Dark Winter

CHAPTER TWELVE

The funeral of Michael Mortimer "Mickey" Moss, astrophysicist and Old Antarctic Explorer, took place the following morning at the stake that marked the South Pole. Or at least the clocks said morning. Lewis, still tired and sore from recovering the body, felt a groggy, growing disorientation from time. The sun ran around the base like a coin on a track, refusing to go up or down or acknowledge the normal succession of days. Geller had made a joke about it: "A cowboy riding into the sunset would get mighty dizzy here."

Under the dome, in contrast, was perpetual shadow. Brain chemicals that were normally triggered by the rhythm of darkness and dawn were beginning to misfire.

"It gets worse," Nancy Hodge had told him when he first complained about the problem. "They've found the Pole can mess up your thyroid and a bunch of other stuff. T3 Syndrome. Reports of depression date back a hundred years to the first explorers. A study a decade ago found two-thirds of winter-overs had trouble sleeping and half were depressed. It saps your energy, slows your mind. The best thing you can do is be conscious of it and stay focused. Scheduled."

"If I feel this toasty now, I'm going to be a charcoal briquet by October."

"Find a hobby. Gina is teaching Italian. Hiro is trying to learn the harmonica. Bob is building a telescope. Even Tyson is doing something."

"Right. Manufacturing knives."

But Lewis hadn't found a hobby yet and was feeling increasingly alone and misplaced. It had taken him two hours in the sauna yesterday to expunge the haunting chill of the old base and he'd left the hot room wrung out and exhausted. His sleep had nonetheless been troubled. Lewis had never seen a dead body before: By the time he got back from Saudi Arabia after his parents' death the funeral was over and they were already in the ground. At first the corpse had simply been a frozen weight, a piece of cargo. Pulled up on the ice cap, however, Mickey Moss had been recognizable as a once-dominant human being. Without wishing to, Lewis had caught a glimpse of the skim-milk pallor of frozen flesh, the obscenely open mouth, the bulging eyes. Moss had died in pain and horror.

And who was trying to blame it on Lewis?

The astrophysicist's shock was covered now by the plastic garbage bags used as a makeshift shroud for the body. Sealed with duct tape around the dead man's torso, the plastic rattled in the bitter wind like a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle. Lewis found the others stood a little away from him, and he thought the twenty-four other mourners looked like a cluster of orange monks, hooded and hunched. Their ski goggles and neck gaiters masked all expression, and the tendrils of their fur ruffs waved like the groping cilia of sea anemone. Blowing snow slid across the plateau, caressing the corpse with filmy waves.

The station manager led the group in an awkward recitation of the Lord's Prayer, Cameron stumbling haltingly through the words. There were normally no services in winter and no minister. Only Pika and Eleanor Chen, a science technician, sometimes allowed themselves to be seen leafing through the Bible.

The group needed a priest. What they had was a psychologist.

Norse, too, stood a little apart from the others, as if to watch both them and the body. Like everyone else, his expression was unreadable under his swaddling of clothes, his goggles giving him that black, blank-eyed stare of cartoon space aliens. Lewis was sure he was trying to figure the tragedy out. Figure them out.

"There's not much I can say and it's too cold to say it," Cameron began after the prayer, his gaiter pulled down and his beard beading with bits of ice. "We'll put Mickey's body out by the cargo berms until it can be evacuated in the spring. As you know, he fell down an old research pit and it's impossible to say if it was accident, heart attack, the meteorite, or what." He glanced at Norse, a mute acknowledgment of the possibility of suicide as well. Moss had found almost the only place on the flat Pole to fall any appreciable distance, and how accidental was that? "We'll probably never know, and maybe that's how Mickey would prefer it. I think he'd like to be remembered for what he lived for, not how he died. And he lived for this base. He lived for us. We might not be down here, having this unique opportunity, without him."

The group shuffled uncomfortably.

"Mickey was one of a kind, a sort of polar Miles Standish who helped pull this place together. He and I didn't always get along but I'll say this now, and I'll say it honestly- I'll miss him."

"Amen," Pika concluded.

Gabriella leaned forward with a plastic flower, liberated from a floral arrangement kept in a Coke bottle placed in one of the bathrooms that the women claimed as theirs. She put it on the body. The wind caught it and it flew off almost immediately, startling her. Norse stopped it with his boot and brought it back, sticking it upright into the snow. A red waxy rose.

"Pika?" Cameron prompted.

