To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Beaker
B.,
A Beaker is the South Pole term for a scientist, even though I’ve never seen any of them handling beakers. I’m sorry about you and Phil. Put it in your work. The climate change denier did a Q&A and the whole station turned out for it. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but the Beakers were frantic by the end. I’m told this Denier—his name is Pavano—is down here because of “Congressional interference.” Anyway, the guy invited me to go with him to the ice-coring camp as his “research assistant,” probably because I’m the only person who’s nice to him. He’s definitely not trying to put the moves on. The guy comes across as sort of asexual. I imagine him genitals-free. Anyway, we leave in a couple weeks. I’ll report back.
C.
The morning after Frank Pavano’s lecture, Cooper met Sal and Sri in the cafeteria line. They both looked hungover. “My brain hurts,” Sri said as he spooned Pearl’s Orange Walnut Spice Oatmeal onto his tray. “It spent all night looking for those IQ points I lost to Pavano’s ravings.” Cooper picked up some buckwheat pancakes and poured Pearl’s chokecherry syrup over the stack.
At the table, Sal set his tray down heavily and stared at his food. The early consensus was that while he was clearly a bought man, Pavano had put on a good showing. Several Beakers were convinced he was actually an atheist—overnight they’d dug up speculative Internet posts from 2000, when Pavano had been questioned at some conference-on-a-cruise-ship about irreducible complexity. He’d indicated then that faith in a higher power was not a prerequisite for accepting the theory of Intelligent Design. These atheistic tendencies were noted and puzzled over—was he pandering, trying to play both sides against the middle, or was he the Sasquatch of the Intelligent Design debate, an atheist Creationist?
“Don’t be sad, man,” Sri said, slapping Sal on the shoulder. “Pavano shall be defeated.”
“Maybe in the long run,” Sal said. “But by then it might be too late.”
“I know why you’re upset,” Cooper said. “It’s Pearl.” Sal looked across the table at Cooper, a half smile on his face. He looked tired; Cooper saw for the first time that his auburn hair was tinged with wiry grays.
“Pearl what?” Sri said. “What does Pearl have to do with anything?”
“No, she’s right,” Sal said, still looking at Cooper. “She is exactly right. Pearl is the test case. She was buying in last night. She was feeling guilty about participating in a consumer economy that is leading to the destruction of the earth. Remember what she said? ‘I don’t want the earth to be warming.’”
“So? None of us do,” Sri said.
“But when Pavano told her it wasn’t, she said that made her feel better. She was relieved. Pavano gave her the out she was looking for.”
“Pearl is Everywoman,” Cooper said, through a mouthful of pancake.
Sri looked from Sal to Cooper and back again, his black unibrow furrowed. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “And it took Pavano two-thousandths of a second to plant doubt in Everywoman’s brain.” He stared at the wall. “Shit. People are so dumb.”
“Pearl’s not dumb,” Cooper said.
“No, sorry. I didn’t mean Pearl literally,” Sri said. “Her oatmeal is awesome.”
“The problem isn’t brain power,” Sal said. “It’s hope. They’re hopeful. Deniers provide hope. We don’t. We’re doom and gloom, and that’s what makes it so easy for Pavano to convert.”
“What the hell does hope have to do with science?” Sri asked.
“Nothing. That’s the point. Pearl doesn’t want to believe that the earth is going to burn to a crisp because human beings are assholes. Pavano can offer a different story, rainbows and lollipops,” Sal said.
“And Pavano can also sound science-y,” Cooper said. “Or science-y enough.”
Under the table, Sal nudged her boot with his.
“I just wish I could get into Pavano’s head,” Sri said. “I bet the blueprints for world domination are in there.”
“Or Exxon’s annual report,” Sal said.
“Well, maybe I can help,” Cooper said. “Pavano invited me to the ice-coring camp. On the Divide.” The men stared at her uncomprehendingly. “We were talking about painting and sastrugis and stuff, and I just told him that I was hyper-focused on mittens and not because I want to be.” Cooper decided not to tell them about her portrait of Tucker or the one she’d started of Bozer. “So he offered to get me on the manifest for a flight to the Divide when he heads back in a couple weeks. To get some ideas. Different vistas.”
“Well, isn’t that generous,” Sal said.
“But you can’t go to the Divide!” Sri exclaimed. “Only approved scientists and techs go.” He looked over at Sal. “Hell, I’m the head climatologist and it took me two weeks to get my paperwork processed.”
“I’d be going as a ‘research assistant.’ He says he doesn’t have one,” Cooper said.
“That’s because he shouldn’t have one,” Sri growled. “However, he’s supposed to be borrowing one of mine.” He tapped Sal’s forearm. “NSF put him on my project budget. Like a leech.”
“At least he’s just looking at the core archive,” Sal said.
“No, man, they’re talking about letting him core,” Sri said. “And not only that, they want my tech to fire up the Badger-Eclipse drill for him.” He sighed. “Well, luckily NSF will never approve a nongrantee as a research tech.”
“Actually,” Cooper said tentatively. “About that. Apparently I’m already approved. They can’t call me a ‘research tech’ but I’m allowed to go to the site with him as an ‘assistant.’ Something about a congressional override? I had to sign a bunch of release-of-liability forms.”
The men stared absently at their oatmeal, looking sick.
Cooper took her tray to the dish pit before beginning the long walk to Summer Camp—Denise had the studio until noon, so Cooper thought she’d grab a nap. She was zipping up her parka outside the galley trailer when she heard Sal calling her name.
“Wait up,” he shouted from the stairs, where he was fumbling with his parka and mittens. He half-jogged to where Cooper was standing. “I almost forgot. I have something for you. Come with me.”
Sal had a room in the elevated dorm with the other physicists, who were mostly from Palo Alto or Madison, cities that were apparently hotbeds for astrophysicists who liked ice-time.
“Yo, Sal,” a guy in a toolbelt said as they passed him. “What’s the word on the new Pole marker? You come up with a design yet?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you, sweetcheeks,” Sal said.
“Just don’t disappoint us. All eyes are on you, my man.”
“I thought the Nailheads hated the Beakers,” Cooper said after the man had passed them.
“Unlike the vast majority of my Beaker brethren, I respect the Nailheads. We wouldn’t be here without them. I let them know that on a regular basis.” Sal pushed open a heavy steel door. “Therefore, I am not hated.”