Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

Betty said, “Here, have some wine. I’m celebrating not being out there searching for that man.” She produced a bottle of New Zealand merlot and a glass and poured three fingers for Valena.

“Thanks.” Valena settled in and ate several forkfuls of fish and potatoes before risking a sip of the wine. Even under the best of circumstances she was a cheap drunk, and going at it on an empty stomach while dehydrated seemed a bad bet, especially considering her mood. “So he’s going to be okay?”

Betty said, “He’s out cold, and I do mean cold. The docs have decided to warm him up a bit before they have the marvelous Major Hugh here medevac him to Cheech.”

Hugh said, “I don’t know what their problem is. I told them we could carry him up on the flight deck to make certain he stays warm, but they got all wiggy about how drafty our dear Hercs are.”

“Why’s he unconscious?” Valena asked. Each bite of food was having an almost magical effect on her. Her mood was lifting rapidly.

Hugh looked at her a moment with an expression that said, You’re smart , before answering, “Wouldn’t we all like to know that. Hypothermia alone doesn’t put a man into a coma except on the way to the great beyond. If he went out from the cold alone, he’d probably be awake by now, or he’d be just plain dead.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What do you think, Betty? You’ve got all that fancy medic training.”

The firefighter mirrored his shrug, her face impassive. “Ask those Cat skinners over there. They found him.”

Valena risked a glance over her shoulder at Cupcake. Feeling Valena’s eyes on her, the heavy equipment operator extricated herself from an arm-wrestling match and sauntered over to their table with her hands in her jeans pockets. She bumped a hip against Valena’s arm. “See you found yourself some vino. Mind if I have some? I’m dry.”

Betty pushed the bottle toward Cupcake. “I hear you’re the woman of the hour. So what’s the story?”

Cupcake picked up the bottle and drank out of the neck. Smacking her lips, she said, “Looked like he’d been hit.”

Betty’s laconic eyebrows rose a millimeter.

Hugh said, “You mean like a bruise?”

“Hard to say,” said Cupcake. “Rumor has it ol’ Steve had a glass jaw.”

“The McMurdo rumor mill,” said Betty. “The source of all wisdom.”

Cupcake said, “Could have taken a fall climbing off his Challenger, hit his chin, gotten stupid. Or at least, that’s the official story. Well, thanks for the vino. Gotta get back to whooping it up.” She wandered off, hoisting the bottle for another good toot.

Valena noticed that Hugh’s eyes had narrowed ever so slightly, like he was concentrating hard on what had been said. She said, “Funny how people are getting hurt around here.”

Hugh’s eyes shot her way, the very quickest of glances, then he looked away again, staring into space. Finally, putting his party-boy smile on, he said, “Well, we can’t solve that mystery just now, so let’s make plans instead. Valena, you’re still on for Tractor Club tonight, right?”

“Sure,” she said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. It’s at the Coffee House.”

“Coffee House?”

“It’s a wine bar,” said Betty.

Hugh grinned. “They got three bars here in greater metropolitan Mac Town: the Coffee House, Gallagher’s, and Southern Exposure. The Coffee House is that Quonset out there by Derelict Junction,” he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder. “They show movies sometimes, and you can do keen things like play Candy Land or Scrabble. A regular playground for intellectuals. Gallagher’s is mixed drinks, hamburgers, and pool, more the singles scene, but if you hit the schedule just right and you can stand it, they have line dancing. Southern Exposure serves a rather different clientele.”

Betty said, “You want to learn some new words for ‘hey, baby’?”

Hugh pursed his lips. “Betty, my love, so scathing thou art. I’ve learned some of my best jokes from the boys who frequent that dive.” To Valena, he added, “But I’ll warn you, you even walk past the exhaust fan on that joint and you’re up ten thousand feet in density altitude.”

Betty said, “That’s flyboy-ese for ‘They smoke like chimneys.’ As a firefighter, I am trained to consider rapid oxidation of flammable materials a negative thing, even if they’re sold twenty to a pack.”

Hugh said, “Drinking and smoking are only two of the addictions common to McMurdo Station. Consider our own dear Frosty Boy,” he said, pointing at the soft-serve ice cream vending machine. “You’ll notice the sign on it that informs the ice-cream-craving populace that the Boy is out of juice until tomorrow. That’s because more than a few McMurdans are known to have a Frosty habit. If they were to keep that machine loaded up all the time, it would probably blow the food budget, so they stoke the Boy only once each week, and that’s all she wrote. The DA who loads it cusses a blue streak. Evidently the Boy takes his toll on even those who do not partake.”

“And those who do?” Valena inquired.

“Oooh, on that magical day they load the Boy, the patrons fall on it like it’s nectar. But the funny thing is, they don’t eat it plain. They apply it to most anything else they are eating. They apply it with gusto. They apply it with vigor. They apply it with passion, verve, and originality. They apply it indiscriminately.”

“Frosty Boy in the morning coffee. Frosty Boy on your breakfast cereal,” Betty drawled.

“Frosty Boy on sandwiches has been tried,” said Hugh, “but it’s the suppertime dessert crowd who really have it down.”

“Frosty Boy on brownies with some of that cherry sauce and some of those chocolate ants on top,” said Valena, spying tubs of other accoutrements arrayed around the machine.

“She’s quick!” said Hugh, rolling his eyes toward Betty. “Gotta keep an eye on our Valena! Ah yes, how many ways people use that soft-serve Frosty Boy goodness on the lovely desserts this galley puts out for the faithful!” His smile was aglow.

“They can’t stop themselves,” said Betty laconically. “They are enthralled. Like vermin to the bait,”

Valena could feel something coming. “And so…?”

The brilliance of Hugh’s grin rose to twenty thousand candlepower. “So we have to trap the vermin!”

“Trap?” asked Valena. “You mean, like a mousetrap?”

On cue, Hugh whipped mouse trap out of his pocket and handed it to Valena. “It comes with a trapping license. All very ecology-conscious. Thus we observe both the spirit and the letter of the environmental protocols of the Antarctic Treaty.”

Valena turned the trap over and saw the card that was glued to its back. “Antarctic Trapping License,” she read. “Bearer is authorized to trap fur-bearing mammals on the continent of Antarctica in accordance with ‘the Treaty.’” She looked up at Hugh. “And you put this by the Frosty Boy machine. How’s hunting?”

Hugh almost burst his face smiling. “Not by the machine, right there on the floor below it! Catch the little critters on the approach! We even sprinkle some of those chocolate ants on the floor all around it.”

Trying to keep up with the twists and turns in this conversation, Valena said, “I didn’t know there were mice in Antarctica.”

“Not a one,” said Betty. “The largest land animal that spends its entire life on this continent is a half-inch-long wingless midge. All those birds and seals only come to land to breed and pup.”

“There’s the odd skua,” said Hugh. “A penguin or two.”

Betty said, “Or twelve hundred, if you go up to Cape Royds.”

“They’ve got twelve hundred penguins on Cape Royds?” Hugh asked.