Jon Breen: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 114, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 697 & 698, September/October 1999

On that note, Drake paused, studying the expressions of intense interest and excitement that spread over their faces at the mention of the magic words: Nobel prize. Sally’s grin faded to a determined line, Claire’s brown eyes raised to a compelling stare, even Owen Foster’s sneer gave way to something less caustic.

“What do you want us to do, chief?” asked Paul Green, the big, bearded geologist.

“I want everybody to go into ultra-high gear out in the field,” Drake said firmly. “Last night I read all of the overview reports on the project to date, and in my opinion this theory is going to be resolved in five ways: studies in the changes in Sally’s freeze-dried worms; analysis by you, Paul, of ancient volcano ash that you find trapped between the ice layer and the water beneath it; comparison by you, Claire, of the changes in algae, fungi, and bacteria colonizing damp spaces under lichen layers; and by you, Ed, of microorganisms which, because of possible warming, may now be flourishing instead of merely surviving. And lastly, very importantly, the proofs you four find will be locked in by undeniable evidence of changes in algae now known to be living in microbial mats under the ice shelf itself — and that evidence will be brought up by you, Harley, our glaciologist, and by Dr. Foster, who are the team’s ice divers.

“What I want, what this expedition needs, is longer hours in the field, more samples collected, more analysis of those samples, and more dives to bring up under-shelf life. In other words, maximum performance from each of you — beginning today.”

Owen Foster cleared his throat. “What, may I ask, will be your contribution to this effort, Dr. Drake?”

“I will work alternately with each of you, depending on your daily needs, and will assist and advise when and where I deem it necessary. That answer your question?”

Foster nodded brusquely. “No offense,” he said with mock pleasantness. “Just want to be sure you have enough to occupy your time.”

Drake saw Claire blush slightly, and ignored it as if he had not noticed. So, he thought, she’s told him. He paced back and forth several times, sipping his coffee, then turned to face them again. “Can we do it?” he asked, flatly and finally.

“I sure can,” Sally Gossett announced. “The thought of a Nobel prize almost gives me an orgasm.”

“We can all do it,” said big Paul Green.

“Bet your ass we can,” seconded little Ed Latham.

Drake turned to Harley Neil, the glaciologist/ice diver. “Any problem on the diving end?”

“Not from me,” replied the slight, academic-looking young man. He looked at Foster. “How about you, Owen?”

“I’ll carry my weight,” Foster assured him.

Emil Porter, the team’s medical doctor, spoke up next. “I am obliged to point out, Dr. Drake, that your ‘high-gear’ schedule involving longer hours out in the elements, more dives under pressurized conditions, and less rest and recreational time, may well affect the health of individual members. Do you understand that it is my responsibility to see that they aren’t pushed too far, too hard?”

“Certainly,” said Drake. “I was about to address that. I’d like to work with you today on matters of diet, increased vitamins, scheduled hours of relaxation and sleep, and anything else you recommend. I fully appreciate your concerns, Doctor, and am in accord with them.”

“Very good,” said Porter. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

Drake waited a moment, then said, “All right, if there’s nothing else, you’re all excused to go into the field as previously scheduled by Dr. Foster. Ed, I’ll relieve you of block duty so you can also go out. Beginning tomorrow, there will be new schedules posted based on what Dr. Porter and I work out today. Come in at the regular time and we’ll have an open discussion session tonight to finalize our new approach. See you all then.”

Following a shuffling of feet and rustling of thermals, everyone went out into the stark South Pole day, leaving Drake and the medical doctor behind.

“How do you think it went?” Drake asked candidly.

“Very well,” replied Emil Porter. “Very well, indeed.”

“I hope they can do it,” said Drake. “There’s a rough road ahead. It’s going to take dedication from every single one of them to accomplish this.”

“I believe you’ll get that dedication, Dr. Drake, I really do.”

Drake smiled slightly and nodded. “Okay, let’s you and I go to work.”

Drake put in place a new schedule of increased workload that was enthusiastically received by the team members, including grudging acceptance by Owen Foster. In order to show the ex-team leader that he was sincere about his own field performance, he took over dive-technician responsibilities the first day in order to allow Foster and Harley Neil to dive at the same time, instead of one of them always remaining on the surface.

The dive site was about midway out on the ice shelf, a considerable distance from where the frozen gravel ended and an ice plateau began. On three sides of the flat were walls of ice as high as Niagara Falls, while on the open side was a sheer ice wall dropping three thousand feet to Antarctic waters. They were the same walls of ice Drake had viewed from the helicopter. Then, however, it had all looked like a picture postcard. Down here, up close and surrounding, it was more like an awesome, frightening world in which humans did not belong.

A small thermal tent served as dive headquarters, with the dives themselves being accomplished through a circular hole in the shelf that was ten feet in diameter and had been cut, with chainsaws, fourteen feet down to the underside of the shelf, where capped water was met.

“What’s the water temperature down there?” Drake asked as he helped the two men dress in dry suits and attach pressure hoses.

“Just below the shelf it’s warmer than the air up here,” Harley Neil replied. “Naturally, the deeper you go, the colder it gets. I think we’ve both reached forty below, haven’t we, Owen?”

“Just over forty, actually,” said Foster. He studied Drake for a moment. “You’re sure you’re familiar with this equipment?”

“Positive,” Drake assured him. “McCullough pressurizer,” he pointed out, “Warren lowering rig, McKee oxygen supply,” his finger indicated every apparatus at the site, “cable pulls, generator, backup generator, underwater lantern, electrical batteries, radio intercom. Don’t worry, Dr. Foster, I’ll get you back up.”

As Foster shuffled over to get his dive helmet, Drake said to Harley, “You apprehensive too?”

The young glaciologist grinned. “Not me. I love it below the shelf. I feel at home down there. It’s very peaceful. When I die, I’d rather die down there than from cancer or some horror like that up here.”

The last place in the world, Drake thought, that this young man looked like he ought to be was in an ice-diving dry suit. Teaching fourth grade somewhere, maybe, but not getting ready to go down a fourteen-foot hole in an Antarctic ice shelf. Drake smiled and patted the younger man on the back.

Foster and Neil dove to forty-four feet that day, found a microbial mat, which was an underwater colony of black algae formed protectively around itself, part of which they scooped up and gathered into break-proof glass tubes to bring back to the surface. It was a successful first-time dive together for the two men, and Drake raised them back to the surface of the shelf without incident.

The following day, Drake worked in the field with big Paul Green, climbing dark, bare crags that rose from the frozen gravel floor to isolated peaks and pinnacles above, to collect rock samples that the bearded geologist praised as if they were nuggets of solid gold.