Читать книгу Snowblind - Margaret Haffner - Страница 10
ОглавлениеPolar Bear Pass was experiencing unseasonably warm weather, the temperature frequently reaching two or three degrees Celsius. It was a comfortable working temperature for most purposes and Simon was anxious to put the mild spell to good use.
‘The coast is only about six miles from here, isn’t it?’ Simon asked one night at supper.
‘About that,’ Viola agreed.
‘Think I’ll go have a look tomorrow.’
‘You only have twelve hours between radio checks and it’ll take you three or four hours to get there and the same to get back,’ Eric warned. ‘Hardly seems worth it.’
‘That still gives me a few hours to spend there. I want to see some belugas or seals or something like that.’
‘You won’t see much from shore except birds and you can see them here,’ Tony chimed in. ‘You should stay near camp in case one of us needs you.’
‘But, Tony, you’re always telling me how unimportant I am. Now you think I’m indispensable?’
‘Hardly!’
‘Then I’ll go. You’ll have to struggle on without me.’
‘Why don’t you take one of the rubber rafts?’ Anne suggested. ‘The blue one folds up small for carrying and then you could go for a paddle when you reach the ocean.’
‘That’s a great idea. I’ll do that.’ Simon rubbed his hands together.
‘I might need it tomorrow,’ Joan objected.
‘Then you can use mine,’ Anne replied calmly. ‘I’m going to be doing microscope work.’
Joan glared at Anne and Simon in turn but said no more.
After two hours of strenuous walking, Simon could see the coastline. Three or four hours—Eric must be a slow walker! Simon smiled and picked up his pace even more but the shore didn’t seem to get any closer.
‘What is this? A time warp?’ he grumbled as he checked his watch. Over three hours and still the ocean hovered on the horizon. Simon’s buoyant mood dissipated as he slogged on, determined not to give up.
His mind turned southward. He’d made arrangements to speak to his sergeant by radio while he was on holiday and all of a sudden he wanted to hear Bill’s gravelly voice. He wanted to know what was happening. Although one of the reasons for coming to Polar Bear Pass was to get away from the cloud of uncertainty hanging over him, now he felt too isolated. Had the board come to a decision? Did they believe Delio’s story? Would he be suspended … even charged with assault? Simon felt his fists clenching. Delio’s type didn’t deserve to live.
And his father … how was he? Simon knew the old man hated unfamiliar surroundings. Duncan and Pam would take good care of him, but still … Simon rubbed his chin. He realized he’d soon have to put his dad in a nursing home but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Even with his memory all but gone, his father instinctively fought the idea. Simon smiled ruefully. He was damned either way. Overwork or guilt would get him, but guilt was beginning to look easier to take. He couldn’t cope much longer and the expense of home nursing help was prohibitive. Simon trudged along on autopilot, his mind hundreds of miles away.
He was sweating when he finally arrived at the coast, but it was well worth the effort and his spirits rose. The sky was bluer than he would ever have believed possible and the ice was either clear like crystal or blindingly white. The emerald waves, crested with froth, were transparent as well and at times he could see the sunlight through them, giving him a glimpse into an alien world.
Simon took his time inflating the rubber raft, working the foot pedal rhythmically as he absorbed his surroundings. When that small task was accomplished he perched comfortably on a sun-warmed rock and munched a granola bar. This was more like it.
He marvelled that he could smell the utter cleanliness of the air. Granted there were flowers, tiny clumps of seaweed, and salt spume, but it was none of these which he smelled, at least not individually. It was better than any of those. Simon breathed in great lungfuls, feeling the tingle right down to his toes.
His pencil flew over the pages, capturing the mystique of the landscape with a minimum of strokes as he frantically tried to gather everything into his sketchbook. Rocks and waves, lichen and gulls, ice and whales, delicate flowers and overwhelming vistas were pulled from his surroundings and restrained in two dimensions of black and white and yet they lived. To Simon these two hours were worth two years of rock-carrying, post-pounding or dung-sifting.
When he had satisfied his need to draw, Simon turned again to the raft and manhandled it over the slippery rocks to the water which seethed and raced between the black boulders. The light craft bounced on the waves and Simon almost did the splits when the raft leapt seaward while he still had one foot on shore. But at last he was safely launched and he paddled three hundred yards from shore before relaxing to survey the scene.
Almost immediately he spotted a pod of narwhal swimming towards him. Through binoculars he watched them twist and turn fluidly in their element, staying just below the surface except when they came up to blow. Simon could feel the mist of their breath on his face. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their hoarse cries carried on the wind.
