Dark Winter Read Free Page A

quarter-century age: scuffed, faded, and leaking. The insulation had become soaked and frozen on the outer wall and there was another mold of frost inside, a white reminder of how thin their protective shell was. A few inches inside the wall the temperature was kept near seventy degrees by a blowing heater. The air was very dry and smelled faintly of fuel from the base generator. The mechanical drone was like being on a ship.
    "The dreaded Ice Room," said Cameron, who'd brought Lewis here after the plane left. The station manager looked tired but was trying hard to be welcoming. "Being on the end of the building sucks, but last come gets last pick."
    Lewis put his hand against the wall, the clamminess cold as aquarium glass. "What if my butt freezes to this during the night?"
    "We bring a blowtorch every time you're late for breakfast." There was a pause, for timing. "Just don't roll over the other way."
    Lewis dutifully smiled. Sometimes you go to prison as a means of escape, he thought. Sometimes the very worst places offer the most possibility.
    "Now, we call this floor Upper Berthing, jargon left over from the Navy days. It's perfect for you since you're a beaker. You can crunch your data downstairs."
    Beaker was polar slang for scientist. Lewis had already encountered this caste designation in New Zealand, where he was issued a punching-bag-sized duffel of cold weather gear at the American warehouse in Christchurch. "You get the shitty nylon because you're a beaker," the clerk had informed him, handing him insulated bib overalls. "The workers get Carhartt." This alternative looked like tough canvas.
    "Scientists are workers," Lewis had protested.
    "Scientists don't spend twelve hours fitting pipe. You get the nylon."
    Now his place in the hierarchy had dictated assignment of a room. Like a runt piglet jostling for a teat, he was on the outer end. Also growing out of his orange box were appendages that included an electric substation, hydroponic greenhouse, and closet full of fire-fighting gear. Fire was the most feared enemy at the Pole.
    "Homey," he offered.
    "A leaking derelict," Cameron corrected. "The whole base had a life expectancy that expired five years ago and it's slowly falling apart. A recent inspection turned up two hundred safety deficiencies, which means we really have to stay alert just to stay alive. The National Science Foundation wants to replace everything- in summer they fly in congressmen like a D.C. shuttle- so we're under pressure here to show some results. Practical benefits from basic research. You'll find people are under a little strain. Still, the good news is that the Ice Room is warmer than outside, half private- your one neighbor will still hear more of you than they want to- and the government is past complaining about tape or tacks on the walls. Just don't put up a centerfold: We're politically correct now."
    "You admit you weren't?" His question was wry.
    "It was so macho that the Navy guys had nudes laminated into the tables. Only way to remember what females looked like. Gone with the wind, man, and better for it. Things are more civilized now that we have women."
    "What happened to the tables?"
    "They're still in the old base, abandoned in '75 when they built this dome. It's snowed over and slowly being crushed by the ice. Unsafe and strictly verboten, but a fascinating depository of cultural archaeology. Beer cans. Frozen hot dogs. America at her zenith."
    "But you've seen it."
    "Winter-overs have been known to explore. Big Brother left on the last plane, you know. Except for moi. Which reminds me." Cameron beckoned him down the hall and pointed toward the shared bathroom. "Our biggest shortage is melted water. That means the most onerous rule concerns the showers. No more than two a week, two minutes of running water each. You wet, turn it off, soap, turn it on, rinse off. We're sitting on seventy percent of the world's fresh water but it's so hard to melt we might as well be in the