The power plant mechanic zipped down his parka, reached inside, and pulled out a small portable disk player. "I downloaded this from the Internet," he announced. He pushed a button and a mournful tune began, tinny and barely recognizable: the military ending known as "Taps." The military dirge played out, its long notes warped by poor recording and carried away by the wind.

Then there was quiet, except for the fluttering of the plastic shroud.

"Well, that's that, then," Cameron said. "We'll tow him over to the storage area. We made a cross for him out of black PVC plumbing pipe. The body will be rock solid perfect until we can ship it home. The berms of stored cargo will give him some protection from the wind."

"That's not that," spoke up Adams, his words muffled by his gaiter. "I said I don't believe in coincidences." His masked head rotated to look at Lewis and then Abby. "I'm not sticking Mickey in the snow and forgetting about him. We need to check his hard drive, his records, his papers, everything we can to find out why the hell he died down there."

Geller coughed. Lewis couldn't see past his goggles and the cloth that covered the maintenance man's mouth, but he imagined the smirk. Robbing the dead, he'd predicted.

No one said anything until Norse spoke up. "There's still that issue of privacy."

"I think group survival is a little more important than privacy," Adams righteously replied.

"It was probably an accident," Cameron said. "Probably a coincidence. But yes, of course we're going to try to figure out what happened."

"Who happened," Adams corrected. "You have to let me look through his things."

"We'll talk about it."

The group began to break up. Lewis heard a sound of snuffling and realized it was Abby, weeping behind her muffler. Any tears that leaked out would freeze.

Something was going on with her. Something about that picture. Why the hell had a geezer like Moss gone to his death with a picture of her on his chest?

Lewis watched as Norse stepped around the body and came to her, whispering something reassuring. Then the psychiatrist put his arm around her shoulder and led her toward the dome.

Lewis resented the intimacy.

No one else said a word to him. They'd heard where the e-mail had originated from. Guilty or not, he was bad luck. It wasn't even dark yet, the long winter still stretching ahead, and already he felt like toast.

At midnight, insomnia drove Lewis to the computer lab. Compiling weather numbers for Sparco was the one thing he'd found that was reassuring: If the sun would not finally go down, a necessary first step toward the eventual return of spring, at least his data sheets grew day by day with satisfying progression. Time was passing. He found that entering the readings was relaxing, a precise but mind-quieting task that could ready him for sleep. It was midnight and the station was still except for the ceaseless murmur of machinery and ventilation.

He was not particularly surprised to find Abby there, however, her face lit by the glow of a screen. She inhabited the nighttime lab like a specter, appearing at odd hours and taking comfort in nursing her sometimes balky machines. He admired her mastery of them, the self-possession her skill gave her when she burrowed into their innards. He liked her curiosity.

Right now she appeared to be taking a minute for herself, not easy to do in an environment where the expectation from higher-ups was tireless work. Beakers were desperate to get as much information as possible in their allotted research time and their pace set an air of urgency in research camps that was impossible to escape. Polar science was done at a dead run. But tonight her slim hand moved a mouse casually. She was playing solitaire on the computer.

He hesitated a moment in the doorway, watching her. The flicker of light played across the fine features of her face and made it float in the surrounding darkness as if disembodied, a ghostliness that seemed doubly foreboding after Moss's funeral. Suddenly everyone seemed vulnerable down here. Certainly Abby looked as lonely as Lewis felt. He needed a confidant and they'd proven harder to find than he'd hoped. Summoning up the courage to endure rejection, he walked in and sat next to her.

"Gearloose," he said gently.

For a minute he thought she wasn't going to reply. Then, "I've thought of a nickname for you." She didn't look up from the cards on her screen. She was going to win, he could tell.

At least she was talking to him.

"Higher than krill, I hope."

"Enzyme. The agent that makes things change."

He winced. "A metabolic chemical? I'm not sure that's an improvement."

"It's true, though. Things are different since you came here."

He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. She won her round and the deck of cards began handsprings of laudatory joy.

"How so?"

"More complicated."

"I didn't send that message, Abby."

"You should have told him his rock was useless."

"Lied, you mean."

"Yes."

He sighed. Secretly, he agreed with her and it was costing him sleep. "I didn't know Mickey Moss was going to die. All I wanted was a job and a chance."

"A chance for what?"

"A chance to be at the Pole. To mean something. Fit in."

"You didn't fit in before?" She said it lightly but she doubted him now, his machine the source of that e-mail to Mickey, and she wanted to erase that doubt. She wanted to know that the newcomer she had trusted indeed deserved her trust.

