Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

“I really appreciate that.”

He took his hands off his keyboard and folded them across his chest. Tipped his head her way. Regarded her with a gentle smile. “First time on the ice?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too. I’ve been here about a month. I was minding my own business one day and a colleague said, ‘They’ve got jobs in Antarctica. Want to go?’ and I said, ‘Sure, where do I sign up?’ How about you?”

“I have always, always wanted to come here,” she replied. “Or at least, ever since I was a kid and my granddad read to me about Shackleton’s winter in the ice and all that. I wanted to come here and know what he loved so much about it that he would take such a risk. And… I hoped that I would love it that much, too.” Now she felt embarrassed. She hadn’t told anyone any of this, ever. Why was she blurting it out now, and to a total stranger?

The man held out his right hand to be shaken. “Michael.”

“Valena,” she replied. “Nice to meet you, Michael.”

“Been to Happy Camp yet?”

“The survival training? No. I start tomorrow.”

“Really? Excellent! We’ll be there together.” He got up and crossed to the coffeemaker, poured some for each of them, handed one to Valena, and sat back down in his chair. “Excuse me, please. I’ve got to finish this and then get over to the chapel in time for tai chi.” He focused his eyes on his computer screen, lined his fingers up over the keyboard, and dove back into his work.

She turned to her computer and tapped into the Internet, bringing up her e-mail account.

She wrote to Taha Hesan, the other graduate student who was supposed to be coming to the ice to serve on Vanderzee’s project. He was a doctoral candidate. She had gotten to know him only slightly as they prepared for the trip.

Taha

I am here in McM and V is not. NSF says that they got hold of you and told you not to come. I don’t know how much they told you about why, but here’s what I’ve got:

1. V was removed from the ice under guard.

2. It’s got to do with the reporter who died in his camp last year.

3. Presuming the worst, V is being charged with

She paused a moment. It didn’t make any sense to be writing this. A renewed sense of shock gripped her. Her fingers felt cold on the keyboard. Shaking herself free, she deleted “with” and simply put a period to mark the end of the sentence. Then she added:

Please write ASAP to let me know your plans. My plan is to proceed as if V is returning soon. Do you have any idea what needs to be done to prepare for fieldwork? I have Snowcraft I (Happy Camp) tomorrow and Tuesday—your Sunday and Monday; I keep forgetting that I’ve crossed the international date line into tomorrow—so I will be incommunicado for two days. Anything you can do from your end to help V and supply info that will keep our project going I would appreciate.

She hit send and then sat with her fingers suspended half an inch above the keys. Who can I go to for help? she wondered. Who would know where to start with a mess like this?

Suddenly the answer came to her. She would write to Emily Hansen, a woman she had gotten to know during her undergraduate studies at the University of Utah. Em had been doing her master’s there at the time, and she now worked for the Utah Geological Survey. Her specialty was forensic geology, and she was famous for the work she had done unraveling crimes. Yes, that was it, write to Em; she could tell her how to proceed, and she could keep her mouth shut, so it would be okay to tell her everything!

Valena looked up the Utah Geological Survey Web site to find an e-mail address for Em, then tapped out a message stating what had happened, ending with:

I’m trying to figure out how to proceed. How do I get people around here to tell me things? And does Antarctica fall under some kind of international tribunal or do American scientists accused of endangering American journalists fall under American jurisprudence?

Remembering her manners, Valena asked after what was new in Em’s life, signed herself, “Affectionately, Valena,” thought better of it, given the gravity of the situation, and changed “affectionately” to “yours” and then hit send.

She glanced over at Michael. His face was calm and tightly focused on something he was reading. She thought of offering to freshen up his coffee but didn’t want to seem too earnest about getting to know him. She had heard that the ratio of men to women in McMurdo was seven to three, so it might be unwise to seem too friendly.

Turning back toward her Internet account, she wrote an e-mail to send to her list of interested friends and family, extolling the beauty of the view out the window and trying to put in words just how big it was and how tiny this frail outpost of humanity seemed by contrast. In thus doing, she at last plunged herself into an enjoyment of having made it to Antarctica. Time flowed and the clock crept past 10:00 a.m. and approached 11:00. Valena’s stomach growled, breaking her concentration, and she decided to get some food.

She found her way downstairs and out through the heavy doors of the airlock, out across the yard past a row of tracked vehicles, up over the stile, and back toward Building 155. The icy wind was blowing toward her, and she could smell cooking fumes coming from the exhaust system. A short, stubby tracked vehicle ground past the upwind end of the building, and a few seconds later, she smelled gasoline. Just as quickly as it had reached her, the odor dissipated and was gone.

Both odors were oddly overpowering. Why? she wondered. Then she noticed that there were no other odors around her, no stink of rotting compost, no soft scent of flowers. Rocks and snow have no smell , she realized.

Valena continued into the building, then turned into the dorm hallway to her left, so that she could leave her parka in her room. Deciding to look her very best, she doffed the turtleneck and slipped into a creamy white fleece pullover that clung to her curves. She then continued down the main corridor toward the scents of food and people. The air smelled of sweetness and grains—waffles?

Following the flow of people swarming in for the meal, she arrived at a TV monitor that was scrolling information about movies, flight schedules, and the weather. It was a robust fourteen degrees Fahrenheit outside, negative ten degrees Celsius. She checked the flight schedules and saw that her name was not on any of the manifests. This was the first bit of truly good news she had had since arriving.

Next she headed for the hand-washing station, DON’T SPREAD THE CRUD, a sign on the wall above the sink advised. Following the instructions listed, she used plenty of soap and scrubbed assiduously for fifteen seconds, pondering how little Emmett Vanderzee had told her about survival in this harsh and bizarre environment. She tried to give her absent-minded mentor the benefit of the doubt, but his lack of advisement bothered her. Had he not, in fact, been the leader she had thought he was?

And if he was not that kind of leader, just what was he? A murderer? The thought was absurd. But was he a bungler? Had she bet on the wrong horse?

She grabbed a sheet of paper toweling and began to dry her hands. People filed past her on their way to brunch. Most made eye contact, smiled, and nodded; some said hello. What had Brenda said? In a place like this, you can’t really hide anything. That meant that Valena was about to meet several hundred people who might have ideas about where to look for things that were supposed to lie hidden.

Valena turned toward the dining hall. It was time to get acquainted with more good citizens of McMurdo Station.

DAVE FITZGERALD CRUISED THROUGH THE FOOD LINES in the galley in search of something hot and filling. It had been a long, cold week rolling snow into ice out at Pegasus runway, and he needed to stock up for another.