Antarctica

by Kim Stanley Robinson

  15

  Shackleton’s Leap

  When the next meeting convened in the Chalet, X still had not slept. A lot of the people there hadn’t, he could tell as they trickled in. There were not as many people as before, and many were still hunched together discussing specific issues, but after Sylvia got them seated in the big circle, and went through a description of some of the smaller meetings that had occurred since the session the previous evening, X raised a hand (sudden schoolboy nervousness, engendered by just that gesture alone).

  When Sylvia called on him in her strict schoolteacher style, he said, “Sylvia, I want to emphasize that what we’re talking about here is not just a question of what technologies we use in Antarctica, or of whether we’re abiding by the strict letter of the Treaty or not. The treatment of Antarctica will never be respectful and environmentally aware if the people living down here continue to be organized in the same way they always have been—that is to say, in hierarchies where the majority of the workers have no power or responsibility, and are merely doing what they’re told to do, for wages and nothing else. As it stands now, we’re hired and fired at the whim of people back in the world, and the people who love Antarctica the most end up suffering the most, because they keep coming back here when that wrecks the overall shape of their lives, back and forth with no continuity or security, no career advantage so to speak. So there’s a feeling of helplessness that creates a carelessness, which a lot of us wouldn’t have if we were more in control of our destinies down here. I know this because I was a General Field Assistant down here, and you can’t be more powerless than that and still be here. I know very well from that experience that ASL uses us to make their profits—we’re paid poorly and we have no job security, and if we don’t like it they just hire someone else. And, excuse me, but those employee practices have led to a hell of a lot of employee abuse here, right under the NSF’s nose, and to a certain extent with NSF approval—the suspension of the forty-hour work week, for instance, among many other such practices. NSF’s attitude has been to turn its head and let the contractor do whatever it had to do to keep the beakers running smoothly, while still making a profit for the contractor’s owners back in the world. And employees have taken the brunt of that kind of looking away for years. No way can people pay proper attention to Antarctica as a project or a life under those conditions. We can’t call our jobs ours, or this place home, so naturally we treat it like strangers.”

  Sylvia was watching him very closely now, X saw; it had not been a bad thing to implicate NSF in ASL’s sweatshopping. “What are you suggesting, specifically?” she asked.

  “The service contract comes up for bid again soon,” X said. “You could hire new contractors, either general or sub. Hire a company made up of ex-ASL employees reorganized as an employee-owned co-op, dedicated specifically to enacting a really rigorous environmental policy. As Mai-lis said about her group’s efforts, it could be seen as an experiment—a scientific experiment in seeing how a co-op with no profit beyond salaries and so forth could compete with a standard company, in terms of the services provided down here, combined with environmental improvements and the like.”

  “We already expect our Antarctic service contractors to conform to NEPA and all the specific regulations we’ve made,” Sylvia said. “As to the type of company, it would be less clear that we could decide that ourselves—I mean one type of company compared to another. Congress directs us there, I’m afraid, and the budgetary constraints are very tight.”

  X nodded. “Sure, I understand that. But without the need to generate a profit for shareholders, an employee-owned co-op should be able to do the same job for less money. So Congress would have no objections there.”

  Sylvia nodded doubtfully.

  Wade said, “Some relevant laws are up for review by the Congressional ways and means committees, and by the administration. Government contract preferences for employee-owned co-ops is an idea that has been introduced by Senator Chase many times before, and while there is resistance to the idea, there is also considerable support. Growing support.”

  Mr. Smith said, “Resistance from the owner class, support from the people. The idea that each corporation can be a feudal monarchy and yet behave in its corporate action like a democratic citizen concerned for the world we live in is one of the great absurdities of our time—”

  “Yes yes,” Sylvia said, cutting him off before he got rolling. “But in our situation here, specifically? With the contracts for service organizations coming up for renewal …”

  Wade said, “NSF might be able to make their decisions based on their current environmental regulations, so that it won’t have to wait for the ultimate decisions Congress makes concerning private contractor preferences. Especially in situations where the infrastructure is owned by NSF, as is the case here. This would be an area where a new employee co-op might be able to avoid the problems of capitalization. And if they could include a solid plan for increased environmental sensitivity as part of their bid, at a lower price, I should think it would be easy for NSF to support the more socially responsible organization.”

  “The two are the same,” X insisted, pounding his knee. “Social justice is a necessary part of any working environmental program.”

  “Yes,” Sylvia said slowly. “Well. At least we can include that as one of the recommendations in our little report here.”

  X sat back in his folding chair. His heart was pounding fast; it felt like a penguin was flapping its wings in there. Find those ruby slippers, put them on, click them three times together, and maybe then you’ll get to go back, to the home that has never yet existed.

  Val found herself proud of X, watching him make his pitch to the Chalet meeting; he was serious, intent; it was hard to ignore him or what he was saying.

