by Hannah Ross
Scott walked over to an empty chair and turned it to face the crowd. He meant to sit but, realizing it would probably be more appropriate, remained standing. He cleared his throat. "I trust everybody knows why we have gathered here," he said, sounding booming and authoritative and not at all like himself. "I have just received a briefing from my supervisor at the Antarctic Program, and I'm sure you have watched the news, which gives you a clue as to what is going on. In short, the world is one big mess right now, and here at McMurdo we’re just being hit by the side-currents of the disaster. Practically speaking," he went on, "getting to and from the station is going to be a challenge in the upcoming months. Not all who were due to leave for the winter will be able to leave, and not all the supplies we might have counted on will be received."
"And if we get into more details, Mr. Buckley?" Sue Ellis spoke up.
"A jet of one hundred and fifty passenger seats arrives the day after tomorrow. Fifty seats will be reserved for the remaining tourists, to evacuate them to New Zealand. This leaves a hundred seats for the summer workers. I cannot guarantee that another flight or ship will come after that, though I certainly hope for the best. It is beyond my power to make any promises, however."
There was a great hubbub of voices at this declaration.
"A hundred and fifty seats, that's fine and well," said Stanley, the helicopter pilot, "but I'm sure the airplane can hold more if people agree to crowd in the passage and forget about the seat belts. They can undertake it at their own risk."
"No, Stan," Scott said. "This would be going against all safety regulations, and I'm sure that the New Zealand Airlines won't permit it. For now, the situation at McMurdo does not justify such a measure. People would be safer staying here than flying to New Zealand without proper seats."
"Maybe you should ask the people in question what they think about it," suggested Sue. "As for us," she swept the room with a glance, "I see that most of the people here are due to stay over winter anyway. But people who were counting on getting away before the dark season, they will panic at the idea of being divided from their families for another six months. They will be desperate to get home."
"That is, if there's a home to get to in two more days," Jerry Gordon quipped, and people put their heads together and began whispering, some in panic, some in anger.
"Asking people will do no good," Scott said. "We must count on a hundred seats for now, and we must make a priority list of who goes first. If we let people voice their opinion, I'm sure everyone will say their case is a top priority and they ought, beyond all discussion, to be on that flight to New Zealand."
"So how do you suggest we determine the priority?"
"Well, there's the age factor. I say all summer workers over sixty..."
"Don't forget to provide wheelchairs for the greybeards," the head of maintenance, who was at least seventy years old, put in acidly.
"And there are preexisting health conditions – Dr. Hope will be able to provide me with a record of those. We might run out of certain medicines over winter, and this will be a disaster for people with chronic conditions. There's also the question of professional capability. Some summer workers would be an asset to us during the winter, with the population higher than we had counted on, while others would only be a burden. I plan to make a list of those professionals I would be glad to keep, and maybe they will volunteer to stay in the first place, reducing competition for the plane seats."
"I will stay, if I'm any good," said a voice with a thick accent. It was Petri Karhu, a marine biologist from Finland who came to McMurdo as part of an exchange program for researchers. A blonde giant with mighty fists, he reminded Scott more of the Anai hunters than of someone shut up in his laboratory eighteen hours a day whenever he wasn't out taking water samples. "I understand it won't be all about science this winter. If you need a pair of working hands..." he raised a massive forearm with a tattoo of a snake coiling around the wrist.
"Thank you, Mr. Karhu, this is much appreciated," Scott said. "I intend to get to work on the list at once, and plan to have it ready by tonight. Either way, even at the most optimistic scenario, we are facing a winter of rather more people, and less supplies, than we had counted on. I sanguinely hope we will be able to avoid any real deficit of food, fuel or other necessities, but we will have to plan accordingly. We will have to make sure that the wind turbines are utilized to their full capacity – for that, of course, we will have to cooperate with Scott Base. There won't be a shortage of purified drinking water, I trust, but we might have to limit shower times by installing timers."
"I can shower three times a week," Jerry said, amidst hearty sniggers. "It hasn't hurt anybody yet."
"That's what you think," someone elbowed him in the ribs.
"Jerry, you are one of the most important people at McMurdo right now," Scott went on. "The greenhouse is no longer a luxury, it's part of what may stand between us and food shortages this winter. I trust you to run it in as efficient a manner as possible, and focus on those vegetables that satisfy real nutritional needs rather than fancy tastes."
"A few weeds won't save us from going hungry, when the rubber hits the road," Scott heard the odious voice of Victor Nash from the back. "If things get tough, we mustn't forget that Antarctica has endless stores of food we can tap into when necessary. There are fish, seals, penguins..."
People were frowning, muttering, and shaking their heads. Scott gave Nash a scathing look.
"Mr. Nash," he said, "may I remind you that McMurdo Station is committed to making, as much as possible, zero impact on the environment? All wildlife in Antarctica, whether on land or in the waters, is protected according to the law."
"There would be exceptions when people are starving, I'm sure," Nash said, giving him an insolent look and eliciting some disapproving stares from the research teams.