How much of this would get back to Norse? He wanted to tell her anyway. Maybe even tell the psychologist. "Not very well. I didn't tell you everything that happened in Alaska, you know. It was more complicated."

"You're not just an environmental zealot?"

"I was a field geologist, but not exactly one of the boys. You get hard if you stay in the oil business and I was never comfortable with that hardness. I thought, I joked, I objected. I looked to them for family but they're not a family, they're a machine."

"You quit because Big Oil wasn't cozy?"

"I quit because I didn't have enough in common with the people I worked with. It bothered me, what we were doing. I left some documents at Prudhoe where a tour group from the Wilderness Society might find them. Sooner or later it was going to come out. I was just waiting for the ax to fall. I didn't like my boss. I wasn't really doing my work."

"So you came down here. To escape."

"I came down here to find some meaning. Is that so crazy?"

She bent her head. "No. Understandable. Admirable, even."

"It seems noble, all this research. But that damn rock…"

"Is it really so valuable?"

"Not that it's worth a life."

She dealt herself a new hand. "You're not unique, you know."

"Meaning?"

"We all came down for things."

"Money, I think Geller and Tyson have said."

"Yes. As well as fame, love, promotion, tenure, wisdom, self-understanding, and companionship." It was a recital.

"Belonging. Contributing."

"Yes."

"And you, Abby?"

She thought before answering. "I didn't fit in, either. The thing that's spooky about us is that we're too alike. I got my first master's in marine biology and discovered I didn't like ships. They're male, cold, and force an intimacy with people you might otherwise not pick as friends. I don't make good friends easily. So I went over to computers. They're like pets. Much more controllable. Predictable."

"Not the ones I buy," he joked. "So here you are, a marine biologist, eight hundred miles from the sea. From ship to spaceship."

"Doesn't make sense, does it? Except… I wanted time by myself to know myself." She hesitated. "I… know another guy, a beaker, who I met at McMurdo and who's now on the coast at Palmer station. I didn't know if it was real or an Ice infatuation. The winter gives me some time to sort it out."

No wonder she was Ice Cream. Already booked. "What's he think about the separation?"

"That it will give him time to finish his dissertation."

"And have you sorted it out?" It was like asking her to hold up her left ring finger.

She swung away from the game to face him. "Not with a dead man having my picture in his pocket!" She meant Moss.

"You know about that, then."

"The whole base knew about it within twenty minutes after you guys got back. Same with tracing the e-mail to Clean Air. Everyone always knows everything about everything."

"Except why Mickey died."

"What if that's somehow my fault?"

He laughed bitterly. "I thought everyone was blaming me."

"Doctor Bob isn't."

"You sure like talking to Doctor Bob."

"He's a professional."

"Barely. He's a sociological researcher."

"He knows people and he thinks it's possible Mickey killed himself."

"Over you?"

"Over fear, somehow. Because the only thing a man like Moss accumulates is reputation and self-respect. Maybe the meteorite and… the picture… threatened that. That's Doctor Bob's theory, anyway."

"Where did the picture come from?"

"I don't know."

"Why would Mickey have it?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know Mickey somehow?"

"No." She sighed. "I don't like these questions."

"Did he know you?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore right now."

"Okay." Lewis leaned back, cautious lest he drive her away. "I'm just trying to be a friend."

"So is Bob, so is everyone." She said it impatiently, rubbing her eyes as if the whole idea of solicitous concern was immensely wearying. They sat for a while, listening to the fan of the computer.

She laid a hand on his forearm finally, giving it a slight squeeze. "Why does everything have to be so hard?"

He tried not to betray the jolt that ran through his body at her touch. You want more than a friend, he admitted to himself. "It doesn't, Abby."

"I thought things down here wouldn't be complicated."

"It's full of humans."

"One less, now."

They were quiet.

"You know, an enzyme isn't really a bad thing," Abby finally said.

"Can't we find a name that implies handsome and strong?" It was another attempt at a joke.

She didn't even smile. "Maybe you were sent to change us all."

"I don't want to change anyone. I just want to join in and do my job. I just want to get to know someone."

She looked at him wistfully and stood. "I have to go now. It's late."

"Please. I want you to stay."

She leaned over him. "That's why I have to go." Her lips brushed his cheek, unexpectedly. "Goodnight, Enzyme. Maybe you'll change me."

Lewis sought out Norse the next day. Somehow he had to repair his social position at the station or go nuts. He'd become a snoop, a pariah, a suspect in a bizarre death. Getting involved hadn't helped him, it had made things worse.