  Nevertheless, she could see how things would be. Sylvia would try to broker a settlement, no matter how absurd that goal appeared in the light of the world. Washington and the other capitals would call the shots. The hunt for oil and coal and methane hydrates and fresh water would go on, buffered by all the latest hardware science could offer, with Mr. Smith’s invisible clients hovering offstage, watching, judging, no doubt striking again if they were displeased. McMurdo would go on, perhaps with new companies running the services, perhaps some of them co-ops that treated their employees right; but always the same, even as everything changed; still tour groups coming in on ships and planes, and adventure trekkers packaged and taken out into the back country to see things, guided by their guides.

  Guiding would never change.

  And meanwhile the ferals would continue to move around out there in Transantarctica, living their lives. Trying to wrest a living from this bare land. Working toward a kind of self-sufficiency, even if it were backed by the invisible world beyond the horizon; self-sufficiency not of means but of meaning.

  Val thought about this as the second meeting broke into several smaller groups working on specific issues, and she went back to her room, and did laundry, and took a shower, and went to the galley and ate a big meal. Finally she flicked open her wrist phone and got Joyce on the line. “Joyce, where did you put the visiting ferals?”

  “Nowhere. What, you think they’re going to stay at Hotel California, or maybe the Holiday Inn?”

  Of course not. “Where are they then?”

  “I think they’ve set up a couple tents on Ob Hill, just under the peak. Can you see them from where you are?”

  Val looked up at the pointed cone standing over the town. Yes, there was the round curve of a tent. “Thanks, Joyce. I see them.”

  She walked up the road to the BFC building. As she neared it Wade joined her, huffing and puffing.

  “Hi, Val.”

  “Oh hi.”

  “What do you think of the meetings?”

  “Very interesting.”

  They stopped outside the BFC.

  “What do you think of Mr. Smith?”

  Val raised her eyebrows. “I thin
k he’s the one, myself.”

  “The mastermind?”

  “Yeah. Or for that matter even the whole operation. At least he could be. It only took a few bombs and radios and satellite dishes to do everything they did, after all. He could have done it from New Zealand, or his boat.”

  “I don’t know,” Wade said. “It would be a lot of places to get to.”

  “I suppose. Probably he has some friends working with him, sure. But he’s not just a lawyer, I don’t think.” She shrugged. “Or maybe he is. I doubt we’ll ever find out for sure.”

  “No.”

  He was looking up at her, intent and serious; considering whether to say something to her. He hesitated; gestured at Ob Hill. “Going up to take a look around?”

  “To see the ferals,” she said.

  “Ah.”

  He registered immediately that he wasn’t invited. A lot of men would have taken a lot longer to see that. Oh well. She liked him; but he would be leaving any day now, and then he would be back in the world, where who knew what would happen. So now she watched his face framed in its furs, that owl look hiding all.

  He said, “You know, we’re going to need to have people who know Antarctica well, back in Washington. To work out a protocol that stands a chance of being accepted by all the parties involved. No matter what happens here at the Chalet, there will still be a lot of work to do.”

  “Yes. I’m sure you’ll do very well for us on that.”

  But that wasn’t what he had meant, she saw immediately.

  “Oh,” she said stupidly.

  He saw that she understood him, and stared at her. Wind whistled through the gap and down onto them.

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she said. Then: “I like you a lot.” He blinked, smiled just a little. “But I wouldn’t be happy in Washington, you know. And then, well …”

  He frowned. “It’s no worse a bureaucracy than here. You could live outdoors—my boss already does.”

  She shook her head. “I’m going to ask the ferals if I can join them.”

  “Ah.”

  She said, somewhat mischievously, “You could join them too! You could do your job from down here, telecommute like your boss does.”

  He had to smile, just for a second. They both laughed, briefly.

  “I take your point,” he said. Then: “Can I walk up with you part of the way?”

  “Sure. I’d like that.”

  They hiked up the spine together, crisscrossing over the broken lava steps of the ridgeline. A couple hundred feet below the summit Val stopped, and Wade caught up with her. She took a step down and around, so that he was on the spine just above her, where she did not have to lean down to give him a kiss. Two cold mouths and noses. He put an arm around her to steady himself. She had learned long ago that there were certain times when you knew it was only going to be a single kiss; and that knowing that made it different. He was a good kisser.

  He let her go. His face was flushed. He looked at her like it was the last chance he was ever going to have.

  “That was nice,” she said. Ice around her hot heart.

  “You’ll have to come north sometimes,” he said, “even if you do join the ferals.”

  “Maybe. Sometimes.”

  “You’ll visit?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll make it to New Zealand, I guess. I don’t know.” Again she tried turning the tables. “You’ll be one of the Antarctic experts in Washington—you’ll have to come down to DV things from time to time, right?”

  “Right. Very true.”

  She nodded. “We’ll stay in touch.”

  He nodded, thinking it over. Looking wan. She shrugged. He nodded again. A last brief hug. Then he was off, back down the rough trail, heavy-footed, looking out at the Ross Sea and the Western Mountains: the perfect way to trip and go flying. But he managed not to. Val turned around and hiked up the final section, going hard. She nearly tripped herself.

