Hannah Ross: The Last Outpost: An Antarctic Dystopia

“I can imagine how your wife would react to the notion,” Scott said wryly. Ike threw his head back and laughed.

“You’re right. My wife would never agree to leave Florida. And we have a nice house there, very nice. Two grown kids, both settled in Florida as well, grandkids. It’s a good life, really, I have nothing to complain about. But now I’m within my right to enjoy my little getaway, ain’t I?”

“Dinner is being served in the dining-hall now, if any of you gents care for a bite to eat,” the barman announced. The British couple got up and headed for the door.

Ike Reynolds clapped Scott on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see if they serve decent steaks aboard this ship. My wife is vegetarian. I hadn’t had a steak in the house for the past thirty years — ridiculous barbecue cookouts with fake tofu sausages and other such crap — and now I plan to have meat three times a day if I can, without anyone harping on to me about cholesterol.”

On the twenty-eighth day since her departure, with many stops for photographing and sightseeing, the Polar Star finally came within view of the magnificent peaks of Ross Islands and the small, neat clusters of buildings that comprised McMurdo research station.

Just as the chattering tourists were gathering their cameras, Scott went below into his cabin and picked up his suitcase and backpack, which were packed and ready for some days now. He took one last, long, sweeping look around his cabin, to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Ike Reynolds gaped at him, open-mouthed, as he made to disembark. “Hey, Buck, what’s this all about? This isn’t the final stop.”

Scott looked at him and smiled. “It is for me.” He extended his hand and shook Ike’s. “Well, at least for the time being,” he amended.

A curly-haired young fellow in an orange parka took notice of him as he was descending. “Mr. Buckley? We have been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for you?” Ike, who overheard this, repeated with a dazed look. “This ain’t fair, Buck. You could have at least breathed a word!”

Scott, however, merely waved, allowing the curly-haired station worker to steer him away by his elbow. “If you don’t mind, we’ll show you to your quarters a little later,” the man said. “Mr. Lindholm wanted to see you at once.”

Anders Lindholm was the retiring overseer. A Swede with a United States citizenship and a rich personal history, he was over six feet tall, exceptionally fit, and moved with the agility and grace of a panther. His handshake was so vigorous that Scott’s fingers remained numb for a minute or so. Only his deeply lined, weather-beaten face revealed that this is a man who, according to Scott’s information, recently celebrated his eightieth birthday. He was clean-shaven and his silvery hair was neatly parted. Like any regular on the maintenance team, he was dressed in a pair of sturdy work overalls, and his bright orange parka hung by the door to his office.

“Mr. Buckley!” he boomed, showing Scott to a chair. “So glad, so exceedingly glad to see you. I hope your journey went well?”

“Very well, thank you. The sailing was a little slow, but I enjoyed every comfort on board of the Polar Star .”

“Well, well, that could not be helped, I know. Those who arrive by cruise ship must subject to a bit of tediousness, and the irregularity of the flights, you know… booking in advance is nearly impossible these days. At least you’ve had some downtime, Scott… may I call you Scott?”

“You may call me Buck, Mr. Lindholm. I’m sure Professor McLaughlin told you everyone calls me so.”

Anders Lindholm chuckled. “Ah, yes — when old McLaughlin first talked of ‘Buck’, I didn’t quite follow him. Please, call me Anders. A drink?” with a conspiratorial look, he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Aquavit, although it wasn’t yet nine o’clock in the morning, according to local time.

“Thank you, Anders, but I’m not really sure I should—”

“Oh, nonsense. You’ll have plenty of time to get perfectly sober before anyone expects you to show up on duty.”

He took out two glasses and poured a generous measure of liquid into each. Scott took a careful sip from his. The exceptionally strong spirit scorched his throat and burned his eyes, but the taste was pleasant in its way. Anders smacked his lips, evidently relishing his drink.

“So, as I was saying, Buck, you’ve had your stretch of downtime on board of the ship, and I’m sure you’ll soon look back on it as a fond memory — I must give you fair warning, there will be plenty for you to do around here, so much so that pretty soon you’ll find yourself longing for winter, when the station narrows down its activity and most of the summer staff leave.”

“I gather that you’re quitting soon, then?”

“As soon as I see you get into stride, young man, and it had better not take more than a couple of weeks, because my ticket is already booked. I confess I’m impatient to go. McMurdo will always be a part of me — I have spent thirty years running the place — but it’s time to move on. I wish I had done this long ago, when Pam had been alive. Then we could have enjoyed retirement together,” he threw a melancholy glance at a seashell-framed photograph on his desk. It showed the image of a sprightly-looking old lady standing at the McMurdo docks, waving in the direction of an anchoring ship.

“That is Mrs. Lindholm?” Scott asked. The elderly woman’s smile was contagious, and her grey hair was pulled back in a neat bun.

“Yes, that’s Pam, the year before she was diagnosed with liver cancer. We had given much of our lives to this place — I accepted the position, and Pam joined me here full-time, as soon as our youngest headed off to college. Until then I was part of the summer staff. I do wish,” Lindholm sighed, “that I had quitted earlier. We have bought a beach house in California some years ago, but only managed to get away twice. Now I’m going to live there full-time — in a place where it’s always warm, and where I can dip into the ocean year-round. Pam loved it there,” he sighed and topped their glasses. “Yes, Buck, I’m quite ready to quit.”

There was a knock on the door. Lindholm clicked his tongue irritably, draining the last of his Aquavit and surreptitiously stuffing the bottle back in the drawer. “Come in!” he called. A man about Scott’s age walked in, square-shouldered and compactly built, wearing large horn-rimmed glasses.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Anders, but there are some supply lists that need your signature.” He nodded in Scott’s direction, politely and unobtrusively, but his dark eyes betrayed a hint of curiosity.

Lindholm clapped himself on the forehead. “Right! I quite forgot about those. Thank you, Victor. By the way, Victor, this young man here is Mr. Scott Buckley, who is going to take charge once I take sail. Scott, Victor is my first assistant. If you need any help, he’s your address.”

“Victor Nash,” the square man shook Scott’s hand. He was not unfriendly, but there was a certain distancing coolness in his manner, quite unlike Lindholm’s jovial warmth. He produced a stack of papers, which he gave his supervisor to sign.

“There you go, Victor. Now, if you don’t mind — we’ll catch up with you later, but right now Mr. Buckley and I need to go over some particulars of his contract. And then, I’m sure, Scott will want to see his quarters and rest a little.”

“Of course. See you soon,” Victor nodded and retreated. The two men remained sitting in silence for a couple of moments. Then, with a wink, Anders pulled out the Aquavit again, filled his glass for the third time, and topped Scott’s.