Dark Winter

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lewis watched the first big storm of the winter season approach on his instruments as if he were tracking an armada of bombers, the barometer falling and the temperature actually rising slightly as the monster swelled up from beneath the horizon. Faxed satellite photos made the tempest look as vast as a pinwheel galaxy. Yet nothing happened at first, the atmosphere at the Pole seeming to hold its breath. He paced from his weather monitors to the windows, and from the windows to the monitors, curious and watchful, anticipating the storm but seeing nothing but gray blandness. He looked out at the other buildings on station and everything seemed still.

His wait was like the solitude of a lighthouse keeper. Lewis made people nervous now, since the discovery of Mickey's body, and people avoided him like they avoided Buck Tyson. No one had accused him of anything. No one had asked any questions. But when he was out at Clean Air no one telephoned, either. No one e-mailed. When he was out with his instruments, Jed Lewis was the last man on earth.

A murder suspect! Absurd. No one but Norse had said a thing and yet in every eye he now read suspicion and in every gesture a distancing. That e-mail! Galley chatter subsided at his approach as if he turned down a dial, and when he sat away it regained its volume. Not so much a snub as formal politeness. "Hey, Lewis." And that was it. No questions about anything. His isolation was exactly the opposite of what he'd expected at the Pole. His daily walk to Clean Air was a kind of voluntary exile, his trudge home one of dread at the caution he would encounter.

Every five minutes, Lewis cursed Mickey Moss.

He was reluctant to notify Cameron of his readings. It was difficult to talk to the man. The station manager had become remote since Moss's death, as if Lewis represented potential contamination. Cameron never visited Clean Air. In fact, he rarely left his office, where he was struggling with a report to Washington. His depression was dangerous. It affected the entire station. When Lewis suggested in a rare phone call to the station manager that Cameron stick his nose out of the dome once in a while, the response had been curt.

"I'm a little occupied, Lewis. We're still trying to hash this out."

"Hash what out?"

"Mickey."

Were they convicting him behind his back? "I'm tired of Mickey. I didn't have anything to do with him."

"I understand what you're saying. I'm sorry. I'm busy."

But as the approaching tempest swelled with power, Lewis was its first witness, and while he resented that all communication had to be initiated by himself, his duty was to warn the others. The storm would howl over the corpse of Mickey Moss, entombing him, and trap any human who hadn't scurried for shelter. In fact, the storm would do its best to snuff out the entire station, trying to push people back home where they belonged. Except at the end they'd still be here, burrowing out, and with them would reemerge his own problems, his own mystery. What was the astronomer doing in that pit?

He telephoned Cameron.

"Rod here." The tone was tired.

"This is Lewis. We've got a Herbie." The name was slang for storm and Lewis had picked up on it immediately, adopting the language of Antarctica.

"What?" Cameron came to life. "Where? When?"

"Greenwich quadrant. It will hit soon."

"How soon is soon?"

Lewis looked at the storm boiling up on his screens. "Within the hour. Maybe sooner. I don't know. I've never seen one before."

"An hour! Didn't you see the storm?"

"I saw it."

"I'm supposed to get a heads up!"

"I'm giving you one."

"Earlier! Why the hell didn't you call earlier?"

"The sucker brewed up out of nowhere. You know how fast the weather changes."

"I need more of a heads up."

The scolding irritated Lewis. "Rod, I haven't noticed a whole lot of interest lately in what I have to say."

There was silence for a moment. "Anybody else out with you?"

"No."

"You okay?"

"I'm talking to you."

"Okay, listen. I want you to stay there. I want you to clock the storm."

"The instruments will do that automatically."

"I know. I just don't want you wandering around until this blows through."

"That might take a while."

"Just sit tight. I've got to get everyone battened down. This is dangerous, Lewis. We need an early heads up. We need to get some warning."

"That's why I'm calling. Listen, nobody ever calls me."

Cameron hung up.

"Nice talking to you, Rod."

