She stared at him. “None except the ones I told you about.”
“Ah.” Another pause. “And the NSF rep at the Pole, and the ASL station manager; they’re in your full confidence?”
“Why yes. Did they seem not to be?”
“I don’t know.”
Now his gaze was focused, and he was staring at her. Their gazes met for a matter of seconds.
“They weren’t particularly helpful,” he said. “The NSF rep in particular appeared to think I might represent a threat to the Pole station, somehow.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He waved a hand. “It’s not really important. But …” He thought for a moment, appeared to change tack. “I’m thinking of trying to visit the oil exploration camp on Roberts Massif, at the head of Shackleton Glacier.”
“I see,” Sylvia said, taken aback. “And why that one, in particular?”
“Well …” He drifted over to her wall map, found the Shackleton and put his fingertip on Roberts. “See, it’s not so far from the Pole. And it’s not so far from the place where the SPOT train was hijacked or whatever.”
“Here’s the actual site of their current cost well,” Sylvia said, pointing to another red dot, out on the polar cap and even closer to the Pole. “That’s even closer to the Pole and the SPOT incident site.”
“Ah ha. And they use a hovercraft to get around on the cap?”
“Why yes, I’ve heard they do.”
“Do you know anything about this hovercraft?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at him closely. “It’s an old Antarctic veteran, actually. Or part of one. It was based here at McMurdo long ago, then shipped out to Christchurch when it was found not to be very useful.” Actually the rumor Sylvia had heard was that the pilots had been a pair of wild women who had hotdogged around in the thing until the ASA brass in charge at that time had gotten annoyed and taken it away from them. But that was the kind of rumor one heard when out in the field. Transmission error in gossip was a phenomenal thing, and there was no way to know now what had really happened. “Anyway, when these people put together their program they tracked the Hake down in a warehouse in New Zealand and bought it, and had it modified and flew it back down. But why are you interested?”
He shrugged. “There were indications at the Pole that a hovercraft might be involved in some of the thefts from old station.”
“Really? What were the indications?”
“It was something some people said. Just a matter of seeing tracks, you know. Or not seeing tracks. They didn’t want me to break confidentiality, so I shouldn’t say more. I guess because they didn’t tell the NTSB investigators about it. Something about seeing the tracks only because they were out where they weren’t supposed to be, in one of the proscribed zones.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I thought I’d visit Roberts and see what I could find out there. Keri at the Pole said I had to come back here and fly out to Shackleton field camp, and then get heloed up to Roberts.”
“Yes, that’s right. And we can certainly do that for you. There’s a flight to Shackleton leaving in, let’s see …” She consulted the schedule: “Oh my. In three hours. Think you can make it?”
He blew out a breath. “Ah why not. I can sleep in the Herc.”
“That’s right. First law of Antarctic travel; go when you can.”
“Yes.”
“But what about the people at Roberts, and out at this drill site? What makes you think they will talk to you, or even take you in? They haven’t acknowledged a single one of our messages.”
“I’ve got Senator Chase talking to them directly, and to the home offices in the consortium. It sounds like they’re willing to have me visit.”
“Really! Well, that’s good. That’s progress. I’ll be very interested to hear what you learn there.”
He nodded, looking at her oddly. Another pause. He was not laying all his cards on the table, she saw; and he suspected that she wasn’t either. Well, that was life: NSF and Congress did not have identical interests. Of course NSF reported to Congress, and so in theory she should be telling him everything she knew, or else she would be getting in trouble. “Let’s meet again when you get back,” she said, “and go over everything we don’t have time for now. You’d better get out to the skiway, or else you’ll miss your flight. I’ll have Paxman call out and tell them you’re coming.”
“Thanks.” Wearily he rose and went to the door. Two Herc flights in a single day; and already he looked wasted. He stopped in the doorway and allowed a flash of irritation to show, then shifted it into a wry smile. “If we were to put together the pieces of the puzzle we each have, we might be able to make enough of the picture to recognize it.”
“Yes,” she said.
He stared at her, then continued out the door.
When he was out of the Chalet, Sylvia checked her watch; nine P.M. She sighed; she’d have to wait until mid rats to eat, and she was starving already. She pulled a box of camp crackers out of her desk and got on the phone and had Randi patch her on a radio link out to S-375.
“Geoffrey, it’s Sylvia here, do you read me, over?”
Radio static, harsher than usual; then Geoff’s voice: “Yes, Sylvia, we read you, how are you? What’s up, over?”
“I’ve just had the assistant to Senator Chase here, Geoff. He’s just back from Pole, and he’s off to visit the oil exploration camp in the Mohn Basin.”
“Ah yes. He visited us here, as you know.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Well, he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Interested in us, or so it seemed. He asked good questions. We enjoyed his visit, anyway.” Voices and laughter in the background. “Although that may have been because of his mountaineer, or so my young libidinally starved colleagues seem to be implying, yes.” More laughter. “I myself am far above such things, as you know.”
“Oh of course, of course.”
“But do you think he means trouble for NSF?”