Gradually Simon realized the seat of his jeans was wet. He glanced down to see his raft riding low in the water and waves washing over the side. Hell, he was sinking! Frantically he searched for the leak. Not the valve. Not under him. Not on the gunwales. His probing fingers searched over the side and down under the water line but within seconds they were numb from cold. He felt what he thought was the hole but he couldn’t be sure.
He watched the dancing bubbles in horror. Were they getting more numerous? Was the hole getting bigger? He shifted, trying to see the gash but with every move the waves washed inside faster and the raft settled deeper into the water. It no longer danced on the waves but rode sluggishly, reluctantly, up and down on the swell. The shore looked a long way off.
The repair kit! With a rush of relief Simon remembered the repair kit kept in the pouch of each raft. The patches were supposed to stick even to wet rubber. Keeping his body as still as possible, he stretched to retrieve the kit from its storage place. Nothing. Simon leaned forward, recklessly causing a flood of water to wash in board. His fingers scrabbled in the corners of the pouch but it was no use. The repair kit was gone. He was in real trouble.
Tentatively he began paddling, altering his stroke in an attempt to minimize the water he was taking aboard while maximizing his speed towards shore. With narrowed eyes he tried to gauge his progress. It would be close. Should he swim for it? Simon tried to recall the statistics he’d read about survival times in arctic waters. Why hadn’t he paid more attention? Was it thirty seconds or thirty minutes?
‘Not thirty minutes,’ he decided aloud. ‘Five minutes, maybe?’
He tried to judge the distance to shore—two hundred yards at least. But he’d been terribly mistaken in his estimate while walking to the coast—maybe he was wrong again. And he wasn’t a strong swimmer.
‘You’re a fool to be out here alone,’ he cursed himself as he fought panic. ‘Paddle, idiot.’ He paddled desperately, awkwardly, trying to ignore the slopping of the water as it gurgled around his numb legs. The bottom edge of his jacket was submerged now and it acted like a wick, pulling the water upward, soaking his vest and shirt. Only his fear was keeping him warm.
The rubber boat was slowly folding up around him, trapping him in a rubber strait-jacket. He had to stretch to reach up and over the edge of the boat to keep the paddle in the water. The pressure of the collapsing boat was squeezing his legs painfully. When shore was still thirty yards away Simon knew he would soon be unable to kick free of the boat’s ever tighter embrace. He gritted his teeth and used every ounce of his strength on the puny paddle. Simon’s muscles were screaming in protest and the water was up to his chin when the bottom of the raft dragged on the stones. For a moment he was too dazed to realize he’d made it to shore but at last he staggered to his feet, fought off the raft, and struggled for the rocks. He collapsed in a wet heap, shivering with cold and exhaustion.
Ten minutes later, teeth chattering uncontrollably, Simon knew he would have to move. If he stayed still he would die of hypothermia. With numb fingers he fumbled at his zipper, then let the jacket plop to the hard stone where it lay weeping on to the gravel. He pulled on the dry toque he’d left on shore and each hair on his head was grateful for the warmth. He jumped up and down flapping his arms like an arthritic penguin.
‘I’ve got to get dry,’ he whispered hoarsely. He looked around. There was nothing to burn and besides, his matches were useless now. Why had he spurned the waterproof kind?
He stripped off his soaking clothes and wrung them out as much as his numb fingers could manage. Then with a shudder he wriggled back into the damp garments. Not much of an improvement, but it was the best he could do.
‘Camp,’ he mumbled. ‘Camp,’ he repeated clearly, forcing himself to action.
It was a nightmare journey. Time after time he stumbled and fell because his feet were too numb to feel the uneven surface. He was getting colder, not warmer, and a rime of ice formed on the seams of his clothing. The sun had disappeared behind an ominous cloud bank. ‘You don’t want to join Phillip Loew as a permanent resident,’ he told himself as he scrambled up yet another hill. ‘One more hour. Walk just one more hour and you’ll be home.’ He descended the next slope and splashed through the inevitable stream at the bottom. A thin film of ice tinkled into a thousand crystals.
‘Simon? Simon?’
The voice penetrated Simon’s daze at last and he peered around for the source.
‘Simon!’ Anne hurried up to him. He faltered to a halt. ‘Oh my God,’ she cried. ‘You’re frozen!’ She briskly rubbed his arms and back, stretching her slender arms around his shivering body. ‘You poor thing,’ she murmured.
Gradually his shivering diminished to the point where he could talk. ‘Thanks.’
‘Can you walk now? We must get you back to camp.’
Simon nodded wearily. ‘I know. How much farther?’
‘Not far. Come on.’
‘Had a good close look at the water, did you?’ Eric asked when Simon appeared at supper that night.
‘Too close.’
‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ Eric’s goatee bristled righteously. ‘We don’t need any accidents this year.’
‘Serves him right,’ Joan remarked. ‘He’s supposed to be working.’
