who looked like bit players in some Norse legend. Murphy must have been following his gaze, because he said, “We call the scientists beakers.”
Michael got it. Beakers, as in lab equipment.
“But they don't mind. They call us grunts.”
“And you don't mind?” Charlotte said.
“We sure as hell do,” Murphy said, in mock protest, “but we are slow to take offense.” Then, more seriously, he said, “We all have to rely on each other down here, and we all know it. Without us grunts running the place, keeping the diesel generators going and the lights on, and the meals cooked, and the U-barrels removed-that stands for urine, by the way; all human waste has to be contained and transported out of the Antarctic-the beakers wouldn't be able to get a thing done. And without them…” he paused, as if unsure how to complete the thought. “Oh, yeah, without them, the rest of us wouldn't be stuck out here in the back of beyond in the first place.”
“Sounds like the perfect arrangement, if you ask me,” Darryl said.
“Spoken like a true beaker,” the chief said. “Now, get settled in your quarters for the night. Tomorrow, you've all got a long day at snow school.”
Charlotte and Darryl and Michael exchanged puzzled looks.
“And don't forget to bring your mittens.”
Murphy moved on to join his grunts at their table-several of them had turned around to get a better look at the newcomers- and Michael and Charlotte and Darryl were left like the new kids in the high-school cafeteria. The beakers were absorbed in their own conversations, or ate intently with their heads hung low over their plates of franks and beans and corn bread (one had a sheaf of computer printouts spread across the table in front of him).
“Weird, isn't it?” Michael said, indicating the scientists. “We're now in a universe where they're the cool kids.”
Darryl laughed and said, “I've waited for this my whole life. If you'll excuse me,” he said, getting up, “I believe I heard someone say ‘isopod’ over there.”
As Charlotte and Michael looked on, Darryl fearlessly traversed the linoleum floor and made a seat for himself at the picnic-style metal table where the blond women, wearing untucked flannel shirts, were debating something. For several seconds, the conversation seemed to stall, and Michael started to wonder if he should go and rescue his friend. But then Darryl said a few things Michael couldn't make out, hands were shaken, credentials loudly declared, and as if he had passed some secret initiation process, Darryl was immediately welcomed into the club. For the next ten or fifteen minutes, Michael and Charlotte gave him time to bond with his new buds, then got up and dumped their trays. Michael caught Darryl's eye, and Darryl quickly wrapped up some entertaining anecdote about a nematode-to much laughter-before rejoining them.
“Great bunch,” Darryl said, as the three of them buttoned up for the brief journey back to their quarters.
“You looked like you were a hit,” Michael said.
“It was a new crowd,” Darryl replied, with a modest shrug, “so I could trot out my best material.”
Once they stepped outside the commons module, which also housed the chief's office, they had to cross about a fifteen-foot-long, exposed wooden walkway. The modules were like wide railroad cars, laid out in a big square, with braided red nylon ropes strung along both sides of the connecting walkways. Michael knew that the ropes were there for more than helping you to keep your balance; in the event of a whiteout-and he'd been caught in one-the ropes could provide the only means of finding your way to refuge; even if that refuge was only a foot or two in front of you, you might not know it. Men had died in polar climes, frozen to death just yards from their unseen tents.
In the next module over, where the infirmary was located, Charlotte had that rarity, a single room, if you could call it that. It was a tiny cell about eight feet by ten feet, and it had been occupied, until the moment their helicopter arrived, by the previous medical resident. Judging from the posters on the wall, he'd been a fan of three things: surfing, sailing, and Jessica Alba. But he was now on his way back to the world, by way of the Coast Guard Cutter Constellation. Charlotte's bags were still on the bunk.
“That's some decor,” Michael said, poking his head in.
“Never occurred to me to pack my own posters.”
“Next time you'll know,” Darryl said.
“Next time,” Charlotte said, “I won't be here.”
Michael and Darryl were in the next module over, reserved for the beakers and other transient types-and they had to share a room not much bigger than Charlotte's. There was one narrow window, more of a louver really, and a two-tiered bunk bed, with flimsy blackout curtains around each berth; the floor was covered with the kind of industrial-strength carpeting, in maroon and yellow, that you might see in a hotel banquet room. But the single closet, behind a slatted plywood door that had trouble remaining on track, revealed a surprising bounty inside.
“Whoa,” Michael said, “check this out.”
Darryl looked over.
“Either the previous tenants left us a lot of presents…”
“Or the NSF has made damn sure we're properly outfitted.” Darryl pulled out the sleeve on one of the two orange anoraks hanging on the bent rod. “I wondered why they kept asking for my sizes on the application forms.”
In addition to the two anoraks, their hoods lined with coyote fur, there were two goose-down parkas, wool shirts, and wool “wind pants,” with enough pockets to carry a whole hardware store. On the shelf above, Michael found and handed down to Darryl polypropylene underwear designed to wick sweat away from the body furry mittens big enough to wear gloves inside of them, wool socks, leather gloves and liners, and, finally, woolen ski masks to cover the head and neck and most of the face.
“It's like Christmas!” Darryl said, examining the various items as Michael handed them out.
“And we're not done yet.”
On the floor, there was an assortment of boots, all neatly aligned and separated by size. There were bunny boots-two layers of rubber, with insulation in between; soft, Eskimo-style mukluks; and fireman's boots, tall and black, for water work and wet ground.
“Looks like they've thought of everything,” Darryl said.
“Yeah,” Michael agreed, surveying the cache. “I'm just wondering where they've parked our snowmobiles.”
The communal bathroom was at the far end of the module, and was blissfully unoccupied when Michael took a hot shower- “Limit yourself to three minutes when bathing!” the sign warned- and padded back down the hallway. It, too, was done in the same carpeting as the rooms-they must have gotten it at a fire sale, Michael thought, when some Holiday Inn had suddenly gone out of business.
As soon as he got back to his room, and closed the door, he could hear the low snoring from behind the curtain in Darryl's lower berth. The floor was still littered with all their new clothing. Michael adjusted the black blind that came down over the slot that passed for a window, turned out the light, then climbed up to his own bed, where he plumped the foam-filled pillow against the head-board. A slant of cold sun still penetrated the room. He pulled the bed curtains closed, and by the time he put his head back on the pillow, he was already half-gone. Eight hours later, he awoke in the same position he'd fallen asleep in and, for the first time in months, he could not remember a single thing about his dreams. For that, he was deeply grateful.
Snow school was mandatory for all newcomers to the base. It was overseen by a lanky young guy named Bill Lawson, who wore a cotton kerchief, pirate-style, over his head. Michael thought he might have seen Pirates of the Caribbean one too many times. A civilian employee of the Navy, he taught the course as if it were a self-esteem seminar. When Michael was the first to demonstrate that he knew how to build a fire from scratch, Lawson said, “Way to go, Michael!”
And when Darryl got his tent erected in under ten minutes, Lawson let loose with a “Props to you, Darryl!” and more props when he was able to dismantle and stow it back on the sled in even less time.
Charlotte, who was failing to win any of the survival skills tests, was looking more and more disgruntled. It was plain that she was used to being the star pupil and that she didn't welcome the lectures on hypothermia and frostbite either. Those were topics she'd clearly already mastered, and while Lawson was talking, she would stare off into the middle distance, at the icy plains that surrounded the base on three sides and the ragged ridge of the Transantarctic Mountains, a muddy brown in those places where the snow had been blown away by the unrelenting