“No no, not necessarily. But I think he might have stumbled into the local culture at Pole, and been told some things that he thinks we don’t know.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Tell me, Geoff, did the discussions at SCAR last winter shed any light on what we were calling the unfunded experiments?”
“Not really, no. There were stories, of course. Everyone agrees that there is some of that going on, but no one really knows how much. That’s the nature of the beast, isn’t it.”
“Yes. Do you think Mai-lis is still part of it?”
“I would guess so, yes. I think it very likely.”
Sylvia stared at the wall map. The colored dots on it were like the connect-dots of some foreign alphabet. “Well, thanks, Geoff. How is your work going out there?”
“Oh fine, fine. Field work. You know how that is, Sylvia.”
“Yes,” she said with a pang. Compared to NSF administration in McMurdo, he meant to say, it was paradise. Beaker heaven, as the ASL staff put it. But it was after the fall for her. “Let me know if you hear anything more.”
“I certainly will, although out here we are not in much of a position to hear anything. But some nights we surf the radio waves for entertainment, and if we hear anything interesting I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Geoff. Good luck out there.”
“And the same to you, Sylvia. You need it more than we do.”
“I suppose so. It would certainly be nice to have some kind of serious regulatory ability for a change, that’s for sure.”
“Well, you’re a U.S. Marshall yourself, right?” Sounds of laughter behind him.
“That’s right,” she said. “But it may be that we will end up needing a bit more firepower than that.”
8
The Sirius Group
Graham walked some distance behind Geoffrey and Harry and Misha, over broken dolerite. They were checking a beautiful long band of Sirius sandstone plastered ab
ove them against one of the dolerite cliffs of the Apocalypse Peaks. The band was a succession horizontally stratified at scales both large and small. Diamictons containing different mixes of boulders, cobbles and laminated silts, and bounded above and below by distinct disconformities, horizontal to slightly inclined. Planar to slightly undulating small-scale relief. One line was traceable for more than thirty meters as Graham walked it off. Certainly this succession had been deposited in situ, and then plowed away by the next grounded glacier to pass over, leaving only this sandy blond band against the rock, where the force of the passing ice was lessened just enough to leave a trace against the wall.
He leaned down and tapped at white diatomite with his geological hammer, then scratched at it. The D-7 disconformity, about a centimeter wide. Below it all the diamictons were marine; above it they were subaerial. Which did not mean that this line had been sea level, but that the rise of the Transantarctics had lifted this region out of the seas for good at about the time this disconformity had been laid. As they were now at some fifteen hundred meters above sea level, it implied an uplift rate of about five hundred meters per million years, if you accepted the Pliocene dating of the Sirius, as Graham did. That was a fairly rapid uplift rate, and one of the ways that the stabilists criticized the dynamicists’ conclusions; but faster rates were certainly known, and it was hard to argue the evidence, displayed here on the cliffside like a classroom diagram. Graham would have very much liked to take his first thesis advisor by the scruff of the neck and haul him to this very point and shove his face into such a display, clearer even than the Cloudmaker Formation. See that! he would have said. How can you deny the facts!
But of course it was not actually a cliff of facts, but of stone. Interpretations were open to argument, at least until the matter was firmly pinned down and black-boxed, as Geoffrey put it, meaning become something that all the scientists working in that field took for granted, going on to further questions. Some scientific controversies resolved themselves fairly quickly, and others didn’t; and this was proving to be one of the slow ones. As they had not black-boxed this particular question, it was still sediment only and not yet fact.
This process was something that Graham had not understood early in his career, and it had gotten him into considerable trouble. He had started his graduate work in geology at Cambridge, working with Professor Martin, unaware of the fact that Martin’s own work dating ash deposits in the Transantarctics allied him with the stabilists in the Sirius controversy. Graham had merely wanted to work in the Antarctic and knew that that was Martin’s area of research. He had been very naive, having been educated mostly in physics, with only a late switch to geology because of the field work, and the tangibility of rock—a switch just begun at that time in his life, and by little more than his entry into graduate level work in Martin’s group. Then he had been so immersed in catching up on the basics of geology that he had not been fully aware of the Sirius controversy and how Martin fit into it, and so he had not understood why Martin had been so cool to his geomorphological research into the question of why the Transantarctics were there at all. As part of that study Graham had examined the question of how quickly the range was uplifting, and had come to the conclusion that although the range was quite old, dating from about eighty million years ago, when the East Antarctic craton began to show intracraton rifting, still it looked like it had been rising at a fairly rapid clip in the most recent period, perhaps (he had ventured rashly) because of the lithostatic pressure of the ice cap. And Martin had been cool, and had never devoted any of his time to critiquing Graham’s papers on the subject, or contributing any of what he needed to contribute, as second author and principal investigator, to make the papers publishable. In a fit of angry frustration Graham had sent one paper to a journal without Martin’s approval, as the approval seemed likely never to come; and the paper had been rejected, Martin informed of the submission, and Graham basically dismissed from the program, as he was not invited to return to Antarctica in Martin’s group the following season.