Lewis watched the sun wink out in the advancing wall of snow and then the ice plateau itself seemed to evaporate as the storm rushed forward, devouring ground. It was as if the world were dissolving. The dome was snuffed, the route flags jerked over, flapping, and then the blizzard hit his own research building with a howl. Clean Air lurched and then shuddered, its glass quaking, the wind rising to a shriek. Flakes streamed past the railings in parabolic swirls. The plateau below was gone, replaced with a rushing river of fogged snow, and the sky was equally obliterated. Here was the real Antarctica, powerful and malevolent. Lewis clung to the frame of a window, drinking in the magnificent violence. The building trembled under his hand like a frightened animal.

He thought again of his predicament, suspicion rubbing on his concentration like a rock in a boot. The damning e-mail had been traced to the Macintosh that Abby had fixed, someone using his log-on or, more likely, taking advantage of the fact that he rarely bothered to log off of the machine. Unless she'd done it! Abby had their passwords. But no…

The problem was that Lewis had skipped the galley that night, electing to work out at the gym and take a packed meal to Clean Air afterward. Depressed by the feuding of Tyson, he'd purposefully been alone. Then he'd come back to his bed, leaving his computers on and unattended.

He had no alibi.

"Maybe it was Jerry Follett," he'd tried with Norse.

"Jerry?" The psychologist had smiled. "We both know Follett is a nerd's nerd. His idea of conversation is atmospheric chemistry. The station could burn down and he might not notice. No, Jed, Jerry Follett is an extremely hard sell."

"And I'm not?"

"I don't suspect you," Norse assured Lewis. "It's too neat. Too obvious to send the message from Clean Air. That's why I was against Harrison poking around in the first place. People jump to conclusions on fragmentary evidence. But you understand why you can't stop probing. We need to plumb the soul of every person on this base before this is over, Jed. We need to know who, how, and why you're being made to look like a killer. There's something really perverse going on and I'm worried it will only get worse."

"This is all a game to you, isn't it?" He was frustrated.

"No. I'm in greater earnest about this whole issue than any person on this base."

"Except me."

"Yes. Except you."

Well, that's just dandy, Doc, except I'm a damned fingie murder suspect in some kind of psychotic sinkhole where we don't even know if a murder occurred, he thought glumly. Maybe you could speed up the analysis and give me a little hand.

Lewis looked out at the storm now, the flakes rasping his shelter. He knew that relatively little snow was falling. The polar plateau was a desert with only a few inches of precipitation a year. What produced the ice cap was the fact that nothing ever melted. The blizzard was made of the ice cap's skin, picked up by the wind and hurled like Saharan sand. He was in a world where the molecules all rearranged themselves fifty times a year. When the storm ended there'd be an entirely new landscape- and it would look exactly the same as before.

The telephone buzzed again. It was Cameron. "Lewis, you with Adams?"

"Who?"

"Harrison. He set off from the Dark Side to talk to you about something. Something he found on Mickey's hard drive. You seen him?"

"I told you I was alone."

"I thought maybe he'd gotten there."

"No."

"Shit. That means he's out in the storm."

"Maybe he's holed up in astronomy."

"No, I tried there but Bob says he's gone." Norse was still boxing up Moss's things. "This is why we need a heads up."

Dammit. "I gave you one."

"I got people all over station. We need that heads up." He clicked off again.

Why the hell did Harrison Adams want to see him now? Had he found something incriminating? He moved from window to window, watching them breathe in and out against the wind. There was no sign of the astronomer.

It made him uneasy. He'd been too moody, not sounding the alarm the instant he could have, and that meant another mistake. What pissed him off about Cameron was that the station manager was right. He should have alerted everyone earlier.

Suddenly he felt restless, unfairly cut off. He had no food, no water, no toilet. He didn't want to sit out the storm here. It felt useless.

Cameron called again. "Adams there yet?"

"No sign of him. Not at the dome?"

"No."

They were quiet, Lewis listening to the rising wind.

"I'm worried about him, Rod."

He could hear the station manager take an anxious breath. "Me, too. The guy's brilliant, but he couldn't find his way out of a phone booth."

"All he has to do is follow the flags."

"So why isn't he back yet? Next time, I want a heads up."

"You said that already!"

"I just don't want any more fuckups."