  She stood outside the ferals’ little tent, a patched old Northface mountaineering dome, blue nylon faded almost to white. The familiarity of it brought her up short. Scavenging for one’s means of subsistence: was she ready for that?

  “Hello?” she said.

  A head popped out. Lars.

  “Is Mai-lis here?” Val asked.

  “Moment.”

  He moved aside, and Mai-lis appeared in the doorway.

  Val said, “I wondered if I could join you.”

  Mai-lis saw what she meant. “One moment,” she said, and the tent door closed. Rustles inside; she was getting dressed. Val looked down at McMurdo spread below her, feeling bleached. She realized that Mai-lis’s face reminded her of her grandmother Annie. They looked nothing alike, but still.

  Mai-lis unzipped the tent door and crawled out. She stood, gestured at the peak above them. They climbed together in silence, like pilgrims. On the peak they stood under the old wooden cross, in the wind.

  “You have a great view here,” Mai-lis observed, looking across the sea at Mount Discovery and the Royal Society Range; Black Island, White Island; the giant bergs of the collapsing shelf.

  “Yeah.”

  They stood looking at it.

  “It is no easy life,” Mai-lis said.

  “I know. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  Val tried to express it. She waved down at McMurdo. “I want to be free of all that. All but my friends. I want to be in Antarctica, but not like that. I want to try it your way.”

  “It is no easy life,” Mai-lis warned again. “It’s not like expeditioning. You would have a lot to learn, even with all you know already.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It is not all good.”

  “No, I know that. I’m ready for that.”

  “It is no easy life.” Three times, as in some ritual, some rite of acceptance.

  “I know,” Val said. “I’m ready.”

  Mai-lis nodded then. “All right. We talked about you already. We hoped you might be interested. We were going to ask you.”

  “Really?”

  Mai-lis nodded. “You’re a mountaineer.”

  “Yes.”

  “We need more mountain people. There are never enough of them.”

  Mai-lis took up Val’s gloved hand, and put it against the post of the cross. “They said, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

  “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

  Not to yield. Like Annie climbing her ladder. Val swallowed, tried to smile at Mai-lis. Off with strangers, into the icy wilderness: a strange fate to choose, really. She knew that.

  “Go back down and arrange your affairs,” Mai-lis said. “See if this feels right to you. No one will be angry if you decide this was a mistake. This is a hard road for a life to take.”

  “I know. I want it. I’ve always wanted something like this, really. Guiding was just the closest thing I could find. I’ll be ready in a day or two, I guess.”

  “We’ll be here still. There is a lot to talk about with the people in the Chalet.”

  “True.”

  And so Val started back down Observation Hill.

  Energized by the possibility of return, of a home at last, X continued to make the rounds of his little town, talking to one acquaintance or friend after the other. He took breaks in the Coffee Hut, and downed quadruple espressos while talking at the bar with whomever was in there, even trying darts at the dart board when asked. He was declared the worst dart player who ever lived, a danger to people in the full 360 degrees around him. No one minded this, however, except for the one that bled; rather it was cause for celebration. “You know I’m the worst basketball player in the world too,” X said, happily tossing darts into the wall or the side of the espresso machine. “A biathlete I guess you have to call me.” And the players talked on through all the games and the shift changes, fueled by caffeine, and sleep deprivation, and frustrated hatred of ASL, and frustrate
d love for Antarctica, until it began to seem to the giddy and hoarsening X that they would certainly be able to count on the support of most of the caffeine addicts in town; and that was everybody, right? They might even consider making a bid for the whole contract and not just part of it. Although that would be a logistical nightmare. But he thought they could make a compelling case that they had the best people and the best system for the field ops, thus augmenting the pure economic rationality of their expertise and efficiency with what X was now calling the Antarctic factor—not the magnitude-order leap in Murphy’s Law that people used to mean by the phrase, but rather the ecological issues that the new co-op could address better than ASL, because of increased worker tenure, involvement, satisfaction, awareness, esprit de corps, and so on. Treating people like free adult human beings: NSF could indeed consider it a kind of experiment.

  Of course not everyone was interested, even after word got around about Sylvia’s approval, and it became clearer that they were going to have a shot at it. Some had prospered in ASL and become part of its management, or at least they thought they were, though since they were in McMurdo rather than Seattle they were certainly mistaken about that. Others had their lives focused back in the world and were on the ice simply to make as much money as fast as they could, and they didn’t want this project complicated by the responsibility and risk of any newfangled nonprofit system. And there were others still who had complained endlessly about ASL but were too chicken to try a coop, as Joyce put it, or too cynical to think it would make any difference. And lastly there were those who did not want to see change of any kind, because they did not like change. Or else for no reason at all, at least as far as X could tell. Four months ago this attitude would have shocked him; but he had been young then, and had not fully grasped how completely people could act in contradiction to their own best interests.