‘You should be thanking me, not criticizing,’ Simon retorted. ‘If I hadn’t taken that raft you might’ve been the one to sink.’
‘I only go out on ponds and most of those aren’t more than waist deep. And I wouldn’t have lost the raft.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone out alone,’ Jeff chided. ‘One of us should’ve gone with you. We know the dangers.’
‘The rest of us have work to do. I know I have no time to spare for sight-seeing.’ Tony sneered at Simon.
‘Let’s just be grateful he’s still alive,’ Viola exclaimed as she executed a final flourish to the vigorous back rub she was giving the victim. Simon drew his blankets tighter and cradled his hot chocolate. Would he ever get warm?
‘It was thoughtful of Anne to go looking for you.’ Eric directed his words at Simon but it was Tony he watched.
‘Especially since Simon wasn’t even missing,’ Tony hissed, glaring at his wife.
‘I wasn’t looking for him,’ Anne retorted, ‘but it was lucky I was out that way.’ She stood up, her hands on her hips. ‘What’s wrong with you people anyway? You’re acting like you wanted Simon to have an accident …’
Tony had the grace to blush but neither Joan nor Eric turned a hair. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, my dear,’ Eric said in his most irritating manner. ‘Sit down and finish your dinner like a good girl.’
Anne gritted her teeth and stomped off.
Viola clucked her tongue. ‘Don’t bait her, Eric.’ She turned to Simon. ‘I’ve made you some more hot chocolate.’ Viola thrust yet another scalding mug into Simon’s hands. ‘We’ll get you warm, don’t worry.’
As Simon drank his chocolate he glanced again at Wally. Wally hadn’t contributed to the conversation but his yellowed eyes darted among his companions as if seeking hidden meanings in their words.
When Simon woke the next morning, even his feet were warm. For a few minutes he lay in his bag, savouring the comfortable glow in his fingers and toes. He squinted at his watch and groaned. Seven-thirty. He heard muffled clatter. The others were already up.
After a static-filled radio check, Simon grabbed a couple of chocolate bars and headed out in the direction of the IBP station where Wally and Jeff had waited out the storm which killed Phillip. This station lay in a north-easterly direction from their base camp, and its two small quonset huts huddled in the middle distance. Like all things on Bathurst Island, however, it was farther away than it looked and it took Simon an hour and a half of brisk hiking up and down the long low hills to get there.
Until now he had avoided visiting this vestige of the International Biological Program because he instinctively resented its human blight on an otherwise barren and wild landscape. It comforted Simon to know that when his expedition departed they’d leave no sign of their intrusion; no building, no hearth, no garbage. It would be as if they’d never come, except for a few less insects, bacteria and plankton, and a few minor scars on the unyielding rocks. They were even careful not to thaw the permafrost under their tents, keeping the atmosphere indoors only marginally warmer than outside. He smiled as he remembered Viola telling him about the radio operator on a previous expedition.
‘That private was so lazy,’ she railed, ‘he just stayed in his tent all day. Stove going full blast. Can you believe it? All the way up here at government expense and all he does is sit in his goddamn tent? Two radio contacts a day—that’s all he did. Wouldn’t even help carry gear.’ She brushed a hand through her grey hair. ‘Anyway, he got his comeuppance. His stove melted the permafrost under his tent and he woke up one morning in a swamp. I laughed so hard … Problem was, the darn swamp kept spreading like mould on bread till we all had to move our tents.’
By the time Simon jogged up to the IBP site, he’d unzipped his parka and shed his heavy mitts, retaining only the thin gloves he usually wore inside them. His scarlet toque was riding high over his ears like a rooster’s comb, so he swept it off and crammed it into his pocket.
According to Jeff, Polar Bear Pass had been intensively studied during the United Nations organized year of exploration and research. Scientists posted on Bathurst Island had semi-permanent quarters and a rough runway had been scraped into the terrain. A squat, ladder-like aerial, minus its windsock, was all that remained of the airstrip and the two low grey huts were the remnants of the camp itself.
These huts, side by side, were each about five metres long and two high at the vault of their curved roofs. The door on one gaped open on a lone hinge and Simon peered into the gloomy, empty interior. There were no windows, and the dark, cold tunnel enveloped him in its sense of desolation. Simon slammed the door shut but as soon as he let go it clanged open again, echoing hollowly across the barrens. He approached the second hut almost reluctantly and gave its door a tentative shove. Nothing. He fumbled at the frozen latch and with difficulty swung the hasp free. A good shove from his shoulder made the stiff hinges screech in protest but the door opened. He stooped and entered.
