"Everyone calls Tyson Buck because he's into knives," Geller explained. "And guns. And commando crap. And every other bit of militia weirdness."
"No, I'm not. I'm into sufficiency, which is more than a little important way down here." Tyson pointed his fork at Lewis. "Don't take this 'all for one and one for all' crap too seriously because when it's dark and blowing and people are freaking out, you gotta know how to take care of yourself. Right? The government likes to jabber on about our happy little commune, but in fact it's just a bunch of fucked-up overachievers. They may have a doctorate, but they manage to bring down every goddamn neurosis there is."
"Buck doesn't like people," Geller summarized.
"That's not true. I'm eating with you assholes. I even like some of the beakers like crazy Alexi, our Russian cocktail. He tells it like it is, 'cause he's out of the gulag, man. Hiro's kind of funny, like a Jap cartoon. But some of them are humorless know-it-alls, like Harrison Adams. Harrison. Not just Harry. Pompous twit. Or weirdos like Jerry Follett. I watch my backside around that faggot. Or Mickey Mouse out there in the Dark Side. Our head rodent needs his ears pinned."
"You're talking about Saint Michael," Geller said with humor.
"Pope Moss can kiss my you-know-what." Tyson turned to the other man at their table, who'd been eating silently, and clapped him on the shoulder. "The one you want to stay friends with is this guy, who runs the power plant. We try to keep him sober and sane."
The small man looked up like a blinking mole. He was balding, with pinched features and a brushy mustache. "Pika," he mumbled as introduction.
"What?" Lewis hadn't understood.
"Pika," Geller said. "Like the animal."
"What's a pika?"
"Sort of a rock rabbit," Tyson explained. "No one can stand to hang around with Pika 'cause he whistles while he works, like those dwarves. Remember them? Drives us all nuts, like Muzak. His real name is Doug Taylor but we call him Pika, which is sort of like a marmot. Critter that whistles?"
Lewis slowly nodded. "Got it."
"Pikas sort of squeak," Geller said. "But we liked the sound of the word."
"Makes sense to me."
"See, Mickey Moss can collect all the medals he wants to but what it comes down to is the guys like Pika," Tyson said. "We're at the outer edge of the envelope down here. They don't like to tell us that, but it's true. The generators stop, and we're dead. The well gets fucked up, and we're dead. A good fire gets started, and we're dead. This place is the easiest place in the world to sabotage. Any of us could kill all of us in about three nanoseconds. And then they send down a shrink? How does that make you feel?"
Lewis tried to smile. "That I better stay friends with Pika."
"You better believe it. Some idiot shut off the heat the other day. It was this little guy who got it back on." Tyson nodded in approval.
"Don't touch my machines," the small man mumbled. He didn't look at Lewis, just mildly kept eating his food.
Lewis wondered what his story was. "Okay."
"Just leave my machines alone."
It was quiet for a moment.
"So you're the new weather dude, correct?" Tyson finally asked.
"Yeah."
"So how do you like the magic kingdom?"
"It's pretty interesting."
"Damn right it's interesting. Absolutely fucking fascinating. For about three days." Tyson snorted. "After that, it's Groundhog Day. You seen that movie, where they repeat the same day over and over?"
"I've seen it."
"That's winter at the Pole."
"Don't listen to Buck too much," Geller said. "He whines like a mosquito."
"I whine because that fucker Cameron, and the bureaucrats he fronts for, won't get off my back. Have you seen our work schedule? Do this, do that, blah blah blah: More work on that list than you could do in three winters! Give me a fucking break. They're just showing off."
"Buck believes the world is out to get him," Geller interpreted.
"Screw you. It is out to get me."
"Carries a chip like a cross."
"I carry the station, man. I do the shit. You know how many people work here?" he asked Lewis.
"How many?"
"About half." Tyson laughed again.
"So what are you doing down here?" Lewis asked Tyson.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He took it like a challenge.
"It's volunteer, right? You wanted to come, right?"
"Hell yes, it's volunteer! Until they spend six thousand bucks getting each of us down here with no replacements in the pipeline. Then it's like, 'Oh, you don't care for our little utopia? Seems we've lost your return ticket until next October. Gosh golly darn. Have a great winter.' "
"It'll go faster with a positive attitude, Buck," Geller advised.
"It'll go faster when Cameron lays off me, man. Maybe I can't quit, but I don't have to jump through his work-schedule hoops, either. They may not like me, but they can't touch me." He grinned. "Not down here."
Pulaski had found them a pet. By treaty, animals weren't allowed in Antarctica in order to preserve its pristine environment. Unaware of this agreement, a small slug had smuggled its way onto the continent in a head of freshie lettuce. Lena, their greenhouse horticulturist, adopted the creature and put him in a jar with clippings from the hydroponic tanks. She called the slug Hieronymus and announced he was good luck. She was a botanist on green card from the Czech Republic, and to her everything seemed charmed in this new world. "I feel that all the time I am on vacation," she told Lewis.
"Someone should have told you about Hawaii."
"And now we have a pet!" she enthused.
"Somebody said something about a dome slug," he remembered.
"Those are people. That's what you become if you don't get outside."
"And if you do get outside?"
"Then you are a… Popsicle!" She smiled at her own knowledge of the word.
With some ceremony the slug was designated the official mascot of the Amundsen-Scott drill and dart team, which designated itself the Fighting Gastropods. Twice a week the loose assemblage played a match with the New Zealand winter-overs on the coast, keeping score by crackling radio. The Kiwis relied on their countryman Dana Andrews to keep the Yanks honest as they reported score. A caustically humored redhead with the build of a fireplug and an opinion on everyone, Dana complied. The Americans at McMurdo lent their own monitor, who hiked over to the New Zealand base for the matches in return for Kiwi beer.
Lewis was invited to join. "We're a classier team now that we have a mascot," Geller told him. "There's a real status to it now."
"I'm not much on darts." He sat down to one side as they shoved aside tables in the galley.
"You can't be any worse than Curious George," coaxed another woman. Gabriella, her name was, and she was a more effective recruiter, as sensual as Dana was stolid. She was slim, dark-haired, her skin the color of butterscotch, her eyes large, and her mouth arrested in a wry curl. She moved with a self-conscious liquid grace. Not pretty like Abby so much as alluring. Dangerously so.
"I suppose not," Lewis agreed, watching while Geller put three darts wide of the bull's-eye.
The maintenance man was frowning at his own volley when Gabriella brought Lewis to the line. Geller gave them a knowing look. "I see you've managed to let yourself be drafted. You found this dame persuasive?"
The woman gave Lewis a glance.
"More so than you," Lewis allowed.
"That isn't even a compliment," Gabriella complained.
"I like the mascot."
"That's no better! I hope you're more adept with darts than words!"
In truth, Lewis had never played the game. But he was determined to socialize down here and so he threw, managing to hit the board. Then he watched as Gabriella toed the line and cocked her slim arm, the dart balanced in her fingers like a feather. She was a male magnet and knew it, reeking of femininity and pheromones. "Who is she?" he murmured to Geller as they watched.