Sam had a feeling that Alexandr's idea might involve alcohol, and he was right. As soon as they got back to the corridor and Private Hodge departed, Alexandr slipped into his room and emerged a few seconds later with his flask. Sam wondered how the guide managed it — no matter how much he drank or shared, the flask always seemed to be full. Maybe it's the Ke'let, Sam thought, letting his imagination run free. Maybe it follows him around topping off his vodka. That would certainly explain why he's willing to rush off into the snow every new year. I'd do it myself for an unlimited supply of that stuff.
They repaired to Sam's room where they pulled blankets and pillows onto the floor and sprawled out. Not wishing to exhaust his supply of real cigarettes, Sam fished around in the deepest recesses of his backpack until he found his emergency pouch of loose tobacco and rolling papers. He held out the little packet of filters, but Alexandr waved them away and rolled himself a long, extremely thin cigarette.
"Expertly done," Sam said, marveling at Alexandr's speed and dexterity.
"You spend enough time out here, you become good at rolling these," Alexandr said. "The trick is to create as thin a line of tobacco as possible, but it must be unbroken and unfiltered. With such a thin line, if you use a filter you simply should not bother to smoke at all. It is the perfect balance of necessity and frugality, and if you do it correctly the result is close to art." Pulling his lighter from his pocket, he lit the cigarette and took a shallow draft. "Then you must inhale just deeply enough to get the benefit, but not enough to exhaust the cigarette too soon."
"I'm spoiled." Sam attempted to copy what Alexandr had done, but the line of tobacco was thicker than he would have liked and he lost a few precious flakes as he rolled the paper with clumsy fingers. "Well, close enough." He put his wonky creation between his lips and lit it. "This definitely wasn't how I thought I'd be spending the first weeks of this year."
"Nor I," Alexandr agreed, knocking back a shot of vodka and pouring himself another capful. "Never before have I seen an expedition pulled together so quickly, or with such strange purposes."
"Did you know what Purdue was here for? You didn't seem to when he told the rest of us, but I wondered whether you were just indulging his moment of drama."
"No, that was genuine. I did not know, and if I had known when he engaged my services I would have advised him against this search. Even though we have found this place, I doubt that every one of us will leave it alive."
Sam nodded. No one had drawn direct attention to the dangers the group faced since Admiral Whitsun had alluded to the instructions he had given that he should be left behind if his health failed. Yet it was always there — unspoken by some, unconsidered by others. Sam realized that only hours had passed since he had been waiting for the sound of a gunshot behind him and the sensation of oblivion. "We're in over our heads, aren't we? God knows what Purdue's dragged us into."
"We are. Something dangerous is going on here, of that there is no doubt." Alexandr's face hardened slightly, his expression darkening. "The key to surviving dangerous situations is to understand them. We do not. We are unaware of the true nature of our situation. This makes it unlikely that we will all get out alive. We may be lucky, perhaps, if any of us do."
Well, that took a turn for the morose, Sam thought. He tried to ignore the tingle of fear that was creeping up his spine. All through their time in the tent and their first hours in the ice station, Sam had been able to convince himself that as long as Alexandr remained sanguine there was really nothing to fear. But now…
"It's funny," Sam said, "I thought that I didn't want to live. My plan, back home in Edinburgh, was to drink myself to death eventually — and by eventually, I was thinking hopefully within the next couple of years."
"That seems a very complicated way to commit suicide." Alexandr's brow furrowed. "Why not concentrate it into a short period? Even a single night? It can be done."
Sam shook his head. "I couldn't. I wanted to — left to my own devices I'd just have got pissed and jumped off a bridge, but there was someone who would have been angry and upset if I'd done that. So I couldn't."
"And this person would not have objected to you drinking yourself to death slowly?"
"Probably. But if I did it over a long time, I could sort of pretend I was still trying to function. Anyway, I don't know why I put so much thought into what that person would want any more. She died."
Alexandr made no reply, but his face softened a little. He learned forward and topped off Sam's makeshift cup.
"She died," Sam repeated, "and I thought I wanted to die too. That's why I wasn't nervous about coming to the Antarctic. I knew it would be dangerous but I didn't really care. And now… I don't know what's changed, but I really don't fancy getting shot by those soldiers or freezing to death outside. Presumably I don't really want to die after all — but I'd definitely like to drink myself into oblivion for tonight, at least."
"Oblivion is more than this little flask has to offer, regretfully," Alexandr said. "But it can certainly take the edge off of your pain, I am sure. Here. Have another, and let us talk to something more cheerful. Perhaps I am wrong to be so pessimistic. And even if I am not, what would be the point of spending our remaining time in misery? You have finished your cigarette — let me show you how to roll one properly."
So Sam settled down to watch Alexandr's nimble fingers creating skinny cigarettes. The guide plucked a story out of the air, apparently at random, and began to tell Sam of an earlier adventure in which he had been stuck in a Siberian snowdrift trying to get an old-fashioned steam train to work years after being decommissioned. Sam did not follow the exact details of the repair, which seemed to have been conducted with little more than twigs, an oil can, and a Swiss army knife, but the Russian certainly spun a good yarn. Before Sam knew it he was smiling again, then laughing, then actually enjoying himself despite the danger and the constant underlying feeling that he was betraying Trish just by being alive.
The following morning Sam got up uncharacteristically early and sneaked down to the refectory before the others were up. His chat with Alexandr had given him a lot to think about, and he could not face another morning of bickering and tension. The taciturn PMCs at the end of the corridor let him pass without comment, but Sam saw that a few more had been posted on the other stories. In the kitchen he rooted through their supplies and found some tea, then picked as many berries as he could out of his porridge before adding the water. As he spooned the sloppy, over-sweetened mess into his mouth, he caught himself thinking longingly of Scottish Lorne sausages and steak bakes.
After breakfast he hit the showers. The water was gloriously hot and smelled faintly of sulfur, and the pressure was perfect. Heavy jets of steaming water thudded into the tense muscles of Sam's back and shoulders and thundered down on his head. After seasickness, tents, dehydrated food, and hard bunks, this was luxury. He peeled off a couple of sheets of compacted soap and scrubbed himself clean, then stood and let the water flow over him for far, far longer than necessary. He could not remember the last time he had actually enjoyed a sensation like that.
Sam had just finished lathering up his hair, ready at last to wash it and come out of the shower, when he heard a sudden banging and yelling from outside. He dived out of the cubicle and threw his towel around his waist, then ran into the corridor. At the far end two PMCs were rolling on the floor, one of them landing blow after blow on the other and screaming incoherently. A section of the corrugated iron hung loose where one of them had been slammed into the wall.