Boxes, maybe thirty or forty, were piled along the walls and the majority were still sealed. They’d been there twelve years, left as emergency rations for anyone marooned in this wasteland. Staying low to avoid banging his head, Simon hauled one crate to the shaft of light coming from the doorway. The rest of the interior remained in deep shadow and even the air had the closed, lifeless feel common to all long-deserted buildings. Breathing it, Simon’s lungs still hungered for more oxygen, as if this dead air could no longer support life.
He tried to shake off his gloom by opening the carton. Sixteen large jars of instant coffee confronted him. One was only half full. Wally and Jeff? Or the IBP scientists? He kicked the box back to its former position and, with his eyes now adjusting to the gloom, read the labels on the others. Beside the coffee was a case of instant hot chocolate and under that a box labelled potatoes. Jeff and Wally could have managed for quite a while provided they could keep themselves warm. The next rifled crate Simon examined contained fuel canisters and a tiny stove. Not the Hilton, Simon decided, but the hut would have seemed very welcoming indeed to men trapped in a blizzard.
Curious to see how twelve-year-old potatoes looked, he bent over their box and ran his finger under the flap. The top of the carton gave way easily. Glue must be rotten, Simon thought … potatoes likely are too. But inside, instead of vegetables, he found a lump of dirty green canvas. He began to re-close the carton but curiosity stopped him. He grabbed an edge of the cloth and pulled, but it was jammed in tightly and wouldn’t yield. Simon wedged the carton between his feet and yanked, almost toppling backward as the canvas came free. He turned the bundle over in his hands and saw the pockets and leather straps of a backpack—a well-used one from the look of it. It felt heavy. He untangled the straps and set the pack upright on top of the coffee carton. When he smoothed out the creases Simon noticed the initials P.L. written in faded magic marker on the flap.
‘P.L.,’ Simon murmured. ‘Phillip Loew?’ He worked open the cord knotted around the mouth of the bag and peered in. He recognized the outline of a small soil corer and a rock chisel. He lifted the tools out and dug deeper to find a field notebook, plastic sample bags, blank tags and a crushed chocolate bar. Even before he found Phillip’s name scribbled on the flyleaf of the notebook he felt sure he’d found the pack of the missing man.
Simon sat back on his heels, a frown corrugating his forehead. What was Phillip’s pack doing crammed inside a potato carton at the IBP station? No wonder the RCMP hadn’t found it—or Phillip either for that matter. According to Jeff, they’d concentrated their search in the Pass itself.
Simon twisted around, peering deeper into the gloom. Was Phillip’s body here too? He sprang up and walked towards the rear of the quonset hut, every nerve at attention. He methodically searched the few areas hidden by the boxes. Nothing. He headed for the rectangle of light framed by the doorway, then crossed the few yards of open ground to the other building and stepped inside. The hut was as empty as he’d thought.
Chewing his lip, Simon returned to where he’d left Phillip’s pack. He repacked the bag, knotted it shut and slung it over his shoulder. As he surveyed the hut one last time he saw the notebook lying on the ground. He scooped it up and shoved it in his pocket. From the doorway he looked back. How much longer would the food stored here stay edible? When would the next traveller take shelter in this bleak sanctuary? How much longer would the quonset hut itself stand? Everything was completely still, totally quiet, and Simon felt as if he were the only living thing left on the earth. He stepped from the gloom back into the world of sunlight, birdsongs, and life. As he pulled the door shut the dissonant protest of the hinges signalled his return from an alien landscape.
As he crested a hill Simon spotted Eric and Viola not far away. Eric was gripping her arm and she seemed to be protesting. ‘Hello! Eric!’ Simon shouted.
They turned and stared at him. Viola waved weakly. By the time Simon reached them she’d pulled away from Eric.
‘Something wrong, Vi?’ Simon asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘You look excited, though. What’s up?’
Simon held out the backpack he’d discovered. ‘Recognize this?’ He looked from one stunned expression to the other.
‘It’s Phillip’s,’ Viola whispered. ‘Isn’t it, Eric?’
Eric cleared his throat as Simon silently pointed out the initials. ‘Yes, it’s Phillip’s.’ He reached out to take it from Simon. ‘Where’d you find it?’
‘At the IBP station.’
‘The IBP station?’ Viola’s voice rose in disbelief as she shook her head. ‘Impossible.’
‘That’s where I found it,’ Simon assured her. ‘In a carton marked potatoes.’
‘In a carton? What on earth would it be doing in a carton?’
‘Good question, Eric. I didn’t see any sign of Phillip himself.’
‘Of course not,’ Viola said. ‘Jeff and Wally would’ve found him if he’d been there. They spent two days at the station during the storm, remember.’
