Ship of Fools - Chapter 35
In the Belly of the Beast
[Start at the beginning of the novel: Prologue.]
[Go to the Table of Contents.]
Welcome back to Ship of Fools, my satire about a science journalist trying to make sense of conspiracy theorists, flat-earthers, moon-landing deniers, New Agers, and more.
Liz and her two companions arrive at the South Pole, then ski towards a destination Dawa won’t say much about.
AFTER two days’ wait at the Union Glacier camp — especially relaxing days for Liz — she and her companions were in the air, headed for the South Pole.
Sven had been sweet as they prepared to board the plane. “You’ve got your satellite phone, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you packed those extra batteries?”
“Of course.”
“Good, good. Dawa’s a great guide, he won’t get you into any trouble.”
It was as if he was trying to convince himself. Maybe he was just worried because they were straying from the company’s usual routes. Dawa had spent a couple of hours with him, poring over maps of the pole. Not that there was much to see — just one flat ice sheet at that point. But Dawa expressed a particular interest in a spot about ten miles south of the pole — it was all south, of course, but he meant in the direction of the magnetic pole. Sven hadn’t been able to tell him much, because no expeditions went that way, and neither did the scientists and military personnel at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station.
“We’ll be fine,” she said, giving him a kiss in front of her companions, which no longer embarrassed her. “Here, let me get a pic.” She held up her phone. “Come on, give me a cheerful send-off.” He flashed that smile and she snapped the photo. “Okay, see you in four days.” She turned and boarded the converted DC-3.
They sat toward the rear of the plane, behind the fuel containers and other cargo, on fold-down seats mounted to the wall, which meant they had to turn around to peer out the small windows. Surprisingly, Sarge couldn’t be bothered, only occasionally turning to get a view.
Many hours and one stop later, they were at the South Pole. The change from Union Glacier couldn’t have been greater. The spot was pancake-flat in every direction, with no surrounding mountains to protect it from the constant winds. If she thought she’d been cold on the icebreaker and at the camp, that had been nothing. Her polar suit covered ninety-nine percent of her body, but the small hairs of her nose froze the instant she descended from the plane. The thinner air was already making her feel light-headed.
“Well, Sarge,” she said, gesturing to the white expanse as he stepped down onto the snow behind her, “you were right — the Earth is flat.”
“Ha ha,” he said, and shivered.
“Let’s help unload,” said Dawa, always indefatigable.
She zipped her parka tighter and put on her goggles against the glare, grateful it was only five below. Thanks, global warming.
A group from the station was coming out to greet the plane. Liz looked longingly over at the buildings they’d emerged from, connected modules raised above the level of the snow, no doubt warm and cozy inside. Sven’s tent had been comfortable, with an actual bed, but now they’d be sleeping on pads in a three-person expedition tent. Fantasizing about the station was futile, however, since it was off-limits to visitors not on a guided tour.
Sarge was looking at the station buildings and the rest of the base, but with greater skepticism, as far as Liz could tell with the goggles and parka hood hiding his face. The place was a joint operation of the US military and the National Science Foundation.
“What do you think, Sarge? These look just like regular people, don’t they?”
He looked at the people walking toward them, a sneer quirking his lips. “Shills and actors, or maybe CIA agents.” He pointed at the buildings. “This is it, the belly of the beast, the center of the hoax. It just disgusts me that my tax dollars are being wasted on this charade. And all of it to keep the population under control, to keep whatever’s out there” — he waved vaguely off in the distance — “hidden from us.”
She thought she’d already plumbed the depths of his cynicism, yet he continued to surprise her. Still, it was another good quote for her article, and she wasn’t going to argue with that. “Let’s see if they try and stop us. Come on, let’s help Dawa sort the gear.”
The effort of unloading and stacking supplies kept her warm, and in an hour they had the gear packed on the sleds, even the two extension ladders Dawa had convinced Sven and the pilot to allow on the plane. Liz couldn’t imagine what they were for, since it was so flat here, and Sven said all the crevasse danger was far away, closer to the mountains. But Dawa insisted. “Earth is changing, no?”
Now he seemed ready to click into his skis and head out.
“Wait, aren’t we going to visit the pole?” The markers and signs were only a hundred yards away.
“Sure,” Dawa said.
Sarge shrugged. “Whatever.”