This experience had made him bitter. He had gone back to New Zealand, and there one night in a pub one of his old teachers from the university in Christchurch had shaken his head and explained some things to him. Martin had cast his lot in with the stabilists in the Sirius controversy because his findings in volcanic ash convinced him that the Transantarctics and Antarctica generally had been in the deep freeze for at least twelve million years. One of the many other aspects of the controversy had to do with the rate of uplift of the Transantarctics, with the stabilists maintaining that there was no reason for the range to be rising anywhere near as fast as the dynamicists claimed, so that the Sirius formations had to be older than they claimed in order to be found now at such high elevations. And so naturally, his old teacher told him, Graham’s conclusions had not been welcome.
This had outraged Graham. A perversion of science! he cried. But his old professor had chided him. No no, he had said, it’s your own fault; you should have known better. Perhaps it’s even my fault; I should have taught you better than I did how science works, obviously.
There was nothing particularly untoward in Martin’s response, Graham’s teacher explained to him, with no outrage or indignation whatsoever. Indeed, he said, if Graham had joined the program of one of the dynamicists, and begun to produce work indicating that the ice had lain heavy on Antarctica for millions and millions of years, he would not have prospered there either. It was not a matter of evil-doing either way; the simple truth was that science was a matter of making alliances to help you to show what you wanted to show, and to make clear also that what you were showing was important. And your own graduate students and post-docs were necessarily your closest allies in that struggle to pull together all the strings of an argument. All this became even more true when there was a controversy ongoing, when there were people on the other side publishing articles with titles like “Unstable Ice or Unstable Ideas?” and so on, so that the animus had grown a bit higher than normal.
So, Graham had been forced to conclude, thinking over his talk with his old teacher in the days after: it was not that Martin was evil, but that he Graham had been naive, and, yes, even stupid. Thick, anyway. Bitterness was not really appropriate. Science was not a matter of automatons seeking Truth, but of people struggling to black-box some facts.
So his education began again, in effect, after two years wasted in Cambridge. Which was not so very great a length of time in scientific terms. Many scientists had taken far longer to learn how their disciplines worked. And so Graham had become reconciled to the experience and had shelved it, and gotten into a program in glaciology at the University of Sydney, and gone on from there.
That had all happened a long time ago. And yet still the Sirius controversy raged on, with both sides finding new allies and students, and producing papers published in peer-reviewed journals. Graham thought he began to see a tilt on the part of outsiders toward the dynamicist interpretation; but as he was a dynamicist himself now, he supposed he could not really tell for sure. Anyway, the case was beginning to look stronger to him as the years passed and evidence from other parts of Antarctica was collected. Over in the Prince Charles Mountains, for instance, on the other side of Antarctica, the Aussies were making a good case that there had been Pliocene-era seas as far as five hundred kilometers inland from the current shore. The Beardmore Glacier had been pretty conclusively shown to be a paleofjord, and there were unallied scientists referring to a “Beardmore paleofjord” in other contexts, also to Nothofagus beardmorensis, the beech type found in the Cloudmaker Formation and named by dynamicists to underline its location of discovery. And evidence of beech forests was showing up elsewhere in Sirius formations, with seeds and beetles and other plant material all pointing to the Pliocene or late Miocene. No, the case was coming together at last, after all these long years; all of Geoff Michelson’s career, effectively, and passed on to him from his advisor Brown, who had also spent a career workin
g away at it; and now, come to think of it, a good fair fraction of Graham’s career had been devoted to it as well. All to build the walls that would box this part of the story up for good, building it brick by brick over years and generations. Because the stones did not speak, not really. They had to be translated.
The sun wheeled and the steep wall of dolerite overhead now cast them in the shade, and it got markedly colder. They were truly much younger-looking mountains than any other eighty-million-year-old range, still as steep and jagged as the Himalayas or the Alps, both only a fourth as old; saved by the cold from the ravages of water erosion, and so aged by the winds only, and rising so fast that the rise more than compensated for that abrasion. Cryopreserved, so to speak.
To keep warm Graham went to work taking some samples from the disconformity just above head level. The diamictite would rub away with a gloved fingertip, but hacking out a good sample was work to warm one up. Certainly water had been here, and seafloor diatoms, the paleobotanists told him, benthic genera that indicated brackish to near-normal marine conditions. A shallow seabottom, a fjord probably, perhaps later a lake that slowly dried out. Shoreline of a fjord. Above the shore, a low hardy beech forest. The Pliocene had without a doubt had temperatures high enough to support Nothofagus; this was agreed upon by everyone, having been an earlier case that some other group had already black-boxed: warm Pliocene, no questions asked. And now a fact basic to the dynamicist case; that was the crux of their whole argument, really—that if you got global temperatures as high as the Pliocene, the Antarctic ice sheets melted both east and west, leaving glaciated archipelagoes and an embayed craton, in a sea covered every winter by substantial amounts of sea ice. That would account for the clear varving here, now that he thought of it; it need not be just the tidal marks on a seashore, but annual sediment fall on a seafloor that in winters was covered by a roof of sea ice. “Hmmm …” Graham said, glancing at Michelson.
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