“Hullo, Steve. Have a seat.”
Steve settled into the swivel chair by Hugh’s desk and crossed his arms. Hugh noted the uncertainty in the gesture. “How are you feeling these days?” Steve asked.
“Much better, thanks. I wish I didn’t tire so easily. But each day’s an improvement on the last. How’s life treating you?”
“All right. I’m working too hard, but it’s all fun.”
“You know, I do believe you’re already wintering over.”
“Shouldn’t I be?” Steve smiled. “Don’t tell me the plane’s waiting outside!”
“There’s bugger-all outside… Look, old son. You seem to’ve adjusted faster than most of us to this pickle we’re in. Are you aware of the morale problems we’re developing?”
“Yes. There’s not enough public bitching.”
“Mm! A lot of it going on in private, though. Have you given any thought to what it would be like to winter over with most of us living like monks and some of us—”
“God, yes.”
“Terry and Suzy — no problem, everyone’s used to them, and Terry’s still in sick bay anyway. But these romances you and Will have got yourselves involved in — they’re bothering some of the fellows.”
“I know. Ben Whitcumb can hardly stay in the same room with Penny. And Gordon’s jealous of Will, and takes it out on Ben.”
“Ah… D’you suppose you and Will could, mm, suspend your liaisons till we’re out of here?”
“I can’t speak for Will. For myself, no.”
There was silence. Steve went on: “First, I like Pen very much. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“Fair enough—”
“Second, and more important, if we stop living together somebody else — maybe two or three of the men — will be tempted to try moving in on her. The same would be true of Jeanne if Will left her. If we start fighting over women, there really will be a murder.”
“Well, then,” Hugh nodded ruefully, “what do we do?”
“We keep as busy as possible. And we get Gordon off Ben’s back.”
“I think I can manage that.”
After dinner that evening Hugh called Gordon in to discuss some of the technical aspects of repairing the radio masts. He listened attentively to Gordon’s complaints about the time required to get the drilling rig operating again.
“I can see your point,” Hugh said. “But I think you should press on with the rig before starting on the masts. After all, we might get through with the jury-rig antenna Bruce is using now, and the Kiwis might even fly in without a radio contact. The bloody weather makes working on the masts almost impossible anyway. But the drilling rig is really important, and I think you’ve done miracles with the repairs so far. Nobody else could’ve done so much, so fast.”
“Well, it’s what I know how to do,” Gordon shrugged, agreeably flattered. “And, uh, if you think the rig’s important—”
“Christ, yes.”
“Okay, don’t worry about a thing. Another two-three days and we can start opening the hole again. Then I can go to work on the masts, and they shouldn’t take more’n, oh — two, two and a half days.”
“By God, that’s the best news I’ve had in a long time. Excellent!”
“Say, Hugh — long as I’m here — you thought any about maybe sending Al out again? Like to New Byrd Station?”
“No — certainly not in this weather. Al hasn’t suggested it, has he?”
“No, no. Just an idea some of the guys been kicking around.”
“Mm, well, I’ll certainly think hard about it now you’ve raised the suggestion. By the way: there’s one more thing I wanted to get your advice on. Bit delicate, and I think you’re the fellow to take care of it.”
“What’s that?”
“Some of the younger fellows are giving our American friend Ben a bit of a rough time. They look up to you, you know. Think you could put the brakes on ’em? Just a little?”
“Well, uh, well—”
“You’re an old hand on the ice. You know how important good morale is — now of all times.”
“Sure, Hugh. Sure, I understand. Well, I’ll do whatever I can. Just leave it to me.”
“Good. That’s a load off my mind.”
The drilling rig went back into operation, but getting even one of the masts up was impossible: during the last week of February and the first week of March, Colin’s instruments never recorded still air. Average wind velocity was 62 k.p.h., with a high of 180, and the temperature never rose above -30°C. There was almost no respite from the resulting whiteout. In such conditions, outside work had to be done in five-or ten-minute bursts, followed by half an hour of rest and warmth.
Hugh invented scores of new inside jobs, and kept everyone too busy to worry. The nightly seminars became twenty minutes of brief weather reports, duty assignments and idle speculation about the outside world; those who were still awake after that rarely lasted long enough to get in more than an hour’s drinking and Monopoly.
On the evening of March 10 the seminar was even more perfunctory than usual; its only surprise was Colin’s prediction of clear weather for the 11th. As everyone was about to adjourn for a beer or bed, Ben Whitcumb stood up and cleared his throat.
“I’ve got a suggestion,” he said.
Carter was presiding. “Sure, Ben. Let’s hear it.”
“We seem to’ve given up reconnaissance flights since the second trip to McMurdo. I know the weather’s been pretty bad, but we’ve had a few good days. Colin’s just said we’re due for another good one tomorrow.”
“Where d’you wanna go, Ben — Hawaii?” Ray Crandall asked.
“How about New Byrd?” Ben answered. “It’s not all that far—”
“Eight hundred kilometres,” Al interrupted through a cloud of cigar smoke.
“Okay. That’s in range; the Otter’s got extra fuel capacity. New Byrd — it’s a big station, three times our size. If they’re okay, they’ll have plenty of fuel for Al to get back on.”
“And if they’re not okay, I can walk home,” Al muttered.
“Say, that’s a pretty good idea,” Gordon said. “Y’know, Al could even refuel and go on to the Peninsula. Then we’d be sure of getting evacuated before winter.”
Though Gordon had been leaving him alone lately, Ben didn’t look pleased with his new ally. “Hey, I’m only suggesting a reconnaissance, not a flight across the whole doggone continent. For all we know, New Byrd is wrecked, just like Amundsen-Scott. But there might be some help for us, or help we can give them.”
Carter looked uncomfortable; Hugh, sitting up on a couch, impassively stroked his moustache.
“Ben,” Steve asked, “what’s the best result you can foresee from this flight?” His face was as inexpressive as Hugh’s.
“Uh, I guess a quick evacuation, if they’re intact and they’ve got a big enough plane. Or radio conditions could be better there, and they could call in help for us.”
“What if the station’s wrecked, but there are survivors? Does Al bring them back here?”
“Sure.”
“I just wish I could’ve got those guys off Observatory Hill,” Al put in. “Sure I bring ’em back, Steve. What’s your point?”
Steve turned to Don Treadwell. “How’s our food holding out, Don? Have we got enough to last until spring?”
“Well now, that’s kind of, ah, hard to say, you know?” Don looked at Carter, who nodded slightly. “If we stay at normal rates of consumption, we will be out of food by the end of September. And we won’t be eatin’ well in August.”
“Suppose we got eight or ten new people?” Steve asked quickly.