“Do the Nailheads draw their power from the beards or do their beards grow lush because the Nailhead is powerful?” Tucker mused.
“Those beards are the result of several years of ice-time,” Sal said. “Nick over there—the guy in the Fleshgod Apocalypse T-shirt—this’ll be his fourth winter-over. His beard’s as old as that. Tuck, remember last year when he let that girl build a hanging fairy garden in it?”
“Four seasons?” Cooper said, disbelieving.
“No—four winter-overs. There’s a difference. If you winter-over, you’re here for the entire year, including the polar night. Six months of total isolation. No flights in, no flights out.”
“Why would anyone do that four times?” Cooper asked.
“You will know the answer to that question before you leave here,” Sal said. He stretched his arms over his head and interlaced his fingers, just as he’d done at fire school. “I need coffee.” He stood up and looked down at Cooper. “Want some?” Cooper shook her head no. Tucker headed over to the coffee tureens with Sal, and, as if on cue, Denise slid into his seat.
“I’m having a ball watching Tucker claw his way from ascribed status to achieved status,” she half-whispered. “Speaking of him as the only man of color at Pole.”
“What about all those guys from Hyderabad?”
“They don’t count. There’s nothing like observing an American black man in an environment in which he’d not be expected.”
Cooper thought it wise to change the subject. “What’s the word on this guy Sal?”
Denise thought for a moment. “Sal Brennan. Scientist. Cosmology, I think. He’s a veteran—been here a few times before. I have heard he’s in the final year of a rather important experiment, though I don’t know the details.” Denise unfolded her napkin and carefully arranged it on her lap. “I’ll have to check my notes. The scientific staff seems to avoid me, so my knowledge of his background is meager. Oh, now this is interesting.”
Cooper turned to follow Denise’s gaze, and saw two gaunt men walking through the galley toward the chow line. Both were draped in Swedish national flags, with cross-country skis on their shoulders, and the Polies they passed were slapping them on the backs and smiling. A VIDS staffer jogged after the skiers.
“See,” Denise said, pulling out her notebook. “This is the kind of scenario I find fascinating. What benefit is VIDS protecting by denying visitors food?” As Denise scribbled, Cooper watched the Swedes carefully return the trays and listen politely as the admin explained to them why they couldn’t eat in the galley.
“Who are they?”
“They arrived at the station last night—Bozer said they’re skiing across the continent. They came straight from Vostok. The Russians apparently treated them like kings. VIDS is only letting them pitch their tent outside the Dome.” Cooper knew VIDS tried to keep tourists and adventurers away from the station—people were always trying to cross the continent by ski, by snowshoe, by fat-tire bike. One summer an ultra-marathoner made an attempt but went hypoxic three miles outside of McMurdo and had to be carried back on a snowmobile. People still talked shit about ultra-marathoners as a result.
Denise and Cooper watched as the Swedes walked out of the galley with their gear. Out of the corner of her eye, Cooper saw Bozer approaching their table. When he arrived, he put his hands on Denise’s shoulders and began rubbing them.
“Hey, chicklet,” he said.
“Bozer,” Denise said warningly. “Don’t cross the boundary.” Cooper felt he’d already done that with the Confederate bandanna, but said nothing.
“I’m Bozer,” he said to Cooper. “I’m sleeping with her.” For the first time, Cooper saw an expression of displeasure pass over Denise’s face.
“Your lack of discretion is becoming a problem,” Denise said. Bozer discreetly laid his fat, crooked middle finger on the table between them, and wiggled it. Cooper tried not to laugh. “There is an unspoken code of conduct here regarding relationships on the ice,” Denise said. “At least before winter starts.” She turned to address Bozer directly. “You don’t formally acknowledge the person in public. You don’t sit next to them at meals, and when a transgression takes place, you say ‘you’ve crossed a boundary.’ When you say that”—she peeled off Bozer’s left hand, which had migrated from the table back to her thin shoulder—“they’re supposed to stop touching you immediately.”
“Okay, honey, but you know I don’t subscribe to that kind of bullshit,” Bozer said. “We all have an ice-wife, fuck buddy, whatever. What’s to hide? Other people get weird about that, but I’m an open book.”
“Is ice-wife just another term for a hook-up?” Cooper asked.
“So-called ice marriages aren’t necessarily commitments down here,” Denise said. “But the perceived permanency provides much-needed emotional support, particularly as the season grinds on.” She lowered her voice. “Some people in ice relationships even have spouses and families off the ice.”
“You’re making it complicated, darling,” Bozer said. “Alls you gots to do is figure out who’s a dyke, who’s married, who’s open-married, who claims to have a boyfriend, and who wants continual action. Go from there.”
“Typically these courtship rituals are kept offstage, à la Goffman,” Denise said. “In this social environment, and at this particular time in the institutional cycle, it’s important that this basic need be broadcast. You will see this change over the course of the season.”
“So that’s how you guys got together?”
“Repeat offender program,” Bozer said, gazing over Cooper’s head.
“Bozer’s been on the ice nine times before this,” Denise said.
“Nine times?”
“There’s a quaint saying down here,” Denise said. “The person who coined it has been lost to history: ‘The first time is for the adventure, the second time is for the money, and the third time is because you don’t fit in anywhere else.’”