The Winter Over(13)
“You’re not really selling the physics lab,” Sikes joked.
She smiled. “I’m the station’s mechanic. I don’t need no stinking room-temperature work environment.” Light laughter and gestures toward the Beer Can. “All right, then. Put on your parkas and gloves. Except for the lack of wind, this is just like heading outside.”
After running her eyes over them to make sure they were geared up—it would be her fault if frostbite took the tip of someone’s nose and ended a promising political career—she motioned them through the two thick metal doors that led to the most intriguing section of the base.
Sikes and his group gave a soft, collective grunt as they stepped into the frozen air, inert and so cold as to be almost hanging in front of them. It caught in the chest with hooks and instantly froze the soft, moist membranes inside the nose.
The Beer Can was just as Cass had described it—a towering, unheated silo with the sole function of protecting the station’s outer staircase from getting buried in drifts of snow and ice. Amenities included a frozen handrail and one stark white lamp at each curl of the stair. Narrow, quadruple-paned thermal windows provided some illumination now, but as the austral winter progressed and the sun fled the continent, there would be nothing beyond the glass but a bruise-colored twilight followed soon after by a velvet darkness.
Cass guided the group to the edge of the landing and gestured for them to peer downwards. The flooring was an industrial gridwork of steel that was both functional and allowed them to see through each step to the one below it.
“As you no doubt saw when you came in, the entire station is elevated about fifteen feet in the air on thirty-six concrete pilings. This allows snow to pass underneath the station rather than build up against the sides, as happened to the original domed station from the seventies, eventually burying it. The angled construction of the station’s underbelly actually increases wind speed, causing it to scour the built-up snow away.
“The Beer Can allows access to the first and second living floors, as well as outside access to the ground level. But, as I mentioned before, the stairwell continues down fifty more feet below the base. It’s not technically under ground , as all the space has been carved from solid ice. What we call service arches are large hangars that have been constructed inside these spaces to house most of the maintenance and storage facilities for Shackleton. We’ll take a short peek into each area, then hurry back before we freeze solid. Everyone ready? Hold on to the handrail as we go.”
She led the way down the steps, the silo filling with the sound of eighteen rubber boots thumping on steel. Despite being a descent, she stopped at the bottom floor to give everyone a rest. Shackleton was almost ten thousand feet above sea level, which meant things like altitude sickness and high-altitude edemas were real possibilities, especially for amateurs who’d flown in from sea-level McMurdo just for the day. The only thing more embarrassing than the VIP losing the tip of his nose would be him keeling over from a high-altitude-induced heart attack. Once Sikes had stopped sucking in air and blowing it out in billows, she turned and took them into the bowels of the station.
What she showed them wasn’t much different than a tour of the vocational departments of a large high school—carpentry, plumbing, and auto shops. In her own domain, the VMF, she gave a quick summary of the work she did on a normal day, pointing out the cherry picker that let her work on the tallest vehicles as well as the snowcats and massive Mantis construction crane, laid up for winter storage. Despite the clutter, the arched ceiling and massive scale gave the entire area the feel of a chapel devoted to vehicle maintenance.
Back in the hall, Cass gestured to the ice that bloomed on the ceiling, on the walls, on all the metallic surfaces of the lights and structure around them. “The hallways connecting the shops and arches are as cold as the Beer Can, so the moisture from our breath causes small icicles to form on the ceiling. It’s a far cry from the labs above, where most folks wear shorts and Hawaiian shirts to work. Any questions?”
She waited, but the sheer presence of the ice around them was palpable in a way it hadn’t been in the station; its density smothered all sounds. Footsteps died almost instantly, leaving only muffled breathing and the occasional sniff. The silence was contagious; aside from a few whispered comments, the banter and mumbled conversation was gone.
Leading them single file down the hall, she let them experience the heft of the place until they reached a bump-out in the corridor. The set of pipes that had followed them overhead now joined a host of others in an alcove before shooting off in three directions. She stopped and turned to the group.
“This intersection is one of the most interesting parts of the sub-ice section of the base, though not because of the pipes.” She pulled out a flashlight and pointed it at the alcove. Hidden deep in the tangle of pipes was a short corridor. At the end was a plain, plywood door. “That’s the entrance to the ice tunnels. Not ones framed by corrugated ceilings and walls, but passages literally carved out of the ice.”
“Are they part of the regular station?” Sikes asked. His voice started at just above a whisper.
“Yes and no. Most are remnants from past stations and utility corridors for fresh water, sewage, electricity, and fuel. We’ve repurposed some and left others.”
Harvard cleared his throat. “I heard a rumor that past crews have used the ice tunnels to make—what do you call them?—shrines to commemorate their time here.”