And so George settled into prison life. He expected a repetition of his recent solitary confinement aboard the submarine, boredom without end. And for the first seventy-two hours, boredom is exactly what the dungeon delivered. Nothing happened there, not even the passage of the sun, the continent being in the twilight of its six-month day. George lay on his ice bed, sleeping, not sleeping, brooding, reading the indictment, visiting his psychic museum – Morning in her wedding dress, Morning suckling Aubrey.
Then the tortures began. Contrary to Brat’s fears, the genre of excruciation practiced at the Antarctic National Dungeon fell well within the definition of civilized behavior prescribed by the Geneva Protocols.
The prisoners’ torture was this: they were given whatever they wanted. They had only to name a pleasure, and it was theirs. Food? At six o’clock each evening Ramos’s underlings would serve a dinner that regarded every human taste bud as an erogenous zone; several bestselling cookbooks could have been derived from the secrets of preparing Adélie penguin en brochette and sea lion flambeé. Drink? The milk of the Weddell seal displayed extraordinarily un-milklike properties when fermented. Sex? What the local prostitutes lacked in experience they made up for in eagerness. Intellectual stimulation? Antarctica’s population included a large supply of hypothetical Pulitzer Prize recipients.
Above each cell, lively little mobs gathered, and as the prisoners indulged themselves, the darkbloods stared down through the transparent roof. Eyes filled the heavens like dying stars. The spectators clapped, whistled, stomped their feet, and chanted, ‘Let us in!’ It was a sport of ever-growing popularity. People brought lunch.
The first time George was offered a mug of coffee under these conditions, he swallowed it with equanimity. The second time, he took the mug to a corner and faced the walls, drinking in small, furtive sips. The third time, he let the coffee grow cold.
A prostitute named Trudy came calling. She had gained the continent in her physical prime. ‘Sorry it isn’t more private,’ she said, fiddling with George’s Velcro. ‘Just pretend they aren’t there.’
He glanced up. A young man with a Göttingen University patch on his scopas suit returned his gaze. ‘I would like you to go,’ said George.
‘Go?’ said Trudy.
‘You are very pretty,’ said George. ‘Please leave.’
‘Okay… but I want you to answer me a question.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll bet you can imagine what my question is.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Imagine.’
‘I can’t.’
‘My question is, why the fuck did you end the world?’
Although the large central cell was intended for exercise, the defendants preferred using it for poker, which was permitted once an evening for ninety minutes. They bet food. Whenever a game ended, Juan Ramos appropriated most of the winnings and ate them on the spot. ‘We are not good,’ he explained. ‘Merely innocent.’
On the night before the trial was to begin, George returned from the poker game to find two lawyers in his cell. Gorgeous Dennie Howe he remembered from his inquisition at McMurdo Station. (Oh, the hearts she would have shattered… ) Her companion, who introduced himself as Parkman Cleave, looked even more callow than the rest of the defense team. George offered his visitors ice chairs. Children, he thought, always they send children. I’m being defended by a goddamn kindergarten.
‘We’ve just come from the Documents Division,’ said Dennie. ‘It’s like a monastery over there – papers culled from every corner of the United States and Western Europe, scribes copying page after page by candlelight.’
‘They arrived on a barge,’ said Parkman. His smile was as flashy as the clasps on his briefcase. ‘The Spirit of the Law.’
‘First, the good news,’ said Dennie. ‘Out of twenty tons of cargo, the entire case against you consists of one scopas suit sales contract.’
‘I know,’ said George.
‘Anything to drink around here?’ Parkman asked.
‘Cocoa. Coffee.’
The lawyers smiled in unison, ordered cocoa. George began heating water on a whale-oil stove.
‘Now, the bad news,’ said Dennie.
‘The chief prosecutor is Alexander Aquinas,’ said Parkman.
‘Never heard of him,’ said George.
‘Really? Oh – of course not,’ said Parkman. A smile pushed aside his cheeks, which were as smooth and pink as buffered Oklahoma granite. ‘If you’ve got Alexander Aquinas around, you can put away your steel traps.’
‘His books would have dealt mortal blows to plea bargaining and the insanity defense,’ Dennie explained with an admiration George thought might have been a touch more reluctant. ‘Alexander Aquinas would have gotten judges to hang their mothers.’
George spooned brown powder into two mugs, added hot water, served the sweet-smelling results.
‘You’re not having any?’ Parkman asked. Chocolate steam rolled through the cell.
‘No.’
‘We want to tell you how to plead,’ said Dennie.
‘Not guilty,’ said George.
‘That’s almost right,’ said Parkman.
‘You must say, “Not guilty in the sense of the indictment,”’ said Dennie.
‘Why?’ said George.
‘Because you’re not guilty,’ said Parkman.
‘In the sense of the indictment,’ said Dennie. ‘That’s how the Nazi war criminals pleaded,’ she added merrily.
‘We also want to teach you some tactics,’ said Parkman. ‘You must make a good impression on the judges.’
‘Keep your suit clean,’ said Dennie.
‘When the barber comes around, avail yourself of his services,’ said Parkman. ‘Let’s go for less hair, a neater beard, right?’
‘When you’re on the stand, it’s okay if you look nervous,’ said Dennie.
‘Try to look nervous, in fact,’ said Parkman. ‘We want to avoid that cold-blooded nuclear warrior image.’
‘Pretty child,’ said Dennie, lifting the Leonardo from the nightstand. ‘Your daughter?’
‘Bonenfant thinks he can get us off,’ said George, snatching away the priceless painting. ‘He said there’s a rabbit or two in his hat.’
‘It all depends on whether we find a vulture expert,’ said Parkman.
‘A what?’ said George.
‘Vulture expert,’ said Dennie.
‘Ever hear of the Teratornis?’ asked Parkman.
‘No,’ said George.
‘A species of vulture,’ said Dennie.
‘Obviously you’re not a vulture expert,’ said Parkman.
Vultures.
A shock of recognition surged through George. He had seen Parkman Cleave before… on the submarine… wearing a business suit… holding a bag of carrion. ‘I know you! You’re the one who takes care of my vulture!’
‘Your vulture?’ said Parkman.
‘Dr Valcourt calls it my vulture. It’s not really mine. I first ran into it at ground zero, then again on the boat, when you fed it.’ George returned his family to the nightstand. ‘Dr Valcourt told me that vultures can reproduce without males. They’re inseminated by the winds – that’s what people used to believe. Do you keep it as a charm? Perhaps it will bring your race good luck. It’s certainly big enough.’
‘Nothing can bring our race good luck,’ said Parkman.
‘No animals are inseminated by the winds,’ said Dennie.