Antarctica

by Kim Stanley Robinson

  “Well, his hand was cut,” Val said. “And he banged his head, I think. He seemed okay right after the accident, but later he lost it.”

  “Yes, but look at his collarbone. See that bend? I think he must have broken this collarbone too.”

  X glanced at Val; her eyes were round.

  “He didn’t say anything about that,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  “He must not have been using ski poles?”

  “Well, no, mostly he was. Other times he was letting them hang at his sides. I thought he was just tired. God damn it—why didn’t he say anything?”

  Carlos shrugged. “Well, hopefully he’ll be okay. A broken collarbone isn’t so bad, and if he was doing okay for a while after he hit the ice, it couldn’t be that bad. We’ll see. Looks like he’s just sleeping now. We’ll try to give him some hot liquids as soon as we can.”

  After that there was little they could do for the man, and Val and Carlos took charge of ransacking the hovercraft, to inventory what they had. X resisted the tendency to sink into client status with the rest of the group, and joined them in the search. He had only spent a few days at the station, but he remembered it well enough to go back out into the cold, on a quick search for anything that might have survived the blast and fire in the main complex.

  No luck. The fire had been comprehensive. He returned gratefully to the protection of the hovercraft, blowing into his fists to reheat his hands. It was still nearly as cold inside as out, but shelter from the wind made all the difference, and the hovercraft’s cabin was warming a bit. Inside it Val’s clients were still sitting on the benches, eating and drinking without pause. Val and Carlos were fiddling with the hovercraft’s radio. “Misery Peak is right in the way,” Carlos was saying. “No way we get a good connection.”

  “Misery Peak, Dismal Bluff,” Val said, reading a map. “The people who named this area sound like they were as bad off as us.”

  “No, those were just the names of their dogs.”

  “Ah.”

  “Can’t radio waves bounce off the, the ionosphere?” X asked.

  “Not down here. We’re at the end of the magnet, so to say. The radio waves just shoot right up the lines.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “But we might hit a repeater. Worth a try, that’s for sure. This is a lot more powerful radio than the one we tried before.”

  The radio had a handset like a telephone’s, connected to the big console by a typical handset cord. Carlos picked up this handset and pushed the button on it that would allow him to transmit, and a piercing high buzz filled the air. Carlos let off on the button and the noise ceased; tried it again, and got the same result. “Shit. There’s something wrong with the radio.”

  He pushed in the handset cord’s clips at both ends, banged the handset against the console, slapped the dashboard containing it. Still the earshattering buzz when he tried to transmit. “Ouch. I suppose the force of the explosion might have damaged something. Well, let’s see if it transmits anyway.” He pushed the button while covering the earpiece with his other hand, which muffled the high buzz somewhat, and said loudly into the transmitter, “Mac Coms, this is Roberts Station, Mac Coms, this is Roberts Station, do you read me, over?”

  After a few seconds of loud static, they heard a faint voice under the noise, a sound which brought them all on point like bird dogs:

  “Kkkkk Roberts Station this is Mac Coms kkkkkkkk very broken kkkkkkkkkkkk repeat, can you kkkkkkkkkkkk.”

  “That’s Randi,” Val said. “Tell her that T-023 is here too.”

  “Okay.” Carlos pushed the button again, and through the muffled whine shouted, “Mac Coms, we read you, this is Roberts Station and T-023, over!”

  More static. Then: “Kkkkkk you say T-023 kkkkkkkkkkkkk thought you said you were Roberts Station, over.”

  Carlos shouted “Yes, Mac Coms, this is Roberts Station, and we have T-023 with us! We need a medevac for T-023 at Roberts Station, over!”

  “Kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk do you need a medevac, over?”

  Carlos spared time to roll his eyes. He was in a better mood, X saw, now that they had established contact; and so was Val.

  “Yes, Mac Coms, we need a medevac. Repeat, we need a medevac, over!”

  “Kkkkkkk most of Antarctica needs a medevac, Roberts!” Even through the static X could tell Randi too was glad to have made contact. “What’s the nature of your problem? Where’s Val? What’s T-023 doing at Roberts anyway? Over.”

  Carlos shouted, “T-023 walked here, Mac Coms. Roberts Station is wrecked, it burned down. Same with Mohn Basin Camp. They were both bombed. We have nine people, one suffering hypothermia, and very little food. Can you help us, over?”

  “Kkkkkkkkkk lost helo and we are arranging evacuation. Many camps have been damaged, repeat kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk SAR is booked and we do not have full helo or coms kkkkkkkkkkkkk get down to Shackleton on your own, over?”

  “Randi, repeat, we have a hypothermia case here, over.”

  “Well warm him up for Christ’s sake! Over.”

  “He’s injured as well, Randi. When can you get us a medevac, over?”

  “Kkkkkkk yourself to Shackleton Camp, over?”

  Carlos and Val stared at each other. Finally Val took the handset and pressed the button, and through the howl said loudly, “Randi, this is Val! I don’t think we can make our way on foot to Shackleton Camp! We’ve already had to walk from the Axel Heiberg, and people are walked out. We need a lift, over!”

