ourselves? What if we have to use them?”
“If you have to use them,” says Hobbes, “then it’s already too late.”
“People want to defend themselves,” says Manafort.
“Against who?”
“Against harm. Against bedlam.” And then he narrows his eyes and says what he knows will be inflammatory. “Against the godless and the faithless.”
“Now wait,” says Hobbes. Now uncomfortable. Now somewhat alarmed. “So are you starting to conceive a society of believers versus nonbelievers? Of the godly versus the godless? Is that what’s going on in your prayer meetings?”
Knowing that is exactly what’s going on.
“Us and them? Is that what’s happening in your prayer meetings, Bobby?”
But if he is hoping to shame him, thinks Heller, he may only be helping Manafort experience his own power. His own specialness. His own separateness.
He sees a flash of anger in Hobbes’s eyes. Something he has never seen before in the gentle, modest, methodical scientist he has come to know. He sees Hobbes straighten, thrust his chest out. He sees the eight-year-old schoolboy on the playground, the primitive instincts of aggression and defense and survival, suddenly surface, in that stance, in that flash of eyes.
He sees the schoolboy standoff matched by the bully. The bully so ineffectively disguised as a man of God.
“If you don’t distribute that firepower real soon,” says Manafort, “lots of people are going to get real angry, real fast. They’re scared. They’re anxious. They need a way to feel less scared and anxious. A way to defend themselves against fear and anxiety.”
It goes unsaid, but Heller feels it. You give us some of those guns, or we’re gonna take them.
Heller feels it getting real ugly, real fast.
Hobbes has the guns. Manafort has God. Neither source of power has ever been tested or called upon in Antarctica before.
Heller is somehow certain that both sources of power will come into play.
Heller isn’t sure what’s going to have more power here. A few guns or God?
“I need to protect our food supply,” says Manafort. “That’s our lifeline here, and you know it. I have to protect that food, for all our sakes. You get me those guns.”
And Heller hears it again, at the back of his brain. The little whisper again. I’ve got the food.
And if he has the food and the guns, then he has everything.
Real ugly. Real fast.
59.
Manafort quickly proves himself unnervingly adept at the politics of perception.
He locks up the kitchen supp
lies. Puts padlocks on all the cabinets and industrial pantries.
“This is for us,” he tells his acolytes at the prayer meetings. “This is for us, for each of us—so that no man or woman has greater rights than any other. We are all God’s creatures. We all have equal value in God’s eyes. But this is to protect us from man—any man—usurping that view. Deciding selfishly otherwise.”
This, Heller realizes, does a few things:
It is a parry directed at Hobbes and the still-locked guns. If you can lock up the guns, I can lock up the food.
It appears to his flock, his growing group of followers, that he is protecting them. Keeping their food safe. Vouchsafing their survival.
It puts Manafort more in charge. Makes him look benevolent, paternalistic, righteous—just what the God-fearing would expect and accept in their leader.
And most of all, it sends a message about a power shift, about a fundamental change at McMurdo Station. In Antarctica. On the planet, possibly.
The power is shifting to the kitchen.
From the laboratories, from science, from exploration to meal prep. From the consideration of the cosmos to the number of cans, the pallets of potatoes, the number of calories. From advanced degrees to basic muscle and brawn. From light years away to the primitive safety of the three square feet around you. Heller sees the shift. He knows that Manafort sees it already too. Maybe Hobbes sees it already, or doesn’t, but they will all eventually see it. And Heller is blessed and cursed to see it first.
60.
On his own—unaccompanied, unescorted, but moving carefully, attentively, across the dimly lit paths of McMurdo, dressed correctly for even this short trip through the winter cold—he makes his way to the observatory.
He’s drawn, yes, by the prospect of another look, another peek at the vividness of the cosmos. There’s no need to interview Green again. No follow-up questions. Just the need to be there.
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