“What’s the ninth time for?” Cooper asked, looking at Bozer. He returned her gaze, a scowl on his lips but amusement in his eyes; however, Tucker’s voice rang through the galley before he could answer her. “Hello, attention!” Tucker shouted between cupped hands. Everyone quieted down. “Fellow Polies, I regret that it’s come to this point so early in the season, but I need to make an announcement. Our fearless communications and logistics director, Dwight, has informed me that our GOES satellite link, which has been overburdened for a week, has just had an irreparable failure. Too much usage. His investigation leads him to believe that a few individuals are using up most of the bandwidth that is shared by the entire station.” Some people giggled. “I appreciate the fact that some of you need contact with the outside world in order to have contact with yourself, but it’s overloading the system. So, bottom line, get your porn on, but just not over GOES.”
Cooper took this opportunity to say goodbye to Denise and Bozer, and approached the galley kitchen with her tray. Pearl was piling a stack of them onto a cart. “Excuse me,” Cooper said. Pearl brushed a stray lock of blond hair out of her face with the back of her wrist and looked at her. “What about those skiers?”
“What about them?” Pearl replied.
“They’re camped outside. VIDS won’t let them eat in the cafeteria.” Pearl frowned, uncertainty darkening her normally sunny face. “They have to eat,” Cooper pressed.
“I know, but I could get in trouble,” Pearl said.
“What about the expired ramen? The Melba toast?”
Pearl leaned back and glanced over her shoulder. “Let me ask Bonnie first.”
As Cooper waited for Pearl to get the head cook’s okay on the mission, she noticed the VIDS staffer watching her from the coffee tureens. Pearl returned and gave Cooper the high sign, before noticing the admin’s owl-like glare. She cleared her throat conspicuously and said somewhat robotically, “Oh, you want to eat at your studio? Let me give you a to-go container.” Together, the women shoveled gratin, slices of meatloaf, canned fruit salad, and carrot sticks into to-go boxes, and eventually the admin turned his attention to a commotion at the tureens: a Fingy cryogenics tech had just learned that neither tureen contained decaf, which had annoyed him, and was then told there was no decaf at the station at all, which destroyed him. While this was happening, Pearl placed the containers into a small cardboard box for Cooper and passed it across the counter. Cooper slipped out the door without being noticed.
Outside, about a hundred yards from the station, Cooper saw a ski planted in the snow with a Swedish flag tossed over it. The flag hung limply, looking hungry.
Cooper kicked at the bottom of the tent with her boot—the winter camper’s doorbell. One of the men unzipped the flap. His wind-burned face took Cooper aback: his skin looked like upholstery.
Inside, it was quickly established that the Swedes’ English was perfect, but they seemed unsure of Cooper’s, so initially they thanked her effusively with much hand-steepling and half-bows. She took a seat on a pack while they devoured the cold food. The younger one wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then apologized for his bad manners. “Will you get in trouble for this?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Cooper said.
“You are a very kind person,” he replied.
“Not really,” Cooper said.
“No, Americans are very friendly,” the older Swede said with conviction, “except for your bureaucrats. But that’s true everywhere.” He rummaged through his pack and pulled out a package of biscuits. He offered it to Cooper; after months of eating these Swedish cookies, his taste for them was lost forever.
“So, why are you guys skiing across Antarctica?” Cooper asked.
The older one gazed back at her. “Why are you here?”
“I’m an artist. I’m here to paint.” Cooper didn’t mention the fact that she’d painted exactly nothing since arriving.
“You must come to South Pole to paint?” the other Swede asked, grinning. Cooper was about to reply when she heard footsteps. She cursed softly, and the Swedes quickly boxed the food back up and slid it under their sleeping bags. When Cooper moved to unzip the tent, the younger Swede motioned her toward the rear. He lifted up a sleeping bag and indicated that she should hide under it. Cooper crawled beneath the bag, nose-first into a rucksack containing their dirty laundry. She tried not to gag.
“Excuse me, fellas,” she heard VIDS admin say. “I’m just looking for a station member.” There was a pause, and Cooper realized the Swedes were pretending not to know English. She envied this ability to disappear from a conversation. “Look, guys, I know she’s here.”
Cooper pushed the sleeping bag off her head and struggled to her feet. The admin rolled his eyes. The Swedes moved closer to Cooper, like protective older brothers, and she nodded at them, letting them know that it was okay. As she inched her way toward the opening, the older one, noticing Cooper had left behind her Swedish biscuits, slipped them into her parka pocket.
The VIDS admin—Cooper saw from the stitching on the front of his parka that his name was Simon—helped her out of the tent, then took her arm, as if they were going for a stroll across the English countryside. “It’s hard to know which end is up when you’re down here for the first time,” he said. Cooper peered into his parka hood, but his face was deep in shadow now that they were outside in the relentless sun. She could only see his pale lips moving as he spoke.
“I’m figuring things out,” Cooper said.
“Yes, I see that. But it’s my job to ensure that you’re figuring them out right. Taking food out of a federal research facility, for example, is against protocol.”
“The Beakers take lunch out to their labs all the time.”
“Please don’t call them Beakers. It’s disrespectful. And the scientists are eating their own lunches, not stealing from our limited food supply and giving it to every foreigner who happens to be passing by.” Cooper looked at him uncomprehendingly. Simon sighed. “Look, I know you were trying to do the right thing, but the protocols are in place to protect life and government property. What if we get into a fix where our food supply flights are delayed and we’re facing a shortage? That food you just gave away could have fed a couple of our support staff. Would you be able to look them in the eye if they had to go hungry?”
By now they had reached the Dome. “Did you receive help from anyone in the kitchen?” Simon asked.
“It was all me,” Cooper said quickly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And the to-go containers?”
Cooper hesitated. “I—I took them from the kitchen.”
“You mean you stole them,” Simon said, with the exhaustion of a put-upon parent.
“I guess.”
Simon released her arm. “Cooper, you’re an NSF grantee, so I can’t write you up—I only oversee the support staff, not the feds—but I will have to send a memo to your grant coordinator about this. I’m sorry.”
“What does that mean?”