The Winter Over(14)

“It’s not officially permitted, of course, but personnel at Shackleton are allowed to go almost anywhere on base, so it would be almost impossible to keep them from making the shrines.”

“I’d think you’d want to stop that kind of thing,” Jimmy said.

“A little bit of illicit behavior goes a long way toward improving morale. Better to let a few of the crew blow off steam putting some memorabilia in a niche than going postal halfway through a winter-over.”

The group nodded. Probably thinking about being trapped with Jimmy for nine months.

“Can we see the shrines?” Sikes asked.

“I’m sorry, we can’t for safety purposes.”

“Can you tell us what’s in them? I’ve seen pictures of some.”

“Well,” Cass said, hesitating as she thought of one cubbyhole that had a set of four upright, brightly colored dildos named Fred, Ted, Ned, and Red. Polies had a strange sense of humor. “They’re really just small spaces with personal effects. A compass, an empty beer can, that kind of thing, although one year someone smuggled an entire sturgeon to the base and made a shrine to it. Since it’s almost zero percent humidity and below freezing in the tunnels, nothing ever rots. So there’s a gigantic, mummified fish back there that means a lot to somebody, somewhere.”

She moved on before they could try to pressure her into taking them into the tunnels. The hall’s narrow mouth disgorged them into another hangar-like arch. Everyone’s eyes turned upwards at the metal ribs seventy feet above them; they were all Jonahs in the belly of an Antarctic whale.

“This is our next stop, the logistical facility, which is a fancy name for warehouse. All of our food, emergency extreme cold weather gear—ECW, for short—and base supplies are kept here. It’s the coldest deep freeze on the planet, so dry goods are perfectly preserved. When the end of the world eventually comes, there will still be powdered milk and freeze-dried coffee here.”

Sikes glanced at his watch, no mean feat through three layers. Cass took the hint. “If we had more time, I’d take you outside through one of the exits through the VMF or the fuel station, but that’s definitely the long way around. So, let’s retrace our steps, get something hot to drink in the galley, then I’ll hand you back over to Deb. I’m sure she’s got plenty more to show you before you get on the plane to McMurdo later today.”

There was an overall sound of murmured relief. With the tour essentially over, the aides fell into chatter and jokes again as they followed Cass back through the arches. Freed of the obligation to guide the group, she set a brisker pace than she had coming down, but the senator caught up with her and matched her stride.

“You talked a lot about the facilities, Ms. Jennings,” he said, “but you didn’t say much about the people.”

She shot him a sidelong glance, wondering what kind of answer he was after. “The station was designed with the people in mind, Senator. As you say, we’ve got the lounges, movies, music . . . even the menu in the galley was put together to keep morale up. There’s also enough space to be alone, which is just as important as being part of the community.”

“That’s a fine answer,” he replied drily, “no doubt provided by the TransAnt handbook. But what about the human side of things here? What do people do to relax that wasn’t designed for them by a team of shrinks back in DC? Do you have drunken orgies? Are you sober as monks? And what happens when none of that works? You can’t tell me someone hasn’t gone batty down here before.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but things don’t get that crazy. Everyone’s too cold and tired.” When she saw he was unconvinced, she tried humor. “You had to notice that everyone down here is a geek of one kind or another. We have trouble talking to other people, never mind organizing drunken orgies.”

They passed the bump-out and he shot a glance into the darkness toward the door to the ice tunnels. “Humph. What about when someone loses their marbles down here? What happens then?”

“I haven’t seen it happen,” she said. “All I can say is, the selection testing for station personnel is some of the most rigorous in the world. People are stable, happy, and well balanced.”

“You’d put yourself in that category, then?”

Not really . “Yes. Although I’ll admit you have to be a different kind of crazy to come down here in the first place. They say everyone who comes to Antarctica is either running from something or to something.”

“And which are you?”

“I’m somewhere in between, Senator.” She put a note of finality on the end of the sentence. Subject closed .

“How do you feel about the death of that woman . . . Sheryl, was it?”

She stumbled, feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach. “You know about that?”

He smirked. “Mr. Hanratty told me. He figured, rightly, that word would get out sooner or later and that it was better to be transparent about the tragedy now than have it appear later when it would suggest a cover-up. Since Shackleton isn’t under NSF purview anymore, the day-to-day situation isn’t a governmental concern, of course, but there’s still intense public interest in what happens down here.”

“We’ll all miss Sheryl,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But if officials determine her death was an accident, then it’s important to keep the base moving forward.”