‘And they would’ve mentioned the pack if they’d seen it,’ Simon murmured. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Meanwhile, Simon, I’d like to keep Phillip’s pack,’ Eric said. ‘His mother may want to see it … a last reminder …’
‘Sure,’ Simon agreed. ‘It belongs to you more than anyone else.’
As the group sat around that evening, waiting for their foil pouches to heat, Jeff groaned and stretched out his legs. ‘God, I’m tired! This terrain really takes it out of you. And then lugging rocks too … Think I’ll spend tomorrow cataloguing my samples.’
Joan smirked. ‘Can’t stay the pace, Jeff? Getting a little soft? Too old for field work?’ She rose and moved lithely around behind him. ‘Shall I get you a hot-water bottle?’ She bent to put her mouth close to his ear. ‘Your knitting?’
‘Put a sock in it, Joan. I’m in better shape than you are.’ He brushed her away and turned to Simon. ‘Did I hear you found Phillip’s pack at the IBP station?’
‘Yeah. Packed in a cardboard box.’
Joan, half way back to her seat, stopped and stared. ‘How’d it get there?’
Simon scanned the circle of faces. ‘You tell me. I understood he had it with him when he disappeared.’
Anne winced. ‘You don’t suppose Phillip himself’s there too …’
‘I looked. No Phillip.’ Simon stirred the simmering water with a stick. The silver packages bobbed around, a skin of bubbles clinging to their sides like tiny jewels. ‘The funny thing is,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘the pack was stuffed into the carton … squashed down so the top flaps could be closed. And the top was re-glued.’ Simon tried lifting a packet, balanced on his makeshift spatula, out of the water but it fell back in with a plop. ‘It looked to me like it had been hidden.’
Eric’s goatee vibrated as he frowned. Simon could hear the words before Eric spoke them. ‘Nonsense. You must be mistaken.’
‘You explain it, then,’ Simon invited.
‘I can’t form an hypothesis without all the facts. It’s unscientific.’
‘I can,’ Joan interrupted. ‘I bet Phillip put it there himself.’
‘Why?’ Jeff and Viola chorused.
‘Remember Phillip complaining his tent had been searched? And his stuff rifled?’
Viola and Jeff nodded. Tony and Anne glanced at each other.
‘Well, maybe Phillip hid it to keep it safe,’ Joan proposed.
‘But there wasn’t anything interesting in it,’ Simon objected. ‘Just field notes and tools.’ He turned to Eric. ‘You have the bag now. Did I miss something?’
‘No. It held just ordinary field supplies. Phillip wouldn’t need to hide it.’ Eric glared at Joan, who shrugged and locked her fingers behind her head.
‘Just an idea, Eric. Don’t lose your cool.’ She looked around. ‘Anyone got a better explanation?’
Simon’s eyes widened when Wally spoke up. ‘Phillip hid it so he could accuse one of us of stealing it.’ He wiped his thin mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s something he’d do … Phillip liked to make trouble.’
‘I refuse to sit here and listen to this!’ Eric stood up and stalked to the stove. ‘Give me my dinner. I’ll eat in my tent where the company’s better.’
The members of the research team settled into a routine. They rose early and had breakfast, making no attempt to socialize. Instead, each scientist was intent on getting started as quickly as possible on the day’s tasks. The crate of inedible breakfasts had remained untouched since the first morning. Now everyone ate lunches in the morning since these were more appetizing, and most of the cookies and chocolate bars were secreted in parka pockets for snacks during the long day away from camp.
On this particular morning Simon had agreed to help Anne. As he lifted the huge pack to his back he recalled the snatch of conversation he’d heard the night before.
‘… So if you could help, Tony, just for the morning …’
‘I’m too busy. Everyone else manages alone, Anne. Don’t be a baby.’
‘You know it’s heavy work to put in the barriers. I’m not strong enough.’
‘Get your loverboy, Simon, to help. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you cosying up to him. It’s sickening.’
‘That’s not true, Tony, and you know it!’ Anne had replied hotly. ‘But if you won’t help I bet he will!’
Yes, Simon thought decisively, count on it.
‘How far away are these ponds, anyway, Anne?’ Simon panted under his load.
‘Not that far. They’re the closest suitable ones I could find.’
‘And just how picky are you?’
‘All I want is small size, constant depth and symmetrical shape.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ Simon returned sarcastically as he splashed through a pond which, although it had been rejected for the study, seemed to fit the bill as far as he could see.
‘I need a rest,’ he announced a little later, dropping his armload of poles to the frozen ground with a clang. A knapsack full of clamps and nets clattered after it. ‘This better be worth it,’ Simon gasped as he stretched out, unzipping his parka as he did so.
‘It will be. I’ll give you an acknowledgement in my paper.’
‘That’ll look good on my résumé, I’m sure … really help me in my career.’
