A beaker, on the other hand, would recognize that any meteorite had value. A beaker might be jealous of Moss. Beakers were insanely competitive, boasting about hours worked, sleep forgone. They could be jealous, even petty.
Yet a scientist risked his career and reputation with any theft, while support personnel risked… what? There was no law or court or jail at the Pole. Theirs was a job, period, and a hard and thankless one at that. Put in a year and get out. There was little the scientists did that the cooks and mechanics and carpenters and safety specialists didn't know about. Some, like Buck Tyson, were openly contemptuous of what amounted to a two-tier system: the intellectuals and the grunts. If you wanted to annoy the eggheads you didn't throw a wrench into the power plant, because that hurt everyone. You… created another kind of turmoil. Like this.
And who was the station sorehead?
Lewis crossed to the archway on the other side and went down its dim half cylinder, the corridor's string of caged lights punctuated by pools of gloom. Pipes and conduit, years past their projected life, extended like rusty ropes on either side, wrapped in fraying, frosted insulation. In two places there were memorial pools of brown frozen water where sewage lines had ruptured before emergency repairs could be made. Sand had been thrown across the puddles until the dirty ice could be chipped out. Someday.
He went through another door to the generator room, more brightly lit and noisy. There were three generators here, one rumbling like an urgent drum, another in emergency readiness, and a third being overhauled. Pika Taylor, the plant manager, was bent over its black interior with ear protectors on, his head down inside his machine like a rabbit entering its burrow. He didn't hear the geologist.
Lewis considered the generator mechanic. Sometimes it was the quiet guys who blew. Look for someone pissed. Pika seemed awfully possessive about his machines. Yet he also seemed as mild as the animal he was named for. What did he have against Mickey Moss? The two were probably unaware of each other's existence. Pika's tuneless whistling hum was the sound of the bubble of preoccupation the man carried with him. He lived in a machine world, largely oblivious to the gossip, intrigues, friendships, lusts, jealousies, and alliances that swirled around him. His myopia was enviable, in a way. Unfortunately, Lewis wasn't allowed to share it.
Without interrupting Pika, he went on.
The gym beyond was the old garage, dark and low, with a frayed net that divided the space in two. It was the site of 'volleybag' games, so named because an ordinary ball could be hit too easily up to the arched ceiling. A bundle of rags was used instead. Only a single light was on there, in line with the plea for constant energy conservation. There was no fuel resupply until the end of winter and the resulting twilight was spooky. Empty during the work shifts except… He started when he saw a shadowy woman sitting in the corner.
She ignored him.
'Hey, there,' he tried.
No response.
Oh yeah. The woman was a mannequin he'd already been introduced to, the doll dubbed Raggedy Ann that had been brought down to practice CPR on. She was a mascot in the gym the way their slug Hieronymus was in the galley. Now she watched him from the gray twilight, slumped and somehow mocking. Hey yourself.
He turned left through another corridor that led to a second archway that had been added to replace the old garage. Inside was the station's motor pool, such as it was: two aging D-6 bulldozers whose rust had been arrested only by the arid polar air, two tracked exploration vehicles called Sprytes, and four beat-up snowmobiles, including the one he'd tried. It was becoming too cold to use the machines routinely and the main doors had been shut against the growing dimness outside. Blowing snow had made a small drift through the crack where the barn doors joined.
The garage was more brightly lit than the gym but still had a dungeon feel. Chains hung from overhead tracks used to hoist engine blocks, the red paint of their steel hooks flaked and faded into a semblance of dried blood. Metal racks built against the walls of the arch held a shadowy armory of spare and abandoned metal parts, intricate and mysterious. Pegboard above workbenches held racks of tools, heavy and sharp. A steel mesh floor laid across the snow was slick with dripping oil. The air stank of fuel fumes. A blowing heater kept its temperature barely above freezing.
A thousand places to hide a rock.
There was a screeching rasp and shower of sparks behind one of the parked Sprytes and Lewis made his way in that direction. He had no better plan of approach than with Nancy Hodge. Gee, Tyson, you got the meteorite? You being so disliked and all.
'Hey, Buck!'
Tyson glanced up from the spinning grinder with impatient annoyance and reluctantly turned, bracing himself against the likelihood of another work request. As he took his foot off the grinder pedal, its whir died away.
'Yeah?' It was a grunt.
'How's it going?'
Tyson squinted. 'It's going.'
Lewis looked at what the mechanic had in his hand. Flat metal, shiny and sharp. It was an opening. 'I heard you made knives.'
Tyson glanced around. 'So?'
'As a hobby? You sell them back in North Dakota?'
'So?'
Maybe this was the wrong time to draw him out. The mechanic was on shift, and obviously not working on whatever he was supposed to be working on. He was probably afraid Lewis would tell Cameron. Lewis cast about for a revealing question. 'Where do you get the material?'
'What?'
'For the knives? Where do you get the metal?'
The mechanic looked at him as if he were blind. 'We've got enough scrap to build a fucking battleship. Every bit of useless junk you can think of except what we really need.'
At least he was answering. And he took things. 'What do you use for handles?'
Tyson considered his visitor. What was this about? He had no illusions about people who came into his garage. They all wanted something, and screw them. Still, he answered. 'Metal. Wood. Bone. Hard rubber. Plastic. Why?'
'I'm thinking of buying one.'
The mechanic looked wary.
'For Christmas presents. We'll be home by then.'
Tyson waited for more.
'How much?' Lewis asked.
'What?'
'How much for a knife?'
The mechanic considered. 'Hundred bucks.'
'For a knife!'
'Handmade and engraved at the Pole.' He deliberately huffed out a cloud of vapor, a plume like cigarette smoke. 'I put up with a lot of shit to make these.'
'Would you consider fifty?'
That baleful look again. 'No.' Then he reconsidered. 'Maybe seventy-five.'
'I'm on a budget, Buck.'
'So am I.'
There was a long silence, each watching the other. Tyson didn't act like an imminent millionaire. Another dead end. 'When will they be finished?'
'Long before you get home.' He grinned at that.
Lewis smiled falsely. 'You got some I could look at?'
The persistent interest softened Tyson slightly. He shrugged. 'In my locker in my room. Maybe I could show you later.'
'My dad might want one, too.'
'I don't care who wants them.'
'He likes crafted stuff.'