Lewis was told the psychologist was out on the Dark Side, boxing Moss's things, so he hiked out to the astronomy building. He found Norse at the astrophysicist's workstation, Mickey's desk drawers half yanked open like an act of exposure. It seemed unnecessarily intrusive so soon after the funeral.

"Pillaging the dead?" He'd meant it like a joke, but it came out sounding sour.

The psychologist glanced up from a box he was filling with Moss's files. He looked patient instead of defensive. The man's calm might be his strongest asset but it could also be infuriating. "I'm shipping things back to the States. Cameron appointed me as the best person to bundle up the astronomer's personal effects and papers, suggesting the family and NSF would like them boxed before they're lost."

"The best because you're a psychologist."

"Probably the best because I'm new, like you. A little apart from the others. And used to keeping confidences."

"Right." Lewis hesitated. Maybe Norse was really as isolated as Lewis was. Maybe they did have something in common, the fellow fingies. And because of that maybe he'd understand. "I came out because I'm done playing detective, Doc. Case closed."

Norse slipped one cardboard flap under another, sealing the box. "Say again?"

"The meteorite. Looking for it now will cause more trouble than it's worth. With Mickey gone, there's no point. And I'm toast if I keep grilling everybody."

The psychologist nodded slowly. "Ah." He considered this and then pointed to the astronomer's old desk chair. "Sit down, Jed." It was the tone of a parent about to lecture, not unkindly.

Reluctantly, Lewis sat.

"You think Mickey's death has ended things."

"For me it has."

"I'm afraid just the opposite is true."

"How so?"

Norse took a breath. "Rod and I have been in communication with NSF and Mickey's home institution. Nancy doesn't have the training to do an autopsy now, but there's going to be an investigation into Moss's demise. Some of that is standard, and some is unusual because of the peculiar circumstances of his death. There might be people down here in the spring asking questions."

"I understand."

"I'm not sure you do." The psychologist pulled over another box and began dropping in files. "The most likely scenario is that Doctor Moss suffered an unfortunate accident while trying to retrieve his meteorite. It's possible an autopsy would reveal a heart attack or another contributing factor. Another possibility, however, is suicide."

"Abby's picture."

"Yes. I'm not at liberty to fully discuss that, but suffice to say there's some evidence that Moss had an unusual interest in younger women."

"I don't believe that."

Norse glanced at the boxes around them, as if they held compelling evidence. "Nobody is asking you to."

"Mickey Moss is not the kind of guy who kills himself."

"I'm talking about possibilities." The psychologist looked at him speculatively. "Look, you know what's appealing about the hard sciences? Their rationality. A handful of Greeks more than two thousand years ago said stop, we're not going to explain the world with supernatural miracles anymore, we're going to look for natural causes. It was almost a superhuman thing to do, embracing the scientific method, and for many scientists this rationality is their religion. Yet it's my contention that we're not wired to be rational, that superstition survives in all of us because that's the way people naturally think. Doctor Moss was a supremely rational man. But he was also a man, with all the freight of impulse and emotion and fear that any man carries with him. He might have been spooked. He might have been depressed. Who knows? It's completely unfair at this point to suggest anything untoward, but Abby and I have been discussing the situation. Please don't press her on it, because that could cause some real trauma in what in the best of circumstances is an emotional pressure cooker down here. Still, we all have to admit the possibility of the irrational."

"One more reason to put it all to rest, I think."

"Yes. We're really talking about the functioning of this group. Except there's a third possibility besides accident and suicide, you see."

"What do you mean?"

"Murder."

"Come on…"

"It's possible that whoever took the meteorite and lured Mickey Moss into the old base pushed him down that pit."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't it? An esteemed scientist finds a meteorite? A thief takes it? As a search closes in, our culprit becomes desperate and decides to eliminate the one man he thinks might figure out who did it?"

"You're suggesting the meteorite could lead to that?"

"I'm suggesting that with five million dollars at stake, any rational person would consider it as a possibility. And if there's anything we can say about the scientists and engineers who run our little kingdom back in Washington, they are supremely rational. Positively anal about it."

"Well, I'm sure as hell not going to play homicide detective."

"Ah, but I think you have to."

"Forget it."

"Based on what authorities know so far, only one clear suspect has emerged." Norse looked at him with unusual intensity. "Which means, in your own defense, you can't stop looking."

"Now, wait a minute…"

"Because that suspect is obviously you."