That made Lewis angry. "I'm going to go find him," he decided. He suddenly realized that Adams represented opportunity.

"What?"

"I'm going to find Harrison."

"No, don't!"

"I'll starve if I stay out here. Look, I'll follow the flags back, meet Adams, and make sure he gets back inside. You said yourself he's no good outdoors."

"Jed, the flags can blow out!"

"They're holding. I'll be okay."

"No! I'm ordering you to sit tight. Monitor those instruments!"

"You don't work for NOAA."

"I fucking run this base!"

"Do you, Rod?" It came out without thinking. "I'm going to get Adams." He hung up.

The phone began ringing. He ignored it. He knew that was impolitic but he suddenly felt trapped out in Clean Air, unable to influence his own winter. He'd come down to help, dammit. So, he'd help.

Lewis looked out the window at the drumming opacity of the storm and then at the satellite photos again. He was still green at meteorology but it looked to him like the blow was going to get bigger before it got smaller. Sometimes they clawed at the station for days. He wanted to get back to the dome where there were people. Food. Where they couldn't talk behind his back. Tyson was right. High school.

He wanted to find Adams and earn some goodwill.

The phone kept ringing and Lewis resisted it. He needed Cameron, needed his support. But he was tired of being suspect because he was new. He was tired of being the fingie. As the ringing stopped he began climbing into his polar gear. Somebody had to find the astronomer. Somebody had to act. Hell, he'd been in the snow before.

He was pulling on his mittens when the phone started ringing again, shrill and insistent. To fail to answer was a major violation of station policy. A portable radio squawked and Lewis shut it off, too, neglecting to put one in his parka. Another violation. "Line's down." Lewis stepped outside.

His picture-window view of the tempest did not prepare him for its energy when he pushed out the door. The wind hit him with muscular heaviness like the side of a horse, a blow that knocked him sideways and almost off metal steps newly slick with a rime of ice. The door banged open and he slipped and hurt his knee scuttling back to close it, barely wrenching it shut against the push of the wind. As it swung he had a glimpse of a small tornado of paper that the wind had kicked up inside. Storm noise that seemed exotic inside his metal cocoon was a deafening cacophony when he stepped outdoors. The blast yanked his hood off his head because he'd neglected to tie it and he was blinded when it flocked his goggles. He wiped them with his nylon mitten and then shed the hand covering to clumsily tie his hood strings. He was stunned by the violence.

It was the cold that was most surprising. Lewis had partly acclimated to the everyday freezerlike syrup of chill that seemed to coat every object with brittle rigidity. This cold was different. It wanted to reach inside his clothes and suck him out, swallowing all available oxygen as it did so. He couldn't see, hear, breathe. How was he going to find Adams? Only if the astronomer met him coming the other way. Lewis realized instantly that if he didn't follow the flag line briskly and alertly to the dome entrance, focusing every bit of his being into where he had to go, he'd be dead.

People have died a dozen feet from shelter, Cameron had said. Use common sense.

Common sense was to stay put. Well, he was beyond that, wasn't he?

He needed to take control of events.

Lewis leaned forward into the wind. The nearest flag was bent like a bow, its pennant flapping frantically. The nylon of his own clothes stuttered like a jackhammer. Feeling as if he were climbing a steep slope, Lewis began staggering toward the flag. When he reached it he stopped, turned his back to the wind, pulled down his gaiter, and gasped for air. The strain of pushing against the storm had left him breathless.

He pulled his gaiter back up and turned around again, wiping his goggles against the sting. He could see the next flag! A couple dozen of the pennants and he was home free. With luck he'd find Adams staggering along the way. This way to hot buttered rum, buddy! You got a problem with that, Rod? Lewis bent and labored ahead toward the pennant.

Again, movement was like pushing through plastic. He was head-on into the wind. He made it to the flag and stopped, wheezing. When he turned around he saw the Clean Air building had already disappeared into the storm. Eerie. The dome couldn't be seen, either. It was just him and a bucking flagstaff in either direction. Everything else was white. He couldn't see the ground or the sky. His own body was erased at the waist.

