Hannah Ross: The Last Outpost: An Antarctic Dystopia

“I’m not sure I’m very good at sorting personal stuff out,” Scott confessed.

“Oh, you’ll do fine. You’ll take some time to settle in, of course — but most people around here are really helpful, and won’t make your life difficult on purpose. Otherwise they just don’t last at McMurdo. Well, I had better go back to work — good luck again.” And, with an encouraging nod, Zoe stood and picked up her tray.

“Wait, aren’t you going to get some dessert? I see they’ve brought in something that looks like a chocolate soufflé. It seems pretty good, at least from here.”

Zoe wrinkled her nose. “They know bugger all about how to make decent soufflé. They really should try my recipe — it only contains three ingredients, it’s vegan, and it always turns out well.”

Scott was not that exacting. He was pleased enough with his soufflé, though it was a little too dense, and took a second helping before heading back upstairs. He was never told so explicitly, but he assumed he had today off for settling in and resting after his journey, and he really needed a nap, a feeling that was probably exacerbated by his morning dose of Aquavit. There was nothing pressing on the agenda until dinner, when he was supposed to meet Lindholm again.

He heaved the backpack off his bed, briefly checked his email — no messages — kicked off his shoes, pulled the blind partially down the single window, and crawled in under the blanket. The bed, for all its Spartan look, was warm and cozy and clean-smelling, and he fell asleep within minutes.

He woke up much refreshed and a bit disoriented. The light outside the window told him little about the time of the day — at this season, it was all pretty much one long day on Ross Island, with only a short spell of bright twilight by night — but a look at his watch made it clear that it is only four o’clock in the afternoon, and thus there’s plenty of time to go until dinner. He decided to spend the remaining hour unpacking.

All of a sudden, he heard his cell phone beep with an email alert. It was a message from Anders Lindholm . ‘Hello, Buck,’ it read. ‘ I hope you’re settling in and enjoying your first day at McMurdo. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to join me for dinner in my quarters at 18:00. It’s vegetarian paella at the galley tonight, so I can assure you you’ll be a gainer. Let me know as soon as you can. Anders.’

There was only one possible answer to such a message, of course. Scott promptly emailed back his assurance that he would be most happy to join Mr. Lindholm for dinner, and got to unpacking. There wasn’t that much to do, and well before the appointed hour all his belongings were tucked away at their appropriate places, with his shaving gel and razor in the bathroom, and his and Brianna’s framed photograph on the little desk.

Anders Lindholm’s quarters weren’t in building 155, but in another, smaller living compound not far off. Scott had no difficulty finding his way. He had had a slight inner debate over what he should wear, and eventually decided that here at McMurdo, simple work attire would do. He had packed a lone tie for formal occasions, but it would look ridiculous combined with the orange parka.

Lindholm was already waiting for him, and rubbed his hands with satisfaction at his punctuality — the clock showed precisely 18:00 when Scott knocked on the door.

“You’re on excellent time. Everything is about ready. I’m just taking the potatoes out of the oven.”

Lindholm’s quarters were no nest of luxury — just like Scott, he commanded an area which was living room and bedroom combined, and a kitchen that was no more than a little nook. In fact, the room looked even smaller than it actually was, due to a pile of cardboard boxes that occupied one corner.

“The accumulated possessions of three decades,” Lindholm said, noticing his glance. “Somehow these things add up, even when one lives as minimalistic a lifestyle as Pam and I had. And, mind you, after her passing I weeded out half our stuff. Hang on, I’ll check on the sauce… yes. Everything is in order. Come along into the kitchen.”

The little kitchen table was simply and neatly set for two. A pan of something delicious-smelling was bubbling on the electric stove, which Lindholm proceeded to turn off. He picked up a ladle and a plate.

“Swedish meatballs,” he said, “I hope you like them. I made them myself — it was always my prime dish, but Pam used to make them far better.”

“Do you often cook?” Scott asked, accepting the plate from Lindholm and sitting down. Lindholm took a thick glove and pulled a tray of sliced, savory-smelling baked potatoes out of the oven. He slid a heap of the crisp golden-brown wedges onto each of their plates, along with the meatballs.

“Mmm. This looks excellent, if I do say so myself. Do I often cook? Whenever the mood strikes me. I started doing it more frequently after I lost Pam. Going down to eat at the galley was too much for me, and after a while I got tired of sandwiches and canned noodle soup. Cooking turned out to be therapeutic. Mind my words, young man — whenever you are feeling down, throw something on the stove, even if it’s just a couple of eggs with tomatoes and garlic. It will make things seem better at once. Well, and why aren’t you eating? Your food will get cold.”

Scott cut a meatball in half, put one of the halves into his mouth, and chewed slowly. “The best Swedish meatballs I’ve ever tasted,” he said.

Lindholm smiled. “I hope you aren’t just saying this to flatter me. There’s no need to, you know — you’ve already got the position, and I will be gone in a matter of weeks.”

“No, no, I mean it,” Scott started on another meatball. “I’m fond of cooking myself. Brianna and I met over an Italian cooking weekend course. My sister had bought me the voucher for my birthday.”

“By the way,” Lindholm said, as if recalling something, “if you want to have these quarters when I’m gone, you’re very welcome to, you know. They are slightly larger than the ones you were given, I think.”

“Thank you, but I’m perfectly comfortable — I don’t have a lot of things, you know. And,” he heaved a sigh, “I’m not sure at all that my wife will actually come.”

Lindholm gave an understanding nod. “She will eventually, I think,” he said. “It might take her some time. A lot of people overwinter here without their families. It’s tough, but you pull through if you have enough to keep you busy, as I’m sure you will. Speaking of,” he got up for another helping of meatballs, “I hope you’re settling in?”

“Oh yes, thank you. I’m all unpacked and rested, and ready to begin my duties tomorrow.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You’re going to have to do a lot of learning about all the nitty gritty of running the station, supply sheets, personnel data, and so on. Victor will be a great help with that, he knows it all through and through. But the first thing will be to get you through the safety course. I have you scheduled for it first thing tomorrow morning, and it will probably take the first half of your day. You will learn about surviving in field camps, hiking, safety precautions when driving a snowmobile or flying in a helicopter, and so on. It’s common sense, for the most part, but that’s the procedure — without it, you won’t be allowed to leave the research station.”

“Of course,” Scott nodded. “I’m looking forward to getting out and about when I can, and dabbing a bit at my independent research, but… is this urgent? Not that I mean to question your judgment,” he hastened to add, “but I rather thought that my job will be mostly done here at the office.”

Lindholm looked thoughtful. “That is true,” he admitted. “Officially, you aren’t part of any research team or support staff, but…” he trailed off, but fell silent and instead proceeded to collect his plates and dump them in the tiny sink. Then, with a gesture, he invited Scott to get up and follow him to the tiny sitting area in the living room. He opened a little cabinet and, unsurprisingly, pulled out a bottle and two glasses.