15
Shackleton’s Leap
When the next meeting convened in the Chalet, X still had not slept. A lot of the people there hadn’t, he could tell as they trickled in. There were not as many people as before, and many were still hunched together discussing specific issues, but after Sylvia got them seated in the big circle, and went through a description of some of the smaller meetings that had occurred since the session the previous evening, X raised a hand (sudden schoolboy nervousness, engendered by just that gesture alone).
When Sylvia called on him in her strict schoolteacher style, he said, “Sylvia, I want to emphasize that what we’re talking about here is not just a question of what technologies we use in Antarctica, or of whether we’re abiding by the strict letter of the Treaty or not. The treatment of Antarctica will never be respectful and environmentally aware if the people living down here continue to be organized in the same way they always have been—that is to say, in hierarchies where the majority of the workers have no power or responsibility, and are merely doing what they’re told to do, for wages and nothing else. As it stands now, we’re hired and fired at the whim of people back in the world, and the people who love Antarctica the most end up suffering the most, because they keep coming back here when that wrecks the overall shape of their lives, back and forth with no continuity or security, no career advantage so to speak. So there’s a feeling of helplessness that creates a carelessness, which a lot of us wouldn’t have if we were more in control of our destinies down here. I know this because I was a General Field Assistant down here, and you can’t be more powerless than that and still be here. I know very well from that experience that ASL uses us to make their profits—we’re paid poorly and we have no job security, and if we don’t like it they just hire someone else. And, excuse me, but those employee practices have led to a hell of a lot of employee abuse here, right under the NSF’s nose, and to a certain extent with NSF approval—the suspension of the forty-hour work week, for instance, among many other such practices. NSF’s attitude has been to turn its head and let the contractor do whatever it had to do to keep the beakers running smoothly, while still making a profit for the contractor’s owners back in the world. And employees have taken the brunt of that kind of looking away for years. No way can people pay proper attention to Antarctica as a project or a life under those conditions. We can’t call our jobs ours, or this place home, so naturally we treat it like strangers.”
Sylvia was watching him very closely now, X saw; it had not been a bad thing to implicate NSF in ASL’s sweatshopping. “What are you suggesting, specifically?” she asked.
“The service contract comes up for bid again soon,” X said. “You could hire new contractors, either general or sub. Hire a company made up of ex-ASL employees reorganized as an employee-owned co-op, dedicated specifically to enacting a really rigorous environmental policy. As Mai-lis said about her group’s efforts, it could be seen as an experiment—a scientific experiment in seeing how a co-op with no profit beyond salaries and so forth could compete with a standard company, in terms of the services provided down here, combined with environmental improvements and the like.”
“We already expect our Antarctic service contractors to conform to NEPA and all the specific regulations we’ve made,” Sylvia said. “As to the type of company, it would be less clear that we could decide that ourselves—I mean one type of company compared to another. Congress directs us there, I’m afraid, and the budgetary constraints are very tight.”
X nodded. “Sure, I understand that. But without the need to generate a profit for shareholders, an employee-owned co-op should be able to do the same job for less money. So Congress would have no objections there.”
Sylvia nodded doubtfully.
Wade said, “Some relevant laws are up for review by the Congressional ways and means committees, and by the administration. Government contract preferences for employee-owned co-ops is an idea that has been introduced by Senator Chase many times before, and while there is resistance to the idea, there is also considerable support. Growing support.”
Mr. Smith said, “Resistance from the owner class, support from the people. The idea that each corporation can be a feudal monarchy and yet behave in its corporate action like a democratic citizen concerned for the world we live in is one of the great absurdities of our time—”
“Yes yes,” Sylvia said, cutting him off before he got rolling. “But in our situation here, specifically? With the contracts for service organizations coming up for renewal …”
Wade said, “NSF might be able to make their decisions based on their current environmental regulations, so that it won’t have to wait for the ultimate decisions Congress makes concerning private contractor preferences. Especially in situations where the infrastructure is owned by NSF, as is the case here. This would be an area where a new employee co-op might be able to avoid the problems of capitalization. And if they could include a solid plan for increased environmental sensitivity as part of their bid, at a lower price, I should think it would be easy for NSF to support the more socially responsible organization.”
“The two are the same,” X insisted, pounding his knee. “Social justice is a necessary part of any working environmental program.”
“Yes,” Sylvia said slowly. “Well. At least we can include that as one of the recommendations in our little report here.”
X sat back in his folding chair. His heart was pounding fast; it felt like a penguin was flapping its wings in there. Find those ruby slippers, put them on, click them three times together, and maybe then you’ll get to go back, to the home that has never yet existed.
Val found herself proud of X, watching him make his pitch to the Chalet meeting; he was serious, intent; it was hard to ignore him or what he was saying.
Nevertheless, she could see how things would be. Sylvia would try to broker a settlement, no matter how absurd that goal appeared in the light of the world. Washington and the other capitals would call the shots. The hunt for oil and coal and methane hydrates and fresh water would go on, buffered by all the latest hardware science could offer, with Mr. Smith’s invisible clients hovering offstage, watching, judging, no doubt striking again if they were displeased. McMurdo would go on, perhaps with new companies running the services, perhaps some of them co-ops that treated their employees right; but always the same, even as everything changed; still tour groups coming in on ships and planes, and adventure trekkers packaged and taken out into the back country to see things, guided by their guides.
Guiding would never change.
And meanwhile the ferals would continue to move around out there in Transantarctica, living their lives. Trying to wrest a living from this bare land. Working toward a kind of self-sufficiency, even if it were backed by the invisible world beyond the horizon; self-sufficiency not of means but of meaning.
Val thought about this as the second meeting broke into several smaller groups working on specific issues, and she went back to her room, and did laundry, and took a shower, and went to the galley and ate a big meal. Finally she flicked open her wrist phone and got Joyce on the line. “Joyce, where did you put the visiting ferals?”
“Nowhere. What, you think they’re going to stay at Hotel California, or maybe the Holiday Inn?”
Of course not. “Where are they then?”
“I think they’ve set up a couple tents on Ob Hill, just under the peak. Can you see them from where you are?”