Anne smiled. ‘Except for the fact you’re a policeman, I don’t know anything about you.’ She eased out of her pack and sat down crosslegged. She tilted her head to one side and stared at him. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘Not much to tell … I’m just a boring, middle-aged, slightly overweight male.’
‘Come on—not one of those things is true.’ She wiggled around, searching for a smooth spot on the rough ground. ‘Are you married?’
‘Nope.’
Anne noticed the slight hesitation in his voice. ‘You don’t sound very sure. Are you divorced?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Never married. I almost was, though.’ He saw the question in Anne’s eyes. ‘Two years ago I was engaged … my fiancée broke it off three weeks before the wedding.’
‘Oh …’
Simon smiled, his eyes crinkling in amusement. ‘Don’t look so worried—she did the right thing. Smart girl, Annette.’
‘I bet it hurt,’ Anne said softly, touching his arm.
‘Yeah, mostly my pride, though. I had my doubts about the whole thing but I didn’t have the guts to tell her.’
Anne propped her pack up behind her, leaned back and stretched out her legs. ‘Why did you get engaged?’
Simon shrugged. ‘We’d been dating a long time … seemed like the thing to do.’
Anne reflected on her own engagement. It had been such a glorious time. She’d had no doubts and neither had Tony. Or had he?
‘Why did your fiancée change her mind?’
‘The old story. A cop’s life is too hectic, too unpredictable. I don’t know how many dates I broke with her because of my job … I guess she decided she wasn’t cut out to be a policeman’s wife.’ Simon could remember Annette’s exact words when she told him her decision. ‘I need order, Simon, and dependability. Every time we make plans I end up having to change them. Our friends can’t count on us … I’m running out of excuses. I’m tired of going alone to parties where everyone else is in couples.’ She’d pushed her long auburn hair out of her eyes in her characteristic gesture. ‘And your father—if you’re serious about having him live with us …’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘No. It just won’t work. I’m sorry.’
Simon returned to the present. Anne was speaking to him. ‘What was that?’ he asked.
‘I just wondered if you have another girlfriend now.’
‘No one special,’ he replied. No one period, he added to himself, and unless his life made a dramatic turn for the better, there never would be. He jumped to his feet and struggled into his pack. ‘I’m getting cold sitting here. Come on—let’s get this over with.’ He jogged off at a terrific pace and Anne had to run to keep up.
When he had finally worked off his frustration he was sweating. ‘Guess I got carried away,’ he apologized. Then he laughed. ‘Here I am, leading the way, and I don’t even know where I’m going!’
‘You haven’t done badly,’ Anne reassured him. ‘See that pond over to the right?’ She pointed. ‘That’s it. Let’s have a drink and a snack and then we’ll get started.’
They sat in silence for several minutes while they recuperated. As he lay, taking in great gulps of the cleanest air he had ever enjoyed, Simon put his personal problems behind him. His thoughts turned once again to the missing man of Polar Bear Pass. He was fighting the urge to treat this tragedy like a murder investigation, but his sixth sense told him something was not quite right. And both he and his partner, Bill Harkness, had a healthy respect for his hunches. ‘Out here in the wilds with all these men,’ Simon stammered, ‘do you have trouble fending any of them off?’
Anne chuckled and turned an amused gaze on him. ‘Getting the lie of the land, Simon? I’m a married woman.’ A shadow crossed her face.
He laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant. I was thinking about Phillip, actually. Even you don’t seem to have liked him much … I wondered if perhaps he’d been bothering you.’
‘Hardly. If he’d been “bothering” anyone, as you put it, it was likely Jeff or Tony.’
‘Oh.’ Simon rubbed his chin. ‘Then what did you have against him?’
Anne shifted around trying to get comfortable on the unyielding earth, a frown creasing her brow. ‘That’s hard to say. I can’t think of one particular reason.’ She took off her toque and ran her fingers through her short curls as she tried to crystallize the reasons for her dislike. ‘He had many of Eric’s characteristics but few of his redeeming features. Phillip was—how can I put it?—autocratic, opinionated. But most scientists can forgive those failings. Those adjectives describe us all to some extent!’ She laughed self-consciously.
‘Not all of you,’ Simon protested gallantly. Anne blushed.
‘Probably what bugged us the most was his pursuit of money above science. Even if some of the rest of us are after the almighty dollar instead of “knowledge”, the illusive Holy Grail of science, we keep it to ourselves. Phillip was always after money from contracts, industry, foundations, the government …’
‘I thought all scientists were looking for research money.’
‘That’s true, but Phillip wanted money for himself as well. Oh, he collected it under the guise of research, usually from oil and other resource-based companies, but he always factored in a hefty salary for himself. That is not common.’
