South Pole Station

“God, I hope he’s Cuban or something,” Bonnie said as a group of Polies, including Cooper, settled in to watch a VHS of the 1987 World Series. “I want to see someone other than Tucker who has skin with melanin, for chrissakes.” She looked over at Dwight. “No offense, honey.”

“None taken,” he replied, arranging the tail of his cloak behind him as he took his place on the sofa. Cooper fell into one of the La-Z-Boys and watched as Tom Brunansky made his way to home plate. Pearl was knitting another pair of leg warmers for a woman in Dave’s dance class, and had just frogged her last row of stitches when Sal and Alek stalked in toward the middle of the third inning. Alek was holding another bottle of samogon.

“Turn on game,” he said.

“It is on, Einstein,” Bonnie snapped.

Sal took a seat on the arm of Cooper’s recliner and said nothing. Pearl caught Cooper’s eye and gave her a quizzical look, but let the awkward silence go.

Finally, after an inning and three glasses of samogon, Alek stretched his mantis-like arms and sighed. “So,” he said. “Information. I have some. Pavano agrees to debate.”

“Who?” Pearl asked.

“The climate skeptic,” Cooper said.

“Please don’t call him a skeptic,” Sal said. “All scientists are born skeptics. Pavano is not practicing science.”

“Debates are against regulations,” Dwight said. “If he’s going to talk, he has to call it a lecture.”

“This would be incorrect term to use,” Alek said, as Kirby Puckett adjusted his cup on the edge of the batter’s box. “Pavano doing presentation on climate change would be like lecture on baby dolls.”

“I did a lecture on quilt making last month,” Pearl offered.

“Yes, but you didn’t advertise a lecture on quilt making that was really a lecture on Bigfoot,” Sal said.

“I’d go to a lecture on Bigfoot in a hot second,” Dwight said.

“I’d go to one on baby dolls,” Pearl replied.

“Guys, you’re not helping,” Sal said.

Cooper knew from Worst Journey that there was a great tradition of lecturing at South Pole. On the Scott expedition, everyone had been expected to produce a discourse on a topic that could be considered a specialty. In addition to being a fine physician, Edward Wilson was a brilliant artist, and he lectured on sketching. Debenham on volcanoes. Titus on “horse management”—even after all the ponies had died, his ideas on equine caregiving were apparently still worth hearing. Eighty-plus years later, lectures continued to be popular events at Pole, except now the talks were about things like “Subglacial Lake Properties on Polar Plateaus” and “Crafting with Crown Royal Bags.”

Alek informed everyone that Sri had approached Pavano at Midrats and asked if he’d consider a lecture on his ongoing research so the rest of the station could understand what was behind the “controversy.” Pavano had refused to go into specifics, citing his sponsoring university’s confidentiality policy, but had agreed to a big-picture presentation, with time for Q&A. This kind of setup could easily be turned into a debate if the moderator was game.

As Dwight and Pearl were discussing the ethics of this bait-and-switch, Sal suddenly sat up and said, “I have a new rule: if you refuse to accept the central tenets of science and insist on trying to destroy science education in our schools, then you don’t get to benefit from it. Turn in your iPod, throw away your computer, and no more vaccines for you. Live by your principles. Also, no synthetic fibers. That’s in the Bible.”

“Well, I don’t even believe in vaccines,” Dwight said.

“You had to get them before you came down here,” Pearl said.

“I know. I’m just saying I don’t believe in them.”

On the television, fifty thousand homer hankies waved in unison as Kirby Puckett chugged around the bases.

*

It wasn’t until mid-December that Cooper next saw Frank Pavano, fumbling with his parka in front of the clinic.

“Hey,” she said. He looked up at her, startled. “I’ve been looking for you. You’ve dropped off the face of the earth.”

“I’ve been out at the Divide for much of the last month,” Pavano said. He successfully zippered his parka. “I’m on my way to the shortwave carol sing. Do you want to carol?”

“You like caroling?”

“I find I’m in the Christmas spirit.”

Together, they walked to Comms. This trading of carols was another Antarctic tradition, along with the Christmas tree the ironworkers built out of metal scraps, a collection of aluminum glistening in the twenty-four-hour sunlight. When Pavano and Cooper arrived, they found twelve other people in ridiculous hats crowded around a shortwave radio. This motley crew of Polies, named the Singing Skuas, sang mangled hymns into the radio to the McMurdo station choir—the Mactown Madrigals—who had been rehearsing since September and were therefore tools. Both groups hoped their carols also reached some of the field camps scattered across the continent, including the ice-coring climate camp on the Divide.

A man wearing angel wings and a halo on a wire handed Cooper and Pavano sheet music, and the group began singing. “The Twelve Days of Christmas” to modified lyrics. “Twelve berms a-growing, eleven carps a-siding, ten waste pallets weighing, nine galley slaves cooking, eight smokers lounging, seven loaders loading, six congressional delegations, FIVE FLIGHTS A DAY! Four tourist herds, three expired condoms, two thermal gloves, and a glacier sparrow in an aluminum tree!” Cooper was surprised to learn that Pavano had a beautiful, crystalline singing voice.

“Are you coming to my presentation this weekend?” Pavano asked as they pulled on their parkas.

“I’ll be there. Are you going to talk about your research?”

“I’m going to talk about my ice-core analysis and the so-called climate crisis. The scientific staff offered me an opportunity.” He halted and analyzed her frowning face. Cooper was reminded of the smoking computer icon her Macintosh would display during an irreparable failure. “You seem skeptical,” he continued haltingly. “Don’t worry. I’m used to hostile audiences. Perhaps I can change one person’s ideas about my work.”

But Cooper thought his words came out like a series of deflated balloons. “You don’t have to do it, you know.”

“I want to,” Pavano insisted. He looked at the ceiling and seemed to be searching for a thought. Finally, he said, “I’m clued in. I’ve seen the T-shirts, I’ve seen the drawings in the game room. I know what they say.”

“So you know they’re trying to trap you into a debate,” Cooper said.

Pavano nodded. “In fact, I’m glad people care so much. Climate change will become a central policy point in the next few years.” He pulled on his reflective snow goggles.

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