South Pole Station

“I’ve been advised several times to ‘be a man.’ In corporate scenarios, mainly. It’s made me question my masculinity.”

“Well, whoever said that is an asshole.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

With the side of her hand, Cooper blended the outline she’d drawn of Tucker’s head. “Why are you down here?” she asked. “Give me a oneliner.”

“Smartass.”

“I want to know.”

Tucker looked down at the cup of coffee in his hands. “One day, I decided to embrace a new manifesto, and I say this without being glib or self-deceiving: always look for the positive in all situations. This credo is also self-serving, since in my case, anyway, negativity causes facial afflictions.”

As she sketched, Cooper thought the eyes would be most difficult; the eyes always were. But Tucker’s were uniquely challenging. The startlingly green irises disappeared beneath his upper and lower lids, but the eyes themselves had a slight downturn at the corners. Sometimes, there was a flatness to them, as if he had checked out. Other times, rarely, they looked almost manic. Still, as she worked, she felt a kind of peace, as if her brain were cooling off. All she had to do right now was draw a picture.

“Here’s what I learned, Cooper. If your current environment is not conducive to a satisfying life, then you change your environment. That well-worn advice about your problems following you wherever you go? Patently false. I find I can live well at South Pole, which is good, because I want to live long enough to find out if John Cougar Mellencamp gets buried in a small town.

“Hey.”

Cooper looked up from her sketchpad.

“You’re working.”

Cooper grinned. “I guess all I needed was coffee—and Herbert Hoover.”

“I am but a humble servant,” Tucker replied.

As she worked, looking from her paper to Tucker’s gentle face and back again, Cooper was overcome by a feeling she hadn’t touched since David was alive, since she’d stood on the edge of the woods and waited for him to return—the conviction that the world could become known if only you looked hard enough.

*

2003 November 01

06:23

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Changing the subject line

C.,

My Internet research tells me that you have to take another psych eval in a couple months because you’re staying through the winter. My guess: you have to fail the psych exam with flying colors in order to stay. Would crazy people, if collected together, actually form a unit of sanity, their respective psychoses canceling one another out? Dad drove up to Grand Casino Hinckley last week. He and some other 3M retirees got schooled at the poker table by a bunch of elderly Hmong men who literally had no tells. Afterwards, they went to see Styx at the Events Center. OK, I have to go—there’s a manuscript by Carlos Castaneda’s last lover waiting to be photocopied. Mom acquired it last year and now has “buyer’s remorse.” Question: Did you ever wonder if Christ wore the cloak of the Illuminati? Me either. But Mom assures me that a huge “sub-sub-segment” of the New Age population wants an answer to this burning question, and I live to serve. Dad tells me the real money is in explorer lit anthologies. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the market for explorer lit died with “talking machines” and lineament.

B.

*

2003 November 03

11:08

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Changing the subject line

B.,

The Halloween party was a bust. I got drunk and left early. In other news, I completed a triptych. Mittens. Actually, one is a glove. Which means I can assign it meaning. It was originally supposed to be all mittens, but I destroyed one of the panels in a fit of Artistic Angst. Tucker, the station manager, convinced me to “start fresh or become a tragic figure,” so I also started a portrait. In other news, there’s a guy. He spoke to me at length about the dangers of politics intruding on science, but all I could think about when he was talking was how weird it was that an astrophysicist could be extremely physically attractive. That never happens. Why does that never happen?

C.

*

When Cooper woke the next morning, her left eye was encrusted with dried pus. Cursing, she hauled herself out of bed and felt around for her ECW gear. She was embarrassed to have to go see Doc Carla about her eyes again—it was her fault for not taking the entire course of antibiotics.

She pulled on her parka and, out of habit, thrust her hand into the depths of the pocket to touch the old Tylenol vial. To her horror, she realized the cap was loose—not detached, but nearly. She removed it from her pocket, and after checking to make sure nothing had escaped, pressed the top down firmly. She held it in her hand and stared at it through her good eye for a minute. What the hell was she doing, carrying this around like a talisman? And what was her plan for it anyway? She’d only ever gotten as far as getting it down here. She hadn’t considered what she’d do with it once she arrived. She set the vial on her desk, next to the compass. She’d have to deal with it at some point, but not now.

As she walked down the entrance tunnel toward Hard Truth, she passed yet another guy holding a large pillow to his chest. He stopped short and looked hard at her. Suddenly, he began fumbling in his pocket for something. “Hey,” he said, shoving another folded note at her. “Will you give this to Bozer?” In a place where Beakers were peering into the beginnings of the universe, how could a pool table be so important? Tucker had so far refused to intervene, hoping the situation would resolve itself with a frenzy of broken test tubes and bent levels that would allow the hostile energy to dissipate without causing bodily harm. Denise, on the other hand, remained convinced that only when one of the groups established dominance would equilibrium be restored. Cooper snatched the note from the pillow-clutcher’s hands without a word. Bozer, it read, The cases of Schlitz will arrive on the morning flight from McMurdo. We expect reciprocity.

When Cooper got to the clinic, the door was locked. She knocked, and heard Doc Carla bark, “Wait!” After a minute, the door opened just slightly and Tucker’s face appeared. He took one look at her, then slammed it shut. Cooper could hear people talking on the other side. Suddenly, the door flew open and Tucker pulled her in.

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