‘And everyone knew this?’
‘Of course. He boasted about how he inflated his costs to cover it. Besides, if he was willing to give the answers the companies wanted, particularly about things like environmental impact, they were happy to pay him.’
‘That would make him really popular with Joan,’ Simon commented.
‘You’re not kidding. Joan is a rabid environmentalist, very unrealistic at times, and a pain in the neck, but I prefer her extreme stand to Phillip’s mercenary soul.’ She gasped guiltily. ‘Why am I saying these things? The man is dead.’
‘Probably,’ Simon agreed calmly, ‘but that doesn’t change what he was in life.’
But Anne, upset with herself, scrambled to her feet. ‘Let’s get to work.’
Joan was not easily defeated, but she had met her match in Wally Gingras. No amount of coaxing, reasoning or threatening would get him to help her. ‘Wally, why? I won’t hurt anything. I could get my samples after all your measurements have been taken. All you’d need to do is give me a photocopy of your rough notes for that particular patch of shit.’
‘I work alone. I do not collaborate, I already told you that yesterday.’
‘Wally …’
‘No! That’s final. Go away.’ Wally turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Joan to fume helplessly.
She kicked at a clump of reindeer moss. Bastard. How the hell was she to get her research finished this year if Wally wouldn’t cooperate? If she’d just stuck to the narrow academic road she would’ve been finished long ago. But with most of her time spent working for Greenpeace and Environment Now her doctorate was taking longer than the usual four or five years. And all she got for thanks was a police record for a failed attempt to set fire to a fur warehouse.
Joan held a pointed finger in the air towards Wally’s disappearing back. ‘You won’t stop me, you old fart,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘That’s not very nice.’
Joan started in surprise and then twisted to face Viola.
‘So? Neither is he,’ Joan sneered.
‘He has his reasons,’ Viola replied.
‘He’s not the only one who’s had a bad break in life … The rest of us manage to remain civilized.’ Joan stalked away.
‘Not so as you’d notice,’ Viola murmured as she headed out of camp.
Using a heavy mallet, Simon attempted to drive a metal pole into the ground at the edge of a small pond. Sweat flowed freely even in the chill air and progress was slow as he fought his way inch by inch through the permafrost. Gingerly he tested the pole. A gentle shove failed to dislodge it but Simon had no doubt an energetic lemming could tip the post with moderate effort. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he cast around for some rocks to anchor the pole. This was only their second pond and already it was four in the afternoon.
Anne was busy stringing a fine mesh between the other pair of poles but, judging by the exclamations erupting from her vicinity, her task wasn’t much easier.
‘Are you sure all this is required?’ Simon asked with a grunt as he heaved a large rock out of the water.
Anne rushed over to peer into the water with a worried frown. ‘Don’t do that. You mustn’t disturb the pond any more than is absolutely necessary.’
‘All I did was remove a rock! You’ve been walking through it!’ Simon protested indignantly.
‘Yes, you’re right, but I had to. Aren’t there any rocks on shore?’
‘They’re not very handy,’ Simon replied shortly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Anne cried, immediately contrite. ‘I don’t mean to criticize, I really appreciate your help. Let me find you some rocks.’
‘It’s OK, I’ll do this. You just finish with that net so we can get out of here.’
‘Thanks.’ Anne smiled her breathtaking smile. It almost made the labour worth while, Simon decided.
They finished their tasks and then stood back to admire their handiwork.
‘Now what happens?’ Simon asked.
‘Well, for this particular pond I’m going to remove all the zooplankton from one side and see if the population of phytoplankton increases when the grazing pressure is diminished.’
‘In English?’
Anne laughed. ‘Too technical? OK. Let’s see … With a sampling net I’m going to remove as many of the microscopic animals as possible from one side of the pond. The mesh we’ve just installed will keep the animals from the other side from moving in. Then in six weeks I’ll sample both sides of the pond to see how many microscopic plants are present. The theory is that the side with no plant-eaters will have a higher population of plants. Clear?’
‘Yes, except we’ve sectioned this pond into three areas, not two.’
‘Good point. Into the third area I’m going to add the animals I’ve removed from the first section. This should lower the plant population below that in the control area.’
‘Let me know how it turns out,’ Simon commented.
‘You won’t be here then, will you?’
‘No. I’m leaving after just four weeks in this vacationer’s paradise. Some other poor sucker is taking my place.’
Anne came over to stand by Simon and they both stared at the scene in front of them: the grey-purple tundra, the endless blue of the sky and the utter transparency of the pond in which the entire world was repeated, upside down, in perfect detail.
‘You don’t like it here?’ Anne laid a small hand tentatively on his forearm. Simon imagined he could feel the tingle of each fingertip even through his down jacket.