"We're nowhere near that point just yet, thank you very much. When the stores are depleted, then you can talk to me about a possibility of exploiting wildlife for food, but not before. Right now I don't want to hear another word about that."
Nash fell silent, glaring and chewing his lower lip.
"There's also the question of communications," Zoe put in. "These are often patchy throughout the winter, and I expect this time they will be even more so. People will have to have patience. We'll have to limit internet calls and heavy file transfer, and maybe even usage of email altogether if enforcing other rules doesn't work."
"Thanks, Zoe. You're right. As anxious as people will be to keep in constant touch with their families during this time, we must consider the station’s overall needs. Making the station available for briefing with headquarters takes precedence over private emails."
"Above all,” Scott went on, "it is imperative that the work at McMurdo station continue as usual. The Antarctic Program is not supposed to be affected by war or political considerations. At this time, we can see ourselves as a stronghold of normalcy in a world that has been turned upside down. We will carry on, business as usual, as much as we can, and hope to emerge into a more peaceful world at the end of the winter."
He stopped, and was surprised to hear his words received by a spontaneous outburst of applause. "Way to go, Buck!" Jerry called out. "Lindholm would have been proud to hear you."
"Everyone, please brief your teams accordingly. I will get back to the office now, and send an email to all the workers," Scott said, and people got up and began filing out of the club. Some were flipping their phones out at they walked, eager to connect to the news websites. Others stopped to clap him on the back and say a few words. Finally, it was just him and Nash left, shooting each other hostile looks from opposite ends of the room.
Scott strode over, until no more than three feet separated them. "For everybody's good, Nash," he said, "I suggest that you should be among those who leave McMurdo on that plane. I can't force you to resign, but I can advise you that you would be better off elsewhere."
Victor's thin lips twitched in d
isdain. "I have given twelve years of my life to McMurdo," he said. "Twelve goddamn years, without a single holiday. You won't be the one to shove me out, Buckley."
Scott shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "But I just have to warn you, Nash, that I won't put up with any of your tricks. You will comply with the regulations of the Antarctic Program. You will honor the Treaty. You will respect the wildlife. And you will honor people," he went on. "All people – do you understand? – or you'll wish you had left while you still had time."
"You won't threaten me, Buckley," Nash said, spun around, and strode out.
With seven hundred people vying for a hundred seats, composing the passenger priority list was a pain, but Scott managed it with due help from the staff. Many gave up on their plan to go home for the winter, and volunteered to remain at the station. Others took it stoically, realizing that others needed that passage home more than they did. Younger people stood aside in favor of older, single people in favor of those who had families. Several even expressed their satisfaction at having to stay, considering McMurdo as one of the safest retreats in the world at the present time. Nevertheless, there were some cases of severe pressure, hysteria, and even bribe attempts, from people desperate to get home. Scott did not allow himself to waver, however, and on the appointed day, fifty tourists and a hundred staff members boarded the plane with reasonable dignity, and without undue pushing and shoving.
A few days later, just before China bombed Japan and the world plunged deeper into the dark abyss of chaos, McMurdo had another stroke of luck – a supply ship arrived from Argentina, with room for another hundred passengers, which turned into a hundred and fifty with some desperate pleading and emergency accommodations. Another priority list was compiled, and the ship sailed away, leaving a total of around seven hundred people to bear the winter at McMurdo.
There would be no more planes or ships until the end of the season. The war was rising, and darkness was falling. The days were shortening rapidly, and Ross Island was fast approaching the last sunset, which was due to signal the beginning of the long sunless winter.
Chapter 13
It was with a sinking feeling that the remaining population of McMurdo watched the last ships leave. With them was gone the last chance of rejoining families and coming home before the Antarctic winter. The two hundred and fifty year-round workers did not plan on anything else, but the remaining four hundred and fifty were pretty desponding, and kept glued to the news broadcasts as if to a lifeline. Not that the news supplied any particularly reassuring information. On the contrary, there was a new disaster to come to terms with every day – the Eiffel Tower, symbol of old-class well-to-do Europe, lay in ruins; London and New York were bombed; more soldiers were recruited every day, but it didn't look like anything availed against the Korean and Chinese expansion.
The broadband connection was so overburdened that private internet calls were limited to five minutes once a day, and those who didn't comply were fined. Finally, unwilling to let general gloom sink in, Jerry Gordon raised a campaign for avoiding any talk about politics or news in the clubs after working hours. Many recognized this as a wise measure, but the avoidance of public news didn't do much good. People would sit gloomily at the bar, mostly in silence, and from time to time they sighed and said things like, "I wonder what Tom is doing right now – he has been deployed for two months, and I haven't heard from him since", or "I hope to God they have enough bomb shelters in Baltimore – you never know what will happen tomorrow."
The people of McMurdo did not really fear for themselves, but there was a general depressing atmosphere of helplessness, despondency and gloom, that settled over the station like a black cloud. People went on about their business as usual, not slacking off and not cutting corners, but an unspoken question lingered in the air: is there even a point to keep going, when there might be no Antarctic Program, no United States, no world as we know it come spring?
