Graham arched an eyebrow. "You're not putting us in the brig?"
"Not yet."
"Actually, I was really hoping to get on the road," Rupert said. "I'd like to get my crate back to Kirby as quickly as possible."
"That can wait." Baxter wheeled around and walked away.
Graham waited until Baxter had vanished into one of the hallways. "So, you work for Pat?"
"No," Rupert replied.
"Could've fooled me."
"It's better to stay on his good side. Pat's in charge of everything around here. If he wanted to, he could make my life a living hell."
"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.
"My wife and I are zoologists."
"Zoology? Here?"
"I know. It sounds crazy. Few animals can survive the winter wind chill. It dries them up faster than a sponge on water. But that doesn't mean there aren't creatures for us to study. We just need a microscope to see them."
"You're talking about invertebrates."
He nodded.
"How long have you worked at Kirby?" Graham asked.
"Three years."
"Damn."
"That's nothing. The Baxters have been on this continent for decades." He stood up. "It's hard for outsiders to understand but this place grows on you. Sure, we scratch out a meager existence. And we put up with a thousand indignities. But we're living a constant adventure at the literal end of the Earth. What could be better than that?"
"Do you want the whole list?" Graham asked. "Because that could take a few hours."
"Like I said, outsiders don't get it." Rupert shrugged. "It's just about lunchtime. Come on. I'll take you to the cafeteria. Might as well try the cuisine before you leave."
We followed him into a long hallway. "This region is widely known as Queen Maud Land." He adopted the tone of a weary tour guide. "It covers one-sixth of Antarctica, or about one million square miles. It's claimed by Norway but no one takes that seriously."
Graham looked around. "How does Kirby compare to this place?"
"It's much smaller. It was built to accommodate twenty-two full-time residents and a dozen part-timers. But it's never attracted anywhere close to that level of interest. Including Crazy Roy's team, we've got just seven full-time residents."
"Crazy Roy?"
"It's a nickname," Rupert explained. "A well-earned one."
We walked into a large room. Fitzgerald's galley was a step up from a prison cafeteria and maybe a few steps down from my old high school lunchroom.
The walls were white. Not egg white, not off-white. Just white. The gray carpet lacked texture and design. Halogen light blanketed the room.
Dozens of circular wooden tables were screwed to the floor. Mounted swivel chairs surrounded them. Black plastic boxes sat on their surfaces. Each box held a silver napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, ketchup, and mustard.
"This is the main cafeteria," Rupert said. "The food is free and all-you-can-eat. They serve breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midrats here."
My brow furrowed. "Midrats?"
"Midnight rations. You know, for those who work at night."
The food was arranged buffet style with numerous stations. Designated servers, armed with giant forks and spoons, manned each area. It didn't look that bad actually. Fresh vegetables and fruits were few and far between but I saw plenty of meat, eggs, and bread.
"Hey Rupert." A man, dressed in oil-stained overalls and work gloves, walked into the galley. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Did you hear about the Desolation?"
"Sure did." Rupert cocked his head. "I thought you were staying with the Sno-Cat."
"What's the point? We're going to be here awhile."
"We are?"
"Janet just ordered a search of all incoming cargo. I guess she's worried about terrorism."
"Shit." Rupert's face paled considerably. "Has she searched my crate yet?"
"No, but—”
Rupert sprinted for the exit just as a trio of young ladies came strolling through it. He smashed into them. As they twisted and careened into the walls, he vanished from sight.
Graham arched an eyebrow. "That must be some crate."
"I'm Cy." I extended my hand. "That's Dutch. Do you live at Kirby too?"
"Jim Peterson." He shook my hand. "Yup, I handle Kirby's maintenance."
"So, what was that all about?"
"Let's just say the Whitlows are protective of their crates."
"What's in them?"
"Don't know. Most scientists get a crate or two per year. The Whitlows get at least one per month." His brow furrowed. "Of course, that's not even the strangest part."
"Oh?"
"I can't figure out where all their stuff goes. They get all these packages and boxes. But their lab never seems to change."
"Must be disposable stuff."
"I might believe that if they ever threw anything out."
"Maybe they use a storage room," Graham suggested.
"Not that I've seen." Peterson turned to leave. "Well, I need to make a few more stops before Rupert and I head back to Kirby. Nice meeting you."
I waited for Peterson to walk away. "That was interesting."
"Fake scientists. An exploding ship. Mysterious crates." Graham frowned. "Just what the hell is going on around here?"
Chapter 10
I put my tray on the table and sat down. "I don't care what Pat says. I'm not leaving here without the Amber Room."
"What's your plan?" Graham asked. "Hide until he forgets about us?"
"Maybe."
"It won't work. Pat's a bulldog about stuff like this."
Curiously enough, the cafeteria had self-segregated. Scientists, administrators, and white-collar workers congregated on one side. Mechanics, youngsters, and assistants gathered on the other side. In other words, it was clipboards versus Carhartts.
I glared at Graham. "You knew he worked here, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"So, why didn't you tell me?"
"What's there to tell?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe that he has the power to deport us and happens to hate your guts."
Graham looked away.
I forced myself to calm down. "I've been thinking about those tracks. You know, the ones near the Ekström Ice Shelf."
Graham dipped his fork into his pasta. "Yeah?"
I took a bite of my burger. Then I opened up the bun and slathered the beef with ketchup. Lots of ketchup. "They were headed south toward the mountains."
"What mountains?"
I eyed Graham. His chin was tilted toward the ceiling. His gaze was directed at nothing in particular. "The ones on the moon."
"Oh yeah."
"You okay?"
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You seem distracted."
Graham chewed his pasta slowly. "Do you ever think about death?"
"I try not to."
"All those bodies on the Desolation … I guess they got in my head."
I took another bite of my burger and waited for him to continue.
"I'm getting old." He cracked a smile. "No way around that fact."
"You're not old."
"It didn't used to matter so much. But now I can barely get out of bed."
"You were tough enough to come here."
"I thought a little adventure would do me good. Too bad my body hurts like hell."
"So does mine. It's been a long day."
He shrugged. "My body won't last forever. I know that. Dust to dust, right? I just wish I knew what came next."
I lowered my burger. "You mean like heaven?"
"If it even exists."
"You don't believe in it?"
"I want to believe in it." He sighed. "But it's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't picture God as a giant asshole."
I frowned. "Come again?"
"If God exists, why the hell is He hiding Himself? Why doesn't He just pop His head out of the clouds and say, 'Hey jerks, here I am'? Instead, we're supposed to trust a bunch of dusty old books. Hell, I don't even trust what I read in the newspaper."