“It was a rhetorical question,” the historical novelist growled.
“Let’s reconvene tomorrow after we’ve all had some time to think this through,” Birdie said. The artists murmured their assent and walked out of the gym. Cooper stayed behind.
“I don’t do protest art,” she said to Birdie, once everyone was gone.
“Me either. I haven’t the faintest idea what to do. Perhaps I can find something in the life story of Birdie Bowers that echoes this current impasse, but the British government has always been very supportive of scientific endeavors.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
*
The announcement came the next morning. Dwight laid the New York Times printout on the bar, and the Polies crowded around it. Bayless and Calhoun had finally put their money where their mouths were; the article detailed a House resolution they’d co-sponsored that would freeze the station’s budget by suspending the National Science Foundation’s polar regions department. Until the resolution got out of committee, additional funding requests would be in limbo. Because fuel was a fluid line item in the station’s annual budget, each request was considered a request for new funding and would need to be approved, in triplicate. The fuel supply had essentially been halted. Even if the resolution got out of committee, the Program was facing a sequester: all Pole operations would cease—from the construction of the new station and the climate research taking place at the Divide, to the cosmological experiments in the Dark Sector, including the joint Stanford-Princeton experiment Sal was leading with Lisa Wu.
“‘The South Pole is touted as a bastion of scientific activity,’” Dwight read, quoting Bayless, “‘where minds converge to answer the most important questions of the universe. It is a place where open-minded discussion leads to breakthroughs. But that is changing; the time-honored tradition of intellectual debate is under grave threat from elements of the far left, and our ability as a nation to remain the leader in scientific achievement is now in doubt. Taxpayers are currently funding a number of scientists and scientific programs through the National Science Foundation, and I think they might be surprised to learn that their hard-earned dollars are going to support a liberal agenda rather than disinterested science.’”
Dwight looked up from the printout. Sri bent over his knees, his hands interlaced behind his head. His breathing grew rapid, and Sal placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve got lawyers going through my research files back in Madison as we speak. My grants for next year are suspended pending further review,” Sri said. “They’ve already forced Fern and her team off the ice. If they shut us down, I will lose three years of research. I can’t have a gap in the data. I can’t, Sal. I can’t.”
“What is he talking about?” Pearl asked.
“Sri just got subpoenaed,” Sal said. “Bayless got the Wisconsin attorney general to initiate an investigation for violations of the Fraud Against Taxpayers Act. They’re saying he manipulated his climate data to get federal grants. It’s just an excuse to get Sri off the ice and interrupt his research.”
“How is it possible that people like this have the power to shut down an entire research base?” Sri said to no one. “I mean, what about the medical science that makes it possible for them to go in for their triple bypasses and come out as fresh as a newly plucked daisy? Did a Jesus in scrubs float down on a cloud of ether and come up with the protocols for that shit? I hate humanity. And yet I’m down here because I want to save humanity from certain suffering and death once this planet bursts into fucking flames.”
“You’re a misanthrope with a heart,” Pearl said cheerfully.
Cooper glanced over at Sal, who was still squeezing Sri’s shoulder. “No,” he said. “He’s a scientist on a choke chain.”
*
After breakfast the next morning, an announcement went out over All-Call directing the winter-over crew to meet in the library—the individuals who had been approved to spend the winter at Amundsen-Scott. When Cooper arrived, she surveyed the winter population—the individuals who had freely chosen to spent months of perpetual night at the bottom of the earth. There were the Nailheads, including Bozer, Floyd, and Marcy; the Beakers, who would monitor their experiments through the season, Alek, Sal, and Lisa, and assorted research techs; Dwight, who would continue to run Comms and provide general research tech help; Pearl and Doc Carla; and two NSF “non-science” grantees: Denise and Cooper. Everyone else was contracted to move to McMurdo for the winter, like Birdie and Kit, or off the ice entirely. (Birdie had made his arrangements for a McMurdo transfer before meeting Pearl, and had spent the last two weeks trying in vain to get someone to approve him for a winter-over.) Cooper noticed Simon, the VIDS rep, and Warren, the NSF rep who had interrogated her in the days after her injury, were also in the room. Both looked as if they’d been invited to a slumber party at Guantanamo.
Cooper took a seat near Sal. He reached across the plastic chair between them and took her hand. His face was drawn and his eyes sunken; there was little remaining of the usual fire in them. He seemed, for the first time since she’d met him, almost beaten. On his other side, Lisa sat twisting a Kleenex in her hands. Cooper knew if the shutdown happened, hardly anyone in this room would be allowed to stay for the winter.
Before Tucker or either of the admins could begin speaking, Bozer stood up, his meaty arms folded across his chest.
“We don’t have enough JP-8 to get through the winter.”
“Calm down,” Simon said dismissively. “We’ll get to that later.” Pearl looked over at Cooper, with raised eyebrows. This was going to be good.
“Actually, no, son, we’ll get to that first,” Bozer said. “I’ve winter-overed for nine seasons, but I’ll be fucked if I stay past station closing knowing we don’t have enough fuel to last us. My bags are packed. I have a seat on the last Herc out if that shit ain’t here by next week.”
“You realize this is your own fault, right?” Sri said to Bozer from across the room. Sal nudged him with his knee. “No, man, it needs to be said. If construction had stayed on schedule, and the planes didn’t have to haul all your construction shit from McMurdo, we could’ve made do with the fuel we already had, no matter what these politicians were trying to do.” Cooper saw Floyd’s entire body wince. “Oh, and your precious pool table? Everyone knows you’ve been illegally shipping materials for that since summer.”