Another stagger ahead. The noisy drum of the storm was like the hammer of a factory. Snow that found the crevice between his gaiter and his goggles burned his skin. His fingers were already stiffening. The pounding was stupefying. He'd skied bad days when snow spat like wet snot but that was nothing compared to this. A polar storm was beyond the pale. It was the literal end of the world. It was a head butt into tapioca, a struggle on the football line.

He began counting flags. Five, six, seven…

Then naming them, for amusement. Homer. Zeke. Jezebel. Hortus. Pygmalion…

God. How far was it? Wasn't he there yet? Had he somehow turned around?

Where the hell was Harrison Adams?

He stopped again to catch his breath, wiping tediously at his goggles. The snow crystals threatened to build into a mask of ice. His vision was blurring and he couldn't tell if it was the fogging of the goggles or the growing snow blindness of his own eyes. He realized his clothes were failing him. The wind seemed to be slicing right inside, robbing his torso of heat. It was like being knifed in the ribs.

"I've got to get inside soon."

The words were muffled by his gaiter, his cheeks and jaw slow to move, his tongue thick. Ib ga ge iside soo. Christ. How long had he been out here?

Cameron had been right. It was stupid to go into the storm.

Too late, mate. He had to be at least halfway, didn't he?

With no other choice, Lewis went on. Each thrust of his leg was like swinging a weight. His clothes buzzed in the wind, the fabric vibrating so fast that it might disintegrate. He felt dull, slow-thinking. The cold was freezing up his brain. Tightening his muscles. He kept his head down, trying to conserve heat.

An eternity passed, lost in self-pity. Why in hell had he ever come to the South Pole? Then Lewis remembered to look up. Nothing. He squinted. Where had the flag gone? He'd been aiming for it and now it had disappeared. He turned around awkwardly and when the wind struck his back it knocked him to his knees as if he'd been tackled from behind. He was tired. Dangerously tired.

No flag back there, either. He watched his own boot prints dissolving in the wind, covering up his passage. Somehow he'd stumbled the wrong way.

A vast dread began to overtake him.

Forcing himself to stand, he slowly turned in a circle, trying to recognize something. The universe was white. Think, think! Which way had he come? He'd been facing into the wind. But the wind kept shifting, and so did his path to the dome. How to get back to the trail?

He took a step, stumbled on a small drift, and lost his footing. As he began to topple, the wind caught him like a sail. He actually flew sideways a few feet, coming down on his belly and skidding on the snow. His hood came off again, a tie broken. Even as he lay there the slashing snow began to drift on his windward side. Curling into a ball, half weeping, he found the ends of his hood tie and got it back on, the strap now tight and choking against his throat. For one perilous second he considered not getting up.

Then he worked up to his knees, trying to see. He felt dumbfounded. It seemed to be getting darker. He needed a flashlight, something to pick out color. But he'd left his light back at Clean Air.

Idiot. You've killed yourself.

Think!

Dully, he noticed the sastruga, the small drift he had tripped over. The sastrugi's tops had been torn off and hurled into the stormy air but their icier underlayment still existed, slowly being abraded by the wind. He'd walked over them every day and watched their wavelike pattern from Clean Air. Which way did they run? He tried to focus his mind…

Yes. Yes! He remembered. Perpendicular to his path. And lower, smaller, in the lee of the dome. He could read them like sailors read the water, perhaps.

He struggled back up, desperate now. He hadn't much time. He was seizing up like the Tin Woodsman. I'm rusting! He set off, abandoning the flags as lost in the storm, betting all on his ability to run into the dome. He stopped for neither air nor rest, plunging forward, determined to bang up against salvation. Trudging on, hammered by the wind, trying to read the drifts, increasingly disoriented…

Nothing. How much time had gone by? As he looked down through the curtains of snow, he was increasingly uncertain which way the sastrugi ran. It seemed they were dissolving and re-forming before his eyes, curling into circles. No dome, no flags, no hope.

He turned around. His footprints had already disappeared.

He'd failed, he realized. Gambled and lost. Somehow he'd missed a structure nearly the width of a football field…

He was a dead man.