‘Of course I like it. I love it, if you must know,’ Simon said. ‘In just a few days Polar Bear Pass has got into my blood. It’s beautiful … awesome … quiet, pure.’ The last words hung in the crystal air. Again Simon’s thoughts were pulled inexorably towards the missing man. If you had to die, it was a wonderful place to spend eternity.
‘Yes, it’s all of that,’ Anne breathed, sharing his emotion. ‘I’ve come to the arctic every year since I started my master’s degree and I’m still awestruck each time. My only regret is that I have to travel with such a motley assortment of people—they intrude on this perfection.’
‘Well, excuse me!’ Simon exclaimed in mock indignation.
‘You know I don’t mean you. I’m talking about Joan, or Wally, or even Eric.’
‘I can understand your objections to the first two, but Eric Karnot? I thought he was the quintessential scientist and nature-lover.’
‘In more ways than you might expect,’ Anne retorted with feeling. ‘Remember the behaviour you were suspecting Phillip of? His stepfather was the problem, still is the problem, as far as I’m concerned. Around the university he has a reputation as a real lecher. He can’t keep his hands off women.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Lynda—the wife is always the last to know.’
Simon gave a low whistle. ‘Well, well. So the noble-looking Eric isn’t quite so noble as he appears.’
‘No way, and he’s very persistent—almost a pain.’
‘And a married man, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘You’re not mistaken. Three years ago when I first came up north with Eric and the crew from Bellwood College, he was recently divorced, without a good word to say for his ex-wife, and hot on my trail. The next summer he came, a newly-wed, but still on my case. Guess who he’d just married?’
‘Phillip Loew’s mother, I gather.’
‘Yes, but whom do you suppose he had divorced just the year before?’
Simon shook his head.
‘Phillip’s mother.’
‘Are you saying he remarried the same woman?’
‘Precisely. And Phillip was furious, especially when he caught Eric prowling around me.’
‘I’m not surprised. You’d think with the son right at his elbow, Eric could’ve controlled himself.’
‘Well, he didn’t, and his wife never heard anything about it since Phillip didn’t live to tell the tale.’
‘It’s sad the baggage of civilization has to come up here with us,’ Simon mused.
As she picked up the gear to move on to the next pond, Anne agreed wholeheartedly.
Wearily Tony plunked his corer down on the frozen terrain. These northern trips used to be the highlight of his year but this time it was torture. But then life itself was torture of late. He groaned aloud, longing for what he considered the innocence of his post-doctoral days.
His mind’s eye saw Anne as he had first seen her, one brilliant autumn day at Hemlow College. A colleague had pointed her out where she sat, eating her lunch under a golden beech in the arboretum. Her simple white dress had been spread out around her, making a base for her graceful upper body and accentuating her pale skin and gleaming blonde hair. It had taken him a year’s allotment of nerve to go up and introduce himself, but he needn’t have worried; she was the friendliest, least critical person he’d ever met. He thought she was beautiful.
Very easily they had become a ‘couple’, informally at first, just frequenting the same functions and monopolizing each other’s time. But Tony remembered the first event they’d attended as a unit—a summer tea hosted by the women’s alumni, and presented in Edwardian splendour on the shady lawn of the college. Anne was seductive in a simple cotton dress and he felt awkward and inelegant, like a lump of earth on a china plate. With wonder, he realized she actually meant it when she told him she was enjoying herself and his company.
From there, it seemed a natural progression to marriage, and he had assumed, in the patriarchal manner of his family, that Anne would sublimate her career to his own. She had, and without protest. But time and experience educated Tony in ways formal schooling could not, and now he couldn’t contemplate Anne’s salary-less, adjunct status without guilt overcoming him. As if he didn’t have enough of that to carry already.
Removing a fur-lined glove, Tony rubbed his eyes with a heavy hand. Where the hell was he? Why? The corer, as familiar as an old friend, felt strange in his hand when he bent to retrieve it. No site in the majestic terrain seemed worth sampling and no knowledge was worth wringing from the harsh landscape. He wasn’t the first to decide solitude was not good medicine for someone at war with himself.
With a supreme mental effort Tony hauled his thoughts from the abyss of despair and surveyed the vista before him. He needed a location with deep soil so he could obtain pollen buried in the peat as long as possible. Then he could accurately re-create the changes in the vegetation of the island over time. Last year’s data indicated that about seven thousand years into the past was as far as the pollen record went. It hinted that for the last one thousand years the climate had been colder and drier than it had been for the two thousand years previous to that. Tony realized his findings agreed with studies done on Axel Heiberg Island and Devon Island, but that didn’t really raise his self-esteem. Validating someone else’s data wasn’t the activity of an innovative scientist.