  “Didn’t read that, Val. You are very broken up, can you kkkkkkkkkk.”

  Val clicked in, shouted, “We need a lift out! Over!”

  “Lots of people feel left out right now, Val, but the SAR is overwhelmed! We’ve had twenty-two calls for help, and everyone else is calling in trying to find out what happened to coms kkkkkkkkkkkkk six or seven parties. We’re only just now back on the air, and still waiting for fuel resupply! We’re glad to hear from you, but if you can’t get to Shackleton Camp you’re going to have to sit tight for a few days, maybe more, over!”

  Val and Carlos looked at each other. Val shouted, “Okay, Randi, we read you! What happened to McMurdo, over?”

  “Kkkkkkk trouble reading you, Val, and I’ve got a call in from kkkkkk schedule next coms for nineteen hundred hours, do you kkkkkkkkk.”

  “We read you, Randi, sked coms nineteen hundred, we’ll talk to you then, over!”

  “Nineteen hundred, over and out.”

  Carlos turned off the radio, took a deep breath and let it out. “What a noise that thing makes!”

  But despite the frustration and the earsplitting noise, the call had done them all a lot of good. Even bad news was better than no news at all; the absence of contact had been oppressive, even frightening. Now they were back in contact, with another scheduled coms to look forward to. And the idea that they were not the only ones in Antarctica suffering problems was comforting too, X saw. Misery loves miserable company; and there they were, right under Misery Peak.

  So when Jim said, “What are we going to do? How are we going to get to Shackleton Camp?”

  Carlos just waved a hand and said, “Let’s not worry about that yet. First let’s get a big hot meal inside us, and I’ll finish finding out exactly what we have here. Then we can decide what comes next. Also we might learn more from our next coms, although,” he glanced at the radio and frowned, “we will see.”

  Wade and Ta Shu and Elspeth dug into the e-bags and got two more Coleman stoves set up on the broad shelf running down the side of the cabin, boiling water for stew and more hot drinks. “We will eat hoosh,” Carlos declared. “We will eat hoosh, like Shackleton and Scott!”

  “Like Amundsen,” Ta Shu corrected. “We are Footsteps of Amundsen expedition.”

  “Fine. Norwegian hoosh. Chunks of reindeer,” cackling as he inspected the antique package labels of the food in the e-bags. Watching him it occurred to X that Carlos was happy not only to be back in contact with McMurdo, but also to have he
ard that his had not been the only operation in Antarctica targetted for attack. Now he didn’t have to take it so personally. Although even when he had been taking it personally, at no point had he seemed to feel that they themselves were in terrible trouble being out here alone. For X, and he suspected for most of the rest of them, it was like being marooned, a kind of protracted death sentence. But for Carlos this was home—dangerous, but not terrifying. It was nice to have him there.

  Val had gone into the little storeroom behind the passenger compartment to check on her hurt client, and X followed her to see if there was anything he could do. When he got to the doorway she was leaning over the man’s handsome head, her own tilted to listen to his breathing, a look of deep concern on her face. She looked up at X and he stopped, raised a hand: “Sorry,” he said softly, “didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “You aren’t,” she said quietly.

  “So,” X said. “He, he means a lot to you,” gesturing at the man.

  “What?” she said. Then she understood him, and looked so surprised that X knew immediately that his suppositions had been wrong. And indeed she was staring at him now as if he were completely insane. X raised his other hand so that both were up, palms out, as if to ward off a blow.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean …”

  “Oh X,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re such a …” She couldn’t find the word.

  X ducked his head, sighed. It was true.

  “How’s he doing?” he said, to change the subject.

  She looked back down at the man. “It looks like he’s just sleeping now. The thermometers show his core temperature is about ninety-four. Anyway the bag is just barely heating him now.”

  Carlos appeared behind X. “How is he?” He came in and looked at the console’s numbers. “That’s good. Slow and steady rise. Pulse and blood pressure okay.” He stared at the man’s face. “Hello! Hello!” He shook his head. “Still out. Well, come on,” gesturing at the other room, “hot drinks, and dinner is on the table soon.”

  After their meal Carlos and X geared up again, and went out and made a really thorough search through the wrecked station. They found no further food supplies. “Hmm, hmm,” Carlos muttered as they returned to the hovercraft. “At Bernardo O’Higgins we always kept a big cache of food and supplies buried out in the snow, in case of fires in the winter. Here I should have done the same. I was thinking more about Mohn Basin, I must admit. And it is hard to believe that the transport system could break down this badly for so long, in this day and age. In the future we will have to remember.”

  “What about now?” X asked.

  “Well, what do we have. Four, no five e-bags … nine people …” He thought about it while they hurried across the gangplank to the shelter of the hovercraft. “We should probably get ourselves down to Shackleton Camp.”

  “That’s a long walk.”

  “Beats starving. Besides, we may not have to walk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Carlos pounded the side of the hovercraft.

  “Do you really know how to drive it?”

