South Pole Station

“Too late,” Cooper said, scanning the papers Sal had given her. “Already read it. I’m really looking forward to that naked midwinter run from the sauna to the Pole marker.”

She began to read aloud. “‘Details and results of NSF-backed experiments may only be released publicly after joint approval by the NSF and the scientist’s home institution. Scientists and techs are prohibited from speaking to the press in any capacity, even educational, without prior approval. All media requests must go through the NSF’s media relations offices.’”

“And they told me I had to stop e-mailing with those kids in De Pere.”

“What happens if you don’t sign it?” Cooper asked.

Sal propped himself up on his elbow. “According to NSF, the scientists and techs who choose not to agree to these terms will be sent back on the next available flight, ‘no questions asked.’”

“What about all the experiments?” Cooper said.

“Done.”

Cooper and Sal stared sadly at the confidentiality agreement. She could only think of one thing to say to Sal. “Tom Waits.”

He nodded. “Tom fucking Waits.”

*

As the clocked ticked down toward winter, more flights landed, carrying fuel but never enough. The pilots, who were typically gregarious and gossipy, worked closemouthed, offering hardly more than grunts and monosyllabic answers to questions. Whenever Floyd mentioned the stingy supply of fuel, they’d shrug and get back into the cockpit as quickly as possible. It was clear the station’s fuel was already being rationed.

Cooper tried to immerse herself in her work. She offered to paint portraits to help distract everyone from the looming crisis. Initially, only a couple of people came up to her during mealtimes, but once she set Pearl’s portrait up in the galley, the requests came in steadily—especially since Pearl was extravagantly proud of being Cooper’s first publicly displayed portrait. The work seemed to Cooper easy and meaningful, two qualities that had never coalesced over the course of her career.

One by one, more portraits appeared in the galley—Pearl hung them at evenly spaced intervals on the walls: Floyd, his hamster cheeks mitigated by shadows, the anger in his eyes replaced by the softness Cooper had seen there once or twice over the course of the season, usually when he was looking at Marcy. Kit in his Halloween gorilla suit, his mouth half opened. Dwight, sans cloak, his head dropped to his chest, his silky black hair obscuring his face. Doc Carla without her knit cap, her eyes an Edward Wilson blue. Tucker, still just the eye in the mirror shard. One by one the Polies had come to her studio or hadn’t, and one by one, she’d come to know them a little better. None of the portraits had the photographic quality of her vending machine paintings; hyperrealism was simply no longer possible. However, the inability to be photographically precise had freed something in her.

Cooper was on her way to another artists’ meeting in the gym, when she saw a group of women and two visibly distraught men crowded around a piece of paper taped to the outer wall of the trailer.

“What’s going on?” Cooper asked.

“Dave’s dance class,” someone said. “He left for McMurdo.”

“He promised to stay for the last class,” another replied sadly. Cooper noticed one of the women was weeping quietly, while the others just stared at one another in disbelief. It seemed to Cooper a bad omen, and she hurried past them and into the meeting.

Propelled by their essential feelings of social impotence, and Denise’s insistence in their last meeting that the artistic process is profoundly shaped by social settings, the artists and writers, save the historical novelist, had decided to make a statement that summarized their thoughts about political interference in science. They were certain their statement would show solidarity with the scientists (“who are just artists working in a different medium,” the dancer said) and send a clear message to the politicians that they hadn’t forgotten Helms and Mapplethorpe, and wouldn’t let the NEA controversy be repeated in “science-y” fashion on the ice. If none of the newspapers bit, they’d publicize it via a blog.

“But I don’t think horses make sense, in context,” Birdie was saying when Cooper arrived at the meeting. “Although you could stretch the conceit and make as if the ponies Scott brought down here to their deaths are akin to the scientists. Scott being the government.” He shuddered. “But that kind of parallel goes against every grain of my being.”

“I don’t even know if this is worth the effort,” the literary novelist said. “Politicians don’t get art.”

“Well, as an agnostic Buddhist-and-pagan who is deeply vested in the principle of plurality, I find this conversation really complex,” the dancer replied. “I’m committed to freedom of ideas, even the ones we dislike.”

“The man has a right to do his research without being harassed,” the historical novelist barked. “This whole thing is the worst kind of liberal arrogance. A coordinated campaign to discredit Frank Pavano’s work.” He laughed. “But look at it bite them in the ass.”

“The man sliced off her finger,” the literary novelist replied.

“It was an accident,” Cooper said.

“Oh, no, sister,” the historical novelist said, waggling his finger in her face. “This wasn’t an old whoopsie-daisy kind of thing. That how they’re spinning it to you? Nope. Drudge Report says the only reason he was coring without a tech was because the staff at the ice-coring camp wouldn’t give him the tools he needed. If he’d been allowed to conduct his research without political interference, he wouldn’t have had to use makeshift tools and you might still be a whole person.”

“I still am a whole person,” Cooper said.

“Fine. You’re a whole person who is missing part of her hand. You’re splitting hairs.”

“I think the scientists’ objection to Pavano and his research has to do with the idea that beliefs have no place in science,” Birdie said, trying to regain control of the conversation.

“Beliefs have a place everywhere,” the dancer said. “The world is built on them.”

“You probably believe that the world is supported by a turtle,” the literary novelist replied, his face darkening.

The dancer stiffened. “It’s called the ‘world-bearing turtle’ and yes, I find truth in creation myths. Why do you care what I believe? How does it affect you?”

“You can’t come down here to do research on Santa Claus.”

“Forget Santa Claus,” the historical novelist snapped. “Let’s talk money for a minute. You guys want to get blacklisted?” He looked around the room. “These grants are my livelihood. What exactly are the chances of getting an NEA grant after this?”

“Zilch,” the literary novelist said, sitting forward in his chair now. He tapped the dancer’s knee three times with his finger. “But your chances of getting a Guggenheim or a MacArthur just increased exponentially.” He sang the last word.

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