Still, he followed along as Liz led the way. She snapped shots of the candy-striped post with its mirror ball marking the ceremonial pole, the circle of flags representing the signatories to the Antarctic Treaty surrounding it, and, a short distance away, the sign marking the geographic pole, with quotations from Amundsen and Scott. She made Sarge take photos of her and Dawa in front of both, but he was careful never to get between her camera and any of these markers.
Despite his attitude, she tried to focus on the significance of the place, the sacrifices past generations had made to get here, the details they’d added to humanity’s collective knowledge of Earth, and the new data being added in those buildings not far away.
She couldn’t believe Sarge was going to ignore it all now that he was here. “Come on, Sarge, just one picture?”
“No fuckin’ way.”
On that sour note, they stepped into their sled harnesses, clipped into their skis, and began their journey. They only went a mile or two, since they’d already been awake for twelve hours. They set up camp and sorted gear for the days ahead, then dove into the cramped tent, where Dawa proved himself a master of “brewing up” and making dinner in tight quarters, all without spilling.
The next morning, she wasn’t sure she’d slept at all. Her sport watch read four a.m., not that it meant much, but Dawa was already brewing tea. She groaned and sat up, trying to ignore a splitting headache, and accepted a steaming mug.
Everything about getting ready for the day seemed to take longer in the thin, cold air — dressing, cooking, eating, doing her morning business over the plastic-lined cat-hole latrine, strapping on the bulky mountain ski boots. She nearly forgot to brush her teeth, and Dawa had to remind her to put on sunblock.
At last they were underway, each towing a pack sled behind them, Dawa’s considerably heavier. By noon, she was glad they hadn’t joined the ski expedition. Her back ached from the labor, and she couldn’t get into a good striding rhythm with the sled tugging at her every step. They’d come six miles and Dawa hoped to do five more before making their next camp. Tomorrow, they’d ski onward without the sleds, returning to the same camp that night. Good thing — Liz couldn’t imagine pulling that weight the next day, and Dawa had promised it would be shorter.
Still, she couldn’t see the point of what they were doing. The South Pole had been the goal, and she’d already seen Sarge continue in his denial, even confronted with that iconic spot. She’d enjoyed the skiing at Union Glacier, with its dramatic setting, even when practicing with the sleds. Striding out toward the mountains, climbing one of the peaks, even just skiing up and then schussing down a slope, those all made some sort of sense to her, but this — trudging along through an unrelieved sea of white, covered now by an increasing dome of thin, white clouds — where were they going? What was the goal? What would they see here that they couldn’t see back at the station? It was exactly the same as far as she could tell, except that the station itself was long out of sight. The landscape was so featureless that Dawa was setting out orange flags on three-foot wire stakes so they could find their way back if GPS reception turned spotty. She hadn’t questioned Dawa’s goals much, because at least he’d gotten Sarge to continue the journey, and for some reason Sarge trusted him. But now she was beginning to question Dawa’s judgment, not to mention the point of all this labor.
As for Sarge, he seemed to have given up on finding any sort of Ice Wall. He wouldn’t respond when she demanded his explanation for the twenty-four-hour sun if the Earth were flat. So what was he here for?
She trudged onward, her world narrowed down to the bubble of warmth inside her polar suit, the strip of snow between the tips of her skis and Dawa’s sled in front of her, plus a narrow band of cloud-streaked sky. It wasn’t even worth turning her head left or right — it was all the same.
That evening, over a meal of freeze-dried chili and crackers, she couldn’t help expressing her doubts.
“What are we doing here, Dawa? What do you think we’ll find?”
“I see you are still attached to results. Better to just follow the path, and see what we see.”
“But how do you know this is the path?”
“Ah, hard to explain. How do you say, I follow my nose?”
“Intuition?”
“Not here,” he said, pointing to his head. “Here, and here.” He put his hand over his heart and then his solar plexus. “More like subtle energy fields in alignment with the chakras.”
Great. She knew that Dawa’s philosophy must contain a certain amount of mystical woo, but so far he hadn’t mentioned any of that, focusing instead on the benefits of controlling the breath and one-pointed attention, which were well supported by science and which she’d experienced for herself during their meditation sessions.
“And what about you, Sarge?”
“I’m not usually a big fan of mysticism, but Dawa seems convinced there’s something out here. Since you all have kept me away from the Ice Wall