The wind lessened slightly and above the shriek of the storm he heard a lower whine. Was he near the generators? He struggled to place it. A butterfly, bright red, spun by, its flicker like a flash of light. He was stunned. Butterfly? No, it was cloth! Old Glory, still on the dome up there, because they'd forgotten to take it in before the blow. The flag was being shredded to pieces, its bits spinning past him like sparks in the storm. He had to be close. Peering, he saw nothing, and then suddenly there was a light, catching him in its blaze, and a snowmobile snorted and charged up to him, a huge hooded figure on its back like Death itself.

"Get on, you fucking moron!" Tyson yelled. "I'm half frozen looking for the likes of you!"

Lewis's leg seemed enormously heavy as he tried to lift it over the machine. He was on Jupiter, pinned by a cold that had become equivalent to gravity. Yet he managed to clutch the huge man in front of him, clinging to Tyson's waist, and the snowmobile howled and spun off, Tyson following the weaving course of his own track.

"Rod made me come look for you, you dumb fuck! I would have let you die!"

The dark wall of the dome loomed briefly out of the snow as Tyson followed it, the snowmobile growling as it jounced over confused drifts. Then there was a sudden bank of snow, the machine lurched up it, and they were airborne.

"Aw, shit!"

Lewis was so surprised he let go and felt himself separate from the machine. He fell, his world gauze, then hit hard ice and snow, rolling, and finally skidded to a stop, breathless and stunned. The snowmobile banged down somewhere, coughed, and went silent. In the stunned quiet that followed, Lewis realized he was somehow more protected from the wind.

He was on the ramp that led to the dome.

Tyson skidded down, colliding with him. "Fuck, I thought I'd lost you again!"

"What happened?"

"Snowbank from digging out the ramp. Jumped the sucker and did a barrel roll."

"The snowmobile?" Lewis managed to mouth.

"It's trash."

They half crawled, half skidded down the rest of the ramp, skittering like hockey pucks against the closed metal doors. Lewis yelped when he hit, sore and gleeful. The smaller plywood emergency door was to one side of the main entrance and he pushed on it. Frozen shut. Stuck like glue.

Tyson shoved him aside and butted it. "See what I told you?" he shouted. "Sufficiency, man! You couldn't get out of the jam on your own!" The door popped open, slamming inside as the wind caught it. "You didn't have me, you'd be locker meat!"

Lewis leaned through and mittened hands grabbed him and yanked. Tyson pushed through, too. The door slammed shut behind them, a puff of flakes trapped inside.

Even the cold of the dome was immense relief because the wind was shut out. Lewis could still hear it howling, the snow rasping the protective shelter, but at least he could breathe and the wind didn't cut at him. He reached to pull down his goggles and had to break them loose from his forehead where they'd frozen. "Ow!" He felt blind in the gloom. His legs were trembling, his feet dangerously numb.

"Lewis, my God, you all right?" It was Cameron, pounding on him. "You damned lunatic, we thought you'd lost it! Why didn't you take a radio? Take a light?"

"Uh…" No words came.

"I'm going to thaw you out just so I can kick the shit out of you." He shoved him in the direction of the galley. The station manager turned to Tyson. "Good job, Buck. Norse just got back, too. But Adams hasn't showed."

Tyson's face was a mask of ice. "Fuck."

"He was going to see Lewis. I can't raise him."

The mechanic slumped. "I'm wasted, man. The machine's kaput. I can't go back out there."

Cameron turned to Lewis. "Jed, did you see him at all?"

Lewis shook his head. He remembered the argument between Tyson and Adams in the weight room. How anxious would Tyson be to look for him?

"We got another machine?" Cameron asked.

Tyson shook his head. "Not fired up and ready."

"How long? If I go instead of you."

"No way. It's suicide, man. Don't go."

"But if I did."

"Too long. Too long, in that."

Sickly, they looked at each other.

"I'm going up the ramp to fire some flares," Cameron said. "Maybe he can home in on that."

"You can't see for shit." Tyson looked as exhausted as a blown horse.

"I've got to try something."

"You can't see, you can't hear, you can't find. I just stumbled on the fingie with dumb luck."

"I've got to do something. I can't lose two."