  “Yeah sure. I think so.” A broad grin for X, a slap on the shoulder; then they were back inside, which, though it was around zero Fahrenheit, still felt distinctly warm and comfy. It would be nice to get to Shackleton Camp without having to leave such a refuge, that was for sure.

  “I think we should try the hovercraft,” Carlos said to the others when they were settled back in the cabin, downing another mug of hot lemonade. “It’s fully fueled, and that’s more than enough to get us down to Shackleton.”

  “Do you know how to pilot it?” Val asked.

  “Yes. I have watched them pilot it many times, and copiloted, and it is not difficult. It does take two people, but I can tell X how to do the copiloting, and do the main piloting myself.”

  “X?”

  “X has seen it piloted too, so he has the most familiarity with how it works. Right?”

  X nodded. “The copilot just operates the lifters and the outriggers. Most of the trip he doesn’t do anything at all.”

  Val looked dubious; the rest of her group looked hopeful. “How much food do we have here?” she asked.

  “We have five e-bags,” Carlos said. “With nine people, that’s enough for a week, maybe ten days if we go hungry. It’s not bad, but it sounds like we are not high priority in McMurdo. It might not be enough.”

  “We could wait and see,” Wade said, “and when we only had a day or two left, go on down.”

  “Yes, we could. But by that time Shackleton Camp may have been evacuated. Then we would be low priority again. I would rather do something now. And also, you have this man who is warmed up but not really conscious yet. I don’t know what that means, but …”

  Val nodded to herself.

  “It would be good to get him to McMurdo soon,” Jim said.

  “Yes it would,” Val agreed.

  Jorge and Elspeth seemed willing. Ta Shu merely watched them, as if it were not his call to make.

  “We should get down there,” Val finally told her group.

  “I don’t think we can walk it,” Elspeth said.

  “No. But we have the hovercraft.”

  She looked at each of them in turn, and they nodded their comprehension. They had already been through a lot, X saw, and they trusted Val.

  “Tell you what,” Carlos said, “I’ll start up the hovercraft, and we’ll take it for a trial run right here outside the dock, make sure we know what we’re doing. If it looks good to you, we can go for it.”

  So X and Carlos went forward to the controls, and sat in the two pilots’ seats, and looked around at the intimidating banks of control consoles. At that moment it looked to X like the inside of an airplane cockpit. He had watched Geraldo and German pilot the craft to Mohn and back, but that, he saw now, was not enough.

  As they went over the controls together it became clear to X that they had an unspoken agreement not to discuss the many banks of toggles, switches, gauges and dials of which they were completely ignorant. They focused instead on the few things they knew which were crucial for running the thing: ignition, steering wheel, thrust throttles, lifter controls, outrigger deployment toggles. X nodded as Carlos named everything. The lifters and outriggers were the copilot’s only responsibilities. They seemed manageable.

  The two men grinned nervously at each other. “No problem,” Carlos declared.

  “Let’s see,” X said.

  Carlos turned on the engines. Muffled roar from behind and below, vibration all through the metal of the craft. They waited while the engines warmed up. This hovercraft was old, X saw, looking at the finger-polished tops of the toggles. A Hake 1500a. At some time in its life, no doubt its stint at Corrosion Corner, the outriggers had been added to give the craft more resistance to side winds and small inclines. By and large the craft was intended for flat surfaces only, like water or sea ice; in strong winds, or traversing any kind of slope, it tended to sideslip pretty badly, floating as it was on its own air cushion, with little or no contact with the ground. The enterprising engineers who had reworked the craft had therefore welded and bolted booms onto the sides, with a hydraulic system to lower them down onto the ice or raise them again. At the ends of the booms hung what looked to be snowmobiles stripped to their functional essence; when the booms were lowered and the snowmobiles’ engines turned on, their tracks would engage the ice and do their best to haul the whole craft in that direction, which gave the hovercraft some traction to that side. X had seen them deployed, and the system worked pretty well, helping the hovercraft to glide up and down the gentle undulations of the polar ice without sideslipping into basins on the side.

  Carlos had traveled with Geraldo and German on a route they had worked out down the steeper sections of the Zaneveld Glacier’s descent to Shackleton Camp, and now he found their maps marking the route in the craft’s computer, which X saw was a later addition, stuck on the dashboard and plugge
d in.

  “Okay, try the lift fans.”

  X found that the levers controlling these were extremely stiff, and had to be shoved up by main force; but when he did that the air intakes in the roof aft of them buzzed, the fan engines whined, the skirts that held in the air bellied out to their full extension, and the body of the hovercraft rose up off the ice, with only a single thump of the metal tub.

  When they were fully lifted, Carlos gave the thruster of the propeller fan a push forward. That engine proved to run several thousand rpm faster for every centimeter he moved the thruster, so that the craft jerked and slid forward over the ice, tilting down a tiny bit.

  “Jeez,” X said, “who did the ergonomics on these controls?”

  “An idiot,” Carlos said. “Where are Geraldo and German? Goddamned Argentinians …”

  “I thought they were Chilean.”

  “Well, now they are Argentinians.”