Scott had his own matters to weigh upon his mind. The divorce papers had not come yet, but this was unsurprising, as all private mail via New Zealand arrived very sporadically these days. Brianna hadn't responded to his email, though his tracking program enabled him to know that the message had been opened, and he didn't attempt to make another internet call, as he knew it would take far more than five minutes, and he had to set an example for the McMurdo staff.
One day, just as he was heading for lunch, Scott ran into Zoe in the corridor. She was crying surreptitiously and rubbing her eyes furiously, and turned away when he approached. He stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder.
"What's up, Zoe?"
She looked at him, as if debating within herself how much to tell him, and eventually said, "I have just come back from the clinic."
"The clinic?" Scott repeated with a jolt of dread. "Are you ill?"
"Not yet, but with the way things are going, I will be soon. I asked for some antidepressants, or maybe some anxiety meds, or both, but Dr. Hope refused to give me any. Said that other people might need them a lot more than I do once darkness really kicks in, and that she won't squander the station's supply on those who," Zoe paused and her voice became infused with sarcasm, "just need to get a grip on themselves."
Scott frowned. "Are things really that bad?" he asked. "Do you generally take antidepressants during the winter?"
"Don't be ridiculous. If I did, I would have quit my position a long time ago. But with things going on the way they are, and me only able to talk to my family once a week or so... I need those meds to keep from going crazy, Buck. Hey," she stopped, as if hit by a sudden idea, "you can make Dr. Hope give me those pills! You are the general overseer, aren't you?"
"Yes, but I don't want to interfere with Dr. Hope's policy. She has been running the clinic for many years, and she knows what she is doing. I'm sure that, if she had thought you really need antidepressants, she would have given you some."
"But..."
"I have a better idea," he said in a sudden stroke of inspiration. "I think Jerry isn't in the galley yet. Let's stop by the greenhouse."
Zoe wrinkled her nose. "I know the kind of drink Gordon keeps in his fridge in the greenhouse, and I doubt it's going to help me solve my problems."
"I don't mean alcohol. Come on, we'll go in to lunch a few minutes later."
Fresh and verdant, the greenhouse was a haven of life and tranquility in the glum atmosphere of McMurdo. The plants, oblivious to the happenings of the mad world thousands of miles away, were shooting up towards the artificial lights, spreading their leaves and straddling the trellis Jerry had helpfully strung up for them. They found Jerry on all fours, moving a rack of containers with tiny peppers. He straightened up and smoothed down his orange work pants, regarding them with surprise.
"Hey there, Buck," he said. "Zoe, come on in. I don't often see you around here."
"Um, well, no," she said, fingering a striped eggplant. "This is, um, a really nice place. I don't reckon I've been here these two years."
"Not if you could help it," Jerry said brightly, and looked at Scott. "What's up, Buck?"
"I think Zoe could do with some occupational therapy," Scott said. "Maybe you have some, I don't know, tomatoes that need replanting?"
"What?" Zoe spluttered with indignation. "I don't need any occupational therapy, and I don't know anything about plants!"
"Hey, whatever," Scott threw up his arms in defense. "I just thought it might be better than depression meds."
Zoe looked as if she were ready to murder him on the spot. "I don't..." she managed to utter. "You have no right to… to… to present me like I'm some sort of raving lunatic!"
A glimmer of understanding appeared in Jerry's eyes, and he nodded. "Hey, there's no need to get all prickly," he told Zoe. "I spend almost all my time in the greenhouse these days. I get out only to go to meals, or head to my quarters for the night. I've nearly given up the clubs. People are so bloody depressing, and talk about nothing but whatever else might be getting blown up on the o
ther side of the world right now. How's a man supposed to take that? So I take my laptop here, to do some reading and listen to my collection of jazz, and I'm a happier man for it. But you have no such luxury. You're stuck at the communications center all day long. If I were you, I would have run screaming for antidepressants a long time ago."
"I - I don't... I wouldn't..." Zoe muttered, but the anger had gone out of her face, and she looked tired and sad. "I don't know how we're going to pull through this winter," she said, rubbing her eyes.
"Better than most of the world, I'd say," Jerry ventured. "At least if you view things objectively, you know. Anyway... don't feel like you have to do this, Zoe, but I do have a few projects going on that I could use a helping hand with, and the greenhouse, as you see," he spread his arms, "is woefully understaffed. So if you come from time to time, you could do something useful, or you could just putter around, or lie in the hammock and look at the plants and relax. And while you're here..." he stepped aside and flicked the button of an electric kettle. "I haven't told anybody, but I have a little collection of medicinal plants here, and I make some tinctures. Harmless stuff," he hastened to add. "Lavender, sage, mint... but I do find it helps me to go to sleep at night. Here, I'll fix you a cup."
He poured the boiling water into a smaller kettle, into which he also stuffed some fresh leaves. Zoe eyed the brew suspiciously.
"Go ahead, it's just herb tea. We'll all have a cup. Buck, there's a packet of ginger biscuits in the drawer. Pull it out, will you?"