Anthropogenic reintroduction of species that used to exist in Antarctica is an issue that we leave to further discussions elsewhere.
6. The achievement of clean appropriate zero-impact lifestyles in Antarctica is not merely a matter of the technologies employed, but of the social structures which both use these technologies and call successor technologies into being, as a function of the society’s desires for itself. This being the case, all inhabitants of Antarctica should abide by the various human rights documents generated by the United Nations, and special attention should be given to cooperative, nonexploitative economic models, which emphasize sustainable permaculture in a healthy biophysical context, abandoning growth models and inequitable hierarchies which in Antarctica not only degrade human existence but also very quickly impact the fragile environment.
7. In such a harsh environment all attacks against person or equipment constitute a threat to life and cannot be allowed. All those interested enough in Antarctica to come here must forswear violence against humanity or its works, and interact in peaceable ways.
8. What is true in Antarctica is true everywhere else.
Back into the antique interior of a Herc, like something out of Jules Verne, rocketing them back in howling vibration to planet Earth, twenty-first century. Out the bathyscaphe windows the endless blue sea and its scrim of white cloud, thirty thousand feet below and closing fast. A very big world. Wade slept through what he could.
As he slept he dreamed of his last conversation with Sylvia, the dream’s day residue in this case only a slightly skewed replay or continuation of their quiet talk, there in her office looking out at Beeker Street. He had told her about his conversation with Sam, and described his plan, and she nodded thoughtfully. Two bureaucrats, deciding the fate of a continent. An empty continent of course, the least significant of the continents; but still. A continent ruled by scientists, Sylvia said. Bound not to last. Scientific government. Trying to catch neutrinos. We try to study things, she said. Do what’s best for the long haul. The ferals, the oil people—both look to the scientists for their answers. Both use the scientists’ mode of being in Antarctica as their ideal. A way of living on the land. Wanting nothing from it but questions to be asked. Maybe it will work, Wade said again in his dream, maybe technocrats have taken over the world, maybe scientists have taken over the world. Maybe the highest, dryest, coldest, least significant of the continents would show the way. We’ll see, Sylvia said. The weather has cleared. The FBI is on its way, and past the point of safe return. We are all past the point of safe return.
Then an image of Val in her long underwear lighting a Coleman stove knocked him awake. Reluctantly he looked around at the other sleeping passengers in their heavy parkas, heads on strangers’ shoulders, knees enjambed for balance, bunny boots thrust unceremoniously between other people’s legs. Antarctica had crushed them together and made them all family, body space abolished as a concept, all sleeping together in the Victorian roar like cubs in a litter.
Then the plane’s crew were walking through, waking people, gesturing at seat belts. They were landing. There was some kind of trouble again, someone shouted in Wade’s earplugged ear: the wheels wouldn’t come down, or the skis wouldn’t come up, he couldn’t hear which. In any case they were going to have to land on the skis.
Wade groaned. The passengers looked at each other, rolling their eyes. Landing on skis on a concrete runway did not sound good. But what could you do. They were in a Herc, anything could happen. Wade rose up a little to look out the window above him one last time: blue ocean, white cloud. Descending to Earth.
Presumably they were lubricating the runway with that emergency foam. Planes had bellied down on that stuff without problems; skis no doubt would be fine. Piece of cake. If they had been here the Kiwi helo crew would be cackling. They even had flaps this time. Could fly in like a stunt plane no doubt.
Touchdown, bounce, down again, run out. No taxiing afterward, but other than that, no different than any other landing. People grinned, made the thumbs-up gesture. The family had survived another Herc trip. Wait your turn to get out.
Then out, into the shocking heat of a spring day in Christchurch. Maybe fifty degrees Fahrenheit, even sixty—incredible. Standing on the runway. They had indeed foamed it. A bus to take them over to the airport buildings. They had their own building, and no one was there to tell them what to do.
Wade followed the others as they hauled their orange bags through the building, then down the road to the Antarctic Centre. He was sweating as he walked. The smell of grass, so strong. The greens everywhere, so vivid. Low clouds which were clearly made of liquid water. Coming at him were children, laughing. A little girl in a blue dress, her older brother teasing her. Their high voices in the humid grassy air.
Inside the clothing center Wade stripped off his Antarctic gear, inspecting it item by item as he dropped it on the floor: the glove with the ripped finger seam which had made that finger colder than the rest everywhere he went; the parka zipper that would not zip all the way up past the throat. Shimmery blue overalls, red parka, his springy white bunny boots. All piled on the concrete floor, as he slowly pulled on the street clothes he had left behind, his limbs sticky with sweat. That life was over. A young Kiwi checked off all his gear and gave him a pink receipt. Back in the world.
NSF had him scheduled for a flight home the next day. So he checked into the airport hotel, and sat there vibrating on the bed for a while, thinking things over. Back to Washington; back to his life.
He got on the phone and called Phil Chase.
“Hello, Wade! Where are you now?”
“Christchurch.”
“Good flight back?”
“It was interesting.”
“Good. Hey I got the report you sent on the ecotage, also those protocols, I thought those were great. Those could be made into a more global program very easily, I’m very excited, I’d like to try to do something further with those. I see your hand in that document, Wade.”
“Only in asking for it, and that was you. It was mostly Sylvia’s doing. With input from everybody, of course. She got the most help from Ta Shu, I’d say.”
“Whatever. She may have made her mark with that, though, I’m telling you.”
“I think she just thinks of it as a report.”
“Doesn’t matter what she thinks. It’s out of her hands now.”
This struck Wade as a more general truth, and he did not reply.
“So, Wade, you sound tired. You’re back from your big adventure.”
“Yes. But listen, Phil—I think it’s your turn.”
“My turn for a big adventure? That’s my whole life, Wade. It’s just one big adventure after another.”
“I know that. But this time you’ve got to try something new. You’ve got to go to Washington.”
“Ha ha.”
“No I mean it. The time is right. Listen, you know the ferals in Antarctica had a helper in the American security community, right? A satellite photo analyst who gave them information, and covered for them a bit up there, you know.”
“That’s right, I think I remember you telling me that. You kept calling me when I was asleep.”
“Well I’ve been talking to him. He’s a split position between NOAA and one of the security agencies, and a hard man to reach, but I had introductions from both Mai-lis and Sylvia, so he agreed to talk to me.”
“He knows Sylvia too?”
“He’s the same photo analyst she was using.”
“Is this good?”
“Definitely good. I had a long talk with him, and he was very interesting. He has solid photographic evidence that he would be willing to forward to us, that the Southern Club’s oil group has not been the only party down in Antarctica looking for oil this season. He says he can prove without a doubt that some of the big American-based companies have been down there as well. They’ve been using the southern cartel as a cover, basically, counting on them to distract attention and take the heat, while they’re down there too, very unobtrusively, making quick spot checks to look for the supergiant field rumored to be in the Bransfield Strait or the Weddell Sea. And one of them is Texacon.”