Geller rolled his eyes.
'If Mickey's dead, so is his issue of privacy,' Adams went on.
The psychologist opened his mouth to disagree again and then closed it, considering all the ramifications. 'It's a group decision.'
Cameron looked at the group. 'Well?'
No one objected.
'Let's do it, then,' the station manager said quietly.
Norse and Nancy Hodge left the galley to go through the berthing areas. Abby and Adams departed to open up Moss's hard drive. The mood of the remainder was somber. Cameron tried to lead a desultory discussion about outdoor safety but no one responded. Nobody wanted to talk about rules. The clock seemed to have stopped.
'What if we never even find Mickey?' Dana abruptly wondered aloud.
'We'll find him,' Pulaski said. 'Ten to one he had a stroke over this meteorite and got covered up by snow. Another good wind and his parka will pop back out.'
'I'm not even willing to say he's dead yet,' Cameron said. 'But if he is, it's a lesson to us all. Sign out, take a radio.'
'That's the third time you've said that,' Geller groaned. 'We learned that stuff way back in Denver and Mickey knew it, too. Look, can we continue this discussion upstairs? I need to clear my sinuses.' Upstairs was the bar.
'Yeah,' Steve Calhoun, the station carpenter, chimed in. 'There are times when life needs to be dealt with through an alcoholic stupor.'
'Getting drunk isn't very professional at a time like this,' the station manager objected. He was worried how this would all look in the reports. Look back home.
'But it's damned rational,' Dana rejoined.
'NSF wants us to keep our wits about us.'
'Your Yank bureaucrats are ten bloody thousand miles away! For God's sake, Rod, we're going to bloody choke each other if we can't lighten up!'
The station manager looked at them gloomily. Tyson had already put everyone on edge, and now this. He was clearly outnumbered. 'One drink each, then. That's all.'
'Right, Dad.' They pushed past Cameron and surged upstairs, crowding the small room like frat boys in a phone booth. All but Tyson, who remained downstairs, determinedly alone. Cameron hesitated, not wanting to wait in the same room with the mechanic. 'I'm going to check on Harrison!' he called.
'We won't miss you!' Dana sang back.
Music came on. A few of the winter-overs began tapping to its beat, relieving some of the tension. It was creepy being searched. Creepy having their station manager be so morose. Creepy having Moss disappear.
Lewis got a beer. The elbow-to-elbow jostling made him feel less isolated and he began to cheer up a little. The music was cranked higher. He wished he could talk to Abby but she was off with Adams. He was curious about her now. There was something she wasn't telling.
Molotov came over instead, his water glass half full of vodka. 'Now, Lewis,' he said, clasping the American on the shoulder. 'From you I need to know how to sell this rock. In America, where all the money is. Just in case I ever find it. Yes?'
'Too late, buddy. Secret's out. If we ever find it I'm afraid it's going to stay with Uncle Sam.'
'Well then, let's spend the winter looking for another one!' The Russian grinned, showing a steel flash of old Soviet dentistry. 'The jewel of Mars, no?'
Everyone was joking about what Norse and Nancy would find in their rooms. Lingerie. Sex toys. Marijuana grow lights. Offshore bank accounts. Jimmy Hoffa.
'It's like going nekkid,' said Calhoun.
'Except the docs are the only ones to see us in our birthday suits,' his companion woodworker, Hank Anderson, said. 'And praise God for that. I see the crack of your ass too much already, every time you bend over to drive a nail.'
'Didn't know you were lookin', Henry.'
With nothing else to do while they waited, some people began dancing, awkward in the press of bodies. Lewis, still feeling isolated by his own clumsy investigation, maneuvered himself against a wall. He thought the bar was a good idea to break the tension but he wasn't really in a mood to talk. He felt like bad luck himself.
He watched Gabriella Reid slither through the press of people, teasing, taunting, a serial flirt, inviting attention. Eventually she came up to him, grinning at his wallflower stance, a beer in one of her hands. 'You're all alone.'
'People are learning to avoid me.'
'It's unfair that people blame you.'
'I guess it's because I'm new.'
'I like new people.' She rolled a long-neck on her lips, eyes dancing. 'Antarctic Ten, I judge.'
'I've heard what that is.' He was wary.
She smiled mischievously behind the bottle. 'Okay. Eleven, maybe. How about me?'
He smiled distractedly, glancing beyond her. Abby still hadn't come back.
'Don't bother with Ice Cream. She's frigid.'
Lewis focused on the woman in front of him. 'Frigid? Or careful?'
'She holds things in. Not me.' Gabriella swayed in time to the music and handed him her beer. Turning a circle, she pulled her waffle-weave long-underwear top over her head. A silk undershirt beneath showed the line of a low bra and the bump of nipples. 'Getting hot in here. Hot enough for the Three Hundred Degree Club.'
'What is that, anyway?'
She smiled mysteriously. 'The place where you learn where you really are.'
The music cranked still higher and it became difficult to hear, the beat pounding against the walls. No one was obeying Cameron's admonition of one drink. The winter-overs were sweating. The air was rich and dark and heavy. The mood was tribal. Lewis allowed himself to dance once with Gabriella and then, when Abby didn't return, did it again.
She smiled at him. The invitation was obvious.
'What are you doing down here?' he stalled, raising his voice above the music.
'I like to be at the center of things.'
'The Pole?'
'Everything comes together here. All the lines, all the numbers. It's a place of power. I worship natural powers, you know. Nature. Instinct. Emotion.'
'What about science?'
'That's for beakers. What about feelings?'
'Beakers have them.'
'No, they don't. They have to be drawn out.'
She made him nervous. 'I'll bet you're good at that.'
'I can show you the way.'
Christ. It was tempting. 'Excuse me. I've got to check on something.'
'Don't check too long.'
He moved away, maneuvering toward the bar. He ducked behind as if looking for something and Geller sidled over. 'Looks like you still have a friend.'
'She makes me nervous.'
'She'll make more than that, buddy. Until you lay off the meteorite and we figure out what's up with Mickey, she might be about the only friend you have.'
Lewis looked at the maintenance man sourly. This place was too damn small. 'Why does everyone assume I'm to blame?'
'I don't.' Geller sipped a scotch. 'There's so many people sick of Moss that I won't be surprised if we never find him. Who wants to?'
'I don't believe that.'
'You can bet Adams is going to use those passwords later to snare some of Mickey's data. Clues my ass. He's
