Until the Night

From the Blue Notebook

For the next forty-eight hours, Ray Deville remained curled up in his cabin.

Moment this bloody fog lifts, I want him out of here, Vanderbyl said.

I’ve already requested transport, Jens said without looking up. I didn’t tell them who for. He was making notes in his group nutrition records, consulting Paul’s recipes for the past few days and working out calories with a calculator.

It won’t do his career any good, Vanderbyl said, but nobody wants him committing suicide either. He turned to Rebecca. When’s this stupid fog going to lift? You’re the cloud expert, tell us something useful for once.

Rebecca took her jacket down from a peg and left the mess.

That was uncalled for, I said.

Don’t you tell me what’s uncalled for, Vanderbyl said.

All right, all right, peacemaker Wyndham put in. Let’s keep things civilized, shall we?

Too late for that, Vanderbyl said. Some people don’t know what the word means.

Calm down, Kurt. It’s just the damn fog getting to everyone.

Wyndham got Kurt’s jacket and handed it to him—the temperature had warmed so much in the past few days that we had abandoned parkas for lighter clothing—and the two of them went out.

Jens, I said, did Kurt tell you what happened at the remote navigation shack?

Jens raised his Viking eyebrows. I’ve worked with Vanderbyl at half a dozen stations and I’ve never seen him like this. Don’t you think you have rather a lot to apologize for?

I’ve never seen me like this either. Did he tell you about the navigation shack?

No.

They radioed in yesterday. One of them stumbled over—literally, that is—one of them stumbled over a dead polar bear. Nine bullets in him. That’s a full clip.

Do we know Ray did it?

His automatic was empty when he finally decided to stagger back here.

Well, if his life was in danger …

He had a flare gun, he could have scared it off with that. Yes, I know—maybe it was past that stage. Except it wasn’t. All of the bullets caught the animal in the back. It was apparently dining on a baby seal when Ray decided to kill it.

Dear God, Jens said. Well, he’ll be leaving us soon enough. And I’m asking you and everyone else to be discreet about it. The pilot will be expecting a passenger, but he won’t know why. Base doesn’t even know why, other than “medical reasons.”

Rebecca came to my cabin that night, the first time in more than a week. She made a valiant effort at passion and lust, tearing her clothes off without a word. And then, amid all the sweat and cries and breathlessness, she suddenly went limp and rolled away from me, sobbing into the pillow. Why does he hate me so much? It devastates me. He has nothing but contempt for me.

I held her lightly from behind and kissed the back of her neck. He doesn’t hate you. He wouldn’t be in such pain if he hated you. It’s me he hates.

I’ve only ever wanted his love and respect. And for a time I thought I had it. I think I did have it. I did.

You mustn’t mind what he says. He’s in pain, that’s all.

I know, she said, and wept again. That’s the terrible thing—I deserve his contempt. If it were totally unjust, I could live with it, live with myself. But I deserve it. Why do you want me? You see how horrible I am.

No, I said, kissing her shoulder, I see how perfect you are—how tender and hurt and perfect and good—and I want to be with you always.

How does one measure love, the emotional current flowing through the connection of one human being to another? The instruments have yet to be invented. Were it to be measured in kisses, ours would not have come to much. But in tears …