them for him.”
“When?” one of the grunts called out.
“Soon as it's safe,” Murphy replied. “And when we know that the other dogs aren't affected in the same way.”
The threat of contagion hadn't actually occurred to Michael. What if the other huskies had contracted something from Kodiak? What if they'd all become killers?
Murphy looked down at some notes he had in his hand. “I don't know how much a lot of you knew about Danzig's life out in the real world, but for the record he was married to a great woman- Maria-who's a county coroner.” The immediate irony of that stopped him for a second. “She's living down in Florida.”
Miami Beach, Michael remembered.
“I've spoken to her a couple of times now, and told her everything she needed to know, and she said she wanted me to give her blessing to everyone down here-especially Franklin, Calloway and Uncle Barney, for all the grits and gravy-and thank you all for your friendship. She said he was never happier than when he was down here, on the back of the sled, with the temperature thirty below.” He glanced nervously at the papers again. “And oh yeah, she wanted me to say a special thanks to Dr. Charlotte Barnes, for trying so hard to save his life-”
All eyes turned toward Charlotte, whose chin was resting atop her folded arms. She gave a small nod.
“-and Michael Wilde.”
Michael was caught off guard.
“Seems he'd been telling her a lot about you, Michael, something about how you were gonna make him famous.”
“I'll still do my best,” Michael said, just loudly enough for all to hear.
“He told Maria there were going to be photographs of him and the dogs-the last dogs, I don't need to remind anyone, that you'll ever see down here-in that magazine of yours, Eco-World.”
It was Eco-Travel, but Michael wasn't about to correct him. “There will be,” Michael said, appropriating the editor's prerogative. In fact, he'd try to persuade Gillespie to put a shot of Danzig and the sled dogs on the cover sometime. It was the least he could do.
While Murphy offered up a few more details about Danzig's life-apparently, he'd worked a million different jobs, from beekeeper to dog catcher to mortuary chauffeur (“that's how he met Maria”)-Michael just kept his head down and thought his own thoughts. For one thing, he meant to get Maria's home address before he left the base; he still had Danzig's walrus-tooth necklace, and he wanted to mail it back to her as soon as he was back in civilization. Maybe with a print of a shot he'd taken of her husband, in all his glory, sledding through a snowstorm.
He also knew he should be calling the Nelsons’ house back in Tacoma; he wanted to hear how the move had gone and whether Kristin had shown any sign at all of being aware that she was back in her old house. He pretty much knew what the answer would be- and he knew that it would be Karen who'd tell him-but still he felt that it was his duty to keep checking in. And he wondered how long that would continue; from what he knew of comas and vegetative states, Kristin could go on indefinitely.
Uncle Barney, sitting a few feet away, blew his nose loudly into a red handkerchief. Murphy was telling a story about some colossal meal Danzig had consumed.
Calloway stood up next and told a long, funny anecdote about once trying to cram Danzig into a regulation- size diving suit, and Betty and Tina talked about how helpful Danzig had been one day when they were trying to unload some ice cores in a driving storm. Michael could hear the blizzard that was raging, whistling around the narrow windows and the corrugated steel walls of the module they were all sitting in. It could abate in an hour, or it could go on for another solid week. At pole, he had learned, all bets were off.
After everyone had spoken, Murphy haltingly led them in a recitation of the Lord's Prayer, and when a few moments of silence had passed, Franklin sat at the piano in the corner, and played a rousing version of the old Bob Seger hit, “Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll.” It was one of Danzig's favorite songs, and Franklin was able to give it a suitably gritty rendition. A lot of the others joined in on the lines, “Today's music ain't got the same soul, I like that old time rock ‘n’ roll!” And when the music died down, Uncle Barney announced that, in Danzig's honor, hot grits and gravy were being served in the commons.
On the way out, Murphy waved Michael and Lawson over to one side and said, “You guys see Ackerley anywhere?”
Even when Spook was in the room, it was easy to miss him; he was that quiet and self-effacing. But Michael had to say no.
“Probably talking to his plants,” Lawson said, “and lost all track of time.”
Murphy nodded in agreement, but said, “You mind going to see if he's okay? I just tried him on the intercom but he's not picking up.”
Although Michael had hoped to join Charlotte and Darryl in the commons-he'd spent the whole day making notes in his room and had pretty much forgotten to eat-he could hardly say no.
“Don't worry,” Murphy said, “I'll be sure to save you some grits.” He turned to Lawson. “But how's your leg? You up to it?”
Lawson, who'd dropped the ski gear on his ankle, said, “It's fine-no problem at all. Use it or lose it.”
To Michael, he always sounded a little like a coach on the sidelines of a big game.
“Might want to use some poles,” Murphy said, and Lawson agreed. “Wind's gusting at eighty miles per hour.”
They suited up and grabbed some ski poles from the equipment locker, and while the others poured into the brightly lighted commons, they turned the other way, up a long bleak concourse where the wind was whipping up little cyclones of ice and snow and sending them whirling, like tops, back and forth from one side to the other. Some gusts were so strong that Michael was blown back against a wall or half-buried fence, and had to wait to push off again until the wind had died down. Not that it ever stopped. There were times, in Antarctica, when you wished for nothing more than stillness, a temporary truce with the elements, a chance to stand still and catch your breath and look up at the sky. The sky could be so beautiful-so blue and pristine it looked like the most perfect thing imaginable, an enameled bowl fired to a hard blue glaze-and at other times, like now, it was simply a smudged bucket, a dull broad glare that was impossible to distinguish from the endless continent of empty ice it glowered over.
The ski poles were a good idea; Michael doubted he could have stayed upright without them. Lawson, with his sore ankle, would surely have been toppled. In fact, Michael made it a point to stay a couple of yards behind Lawson, just in case he went over and started to roll. Once the wind caught you and knocked you down on an icy patch, you could roll like a bowling ball until you hit some kind of obstruction; Michael had seen a beaker named Penske, a meteorologist, rolling past the Administration module one morning until he collided with the flagpole and hung on to it for dear life.
Michael rubbed one mitten across his goggles to clear away some of the snow, and for a second he wondered if he could make his fortune by marketing goggles at the South Pole that had their own windshield wipers. He'd have liked to call out to Lawson, to ask him if the leg was really okay or if he wanted to turn back, but he knew that the wind would blow the words right back into his mouth-and the temperature was so low you could crack your teeth if you kept your mouth open too long.
They made their way past the glaciology lab-Michael glanced inside for Ollie, but if the bird had learned anything so far, it was to stay inside the crate on a night like this-and the marine biology lab, and the climatology lab, until Michael saw Lawson heading off to the left, toward a big, rusted-out trailer squatting on its cinder blocks like an old red rooster. Bright light shone out through its narrow window panels.
Lawson stopped to rub his ankle under the rough wooden trellis that framed the ramp, and motioned for Michael to go on ahead. The door was a steel plate-dented, scratched, and covered with the faded remnants of Phish decals-and Michael banged on it with his fist. Then, having given warning, he shoved it open and went inside.
His goggles immediately fogged up, and he had to slip them back on top of his head. He parted some thick plastic curtains, threw his hood back, and found himself standing in a sea of metal shelves and cabinets, all at least six feet high, and crammed with samples of indigenous moss and lichens. There were little white labels, inscribed in a spidery hand, on each shelf or drawer. Fluorescent lights flickered in the ceiling, and from somewhere among the impenetrable racks he heard the tinny sound of cheap speakers playing an endless jam.
