Chapter 18
When Scott made it back to McMurdo, he was exhausted. It was morning (though nothing in the dark sky indicated that it was so), and particles of snow began to swarm around him in a threateningly increasing way, pointing to a blizzard just at hand. Some of them felt like hard, offensive particles on the raw and exposed part of his face, the part not protected by goggles and a thick scarf.
It was breakfast-time, but he wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. What he wanted most was to creep quietly to his quarters and sleep for several hours, but his nagging conscience did not permit him to do that. The station was astir as people poured out of building 155, bending their heads against the freezing wind, and dispersed about their business. Several nodded to him as they passed, and said something that might have been ‘good morning’, but the wind and the scarves and parkas muffled their words.
Scott directed his steps to the office, where he revived a little over a cup of very strong black coffee and a pre-packaged sandwich he had got from a vending machine. The supplies of the vending machines were getting scarce, and some people were beginning to grumble over the decreased possibility to snack to their heart’s content at all hours of the day and night, but overall, Scott preferred the meals at the galley anyway.
He opened the office laptop and logged in to his email. A single recent message from the headquarters somehow managed to get through the overall server chaos. It contained a few general directions, hopes that McMurdo was holding on reasonably well, and a few links to news reports several days old, which made his heart sink. A series of bombings the Pentagon had not been able to predict or thwart had hit the very heart of America. Tens of thousands of people from coast to coast had lost their lives, hundreds of thousands were driven away from their homes and fled to the countryside. Scott searched in vain for any mention of Madison, but he found out that the state of Wisconsin had experienced its share of the bombings as well. He sent a short, frantic email to his parents and Laura: Please get in touch if you can. I think I’m going to lose my mind with worry.
Overall, he was not in a very good mood when he heard the knock on his door, and the brisk voice of Victor Nash asking for permission to come in.
“Any news?” Scott asked with cold politeness, taking another sip of coffee but not offering Nash any.
“Oh, nothing special. Unless you count the fact that the temperature in the living quarters has dropped to make them barely habitable, that the trickle of water in the showers is lukewarm at best, and that the dinner fare at the galley has been spaghetti with canned meatballs for three days in a row now. But that’s business as usual around here these days.”
Scott squinted at him. It was true — the buildings were cold, and he hadn’t taken off his parka when he came into the office. “We have less residual glycol for heating these days,” he said. “We must conserve energy and supplies. But it’s all under control.”
“That’s what I told people. I hope you had a pleasant trip, anyway,” Nash said with a very nasty smirk.
Scott put down his coffee cup. He was tired and disoriented after a sleepless night, and had no patience for Nash. “Do you have anything else to say?”
Nash came closer. “Just that you are bloody irresponsible, Buckley,” he said in a quiet, dangerous snarl. “You just took off all alone, in a bloody snowmobile, and buggered off to AN-85? What about the safety regulations? You could have been caught in this goddamn blizzard,” Nash indicated the window, which had become a grey and white and black blur because of the snowstorm.
“I am touched by your concern.”
“In case you are wondering, Buckley, I don’t give a damn about you. If you want to get yourself frozen to death, it is fine by me. You have responsibilities, however, though it’s easy to forget about them while you’re out there having a damn good time eating grilled penguin or whatever it is that the Anai hospitality offers.”
Scott glared at him. The worst of it was, he was not untouched by a twinge of guilt. His head was so full of the Anai, and their mystery, and their music, and Tahan… he had danced with her again last night, and for a moment, almost forgot all about home and the war ravaging the world. None of the other people at McMurdo had the luxury of such an escape.
“I have work to get on with, Nash, so if you don’t mind…”
“Work. Yes, of course. We all have work to do, don’t we? Only it seems ironic to me that we are freezing our backsides off and living off canned beans, while those savages down in the valley are snug and warm, and gorging themselves on meat.”
“You are raving, Nash. The Anai live in primitive conditions and work very hard all summer in order to have food for the winter.”
“You love them just as much as old Lindholm did, don’t you?” Nash sneered. “Well, this must be why he chose you to replace him. Well, have a good day, Buckley.”
As soon as Nash stepped out, Scott got up and, in a very bad mood, stomped on to the door of his office and locked it. He then got back to his desk, spent a couple of hours catching up with whatever work remained to be done — which, thankfully, wasn’t much, because he wasn’t feeling very productive — and went out of the office and in the direction of the galley well before lunch. He picked up a couple of the premade sandwiches and wraps that were always kept for those staff members working irregular hours, and headed for his quarters. He ate, read a bit of an old battered paperback from the station’s library without really taking it in, and stretched out on his bed. A couple of hours of sleep would hopefully refresh him and leave him in a fitter condition to attend to his duties.
When he woke and glanced at the clock, he thought at first it must be upside down. It was just after dinner, and he was sorry to have missed it, because he was feeling quite alert and hungry, and would have liked to eat something more substantial than a sandwich. He stretched, however, and prepared to examine the contents of his little fridge, when he saw something that improved his mood.
Someone had slid a note under his door. In an untidy scrawl, it said the following: Did you think you could keep your birthday a secret? We know all about it, and have a surprise ready for you. Come over to the greenhouse after dinner tonight. Jerry.
An involuntary grin spread over Scott’s face. His birthday, in fact, had passed a few days ago, but went by largely unnoticed in the turmoil of the world and the general gloom and concern hovering over the station. He didn’t think to mention it, and had no idea how Jerry found out about it, but this was very like him. The ‘surprise’ probably involved a generous libation of some illegally distilled alcohol, consumed to a few jazzy numbers in the greenhouse. This might be just what he needed, however. He wondered how many people would come to the clandestine party and challenge his professional conscience. Holding the event in the greenhouse made perfect sense, however — it was by far the warmest place at McMurdo these days.
Scott put on his outer clothes and left building 155, directing his steps to the greenhouse. It was unlocked, and the lights were turned off for the night, but he wasn’t fooled. Jerry must be in there somewhere, and probably Zoe as well, and maybe a few other people . He stepped in, feeling for the light switch. “Gordon, man, are you in here?” he called, suppressing a smile.
The next thing he experienced was a strong blow and a feeling of abrupt suffocation. Someone had hit him on the head and pulled a sack over it. He attempted to scream, but a strong hand was clasped over his mouth. Then there was another blow, and the world went quite black.
Scott woke up, he didn’t know how much time later, with a feeling of dizziness, nausea, and utter disorientation. The sack was removed from his face, but he couldn’t see much in the dark. He did perceive the outline of a familiar steel-and-plastic working surface, however, all crowded with pots of bushy plants, and concluded that he was still in the greenhouse. He was tied up at the wrists and ankles and pushed into a seldom-cleaned corner. A bit of duct tape kept his mouth firmly shut. He felt bruised and thirsty and stiff from his uncomfortable position on the floor, and his head was sore and aching, but above all, he was furious with himself. Like an idiot, he fell for the simplest lure and walked right into the trap. He would have loved to kick himself as he thought of what Nash might be doing while he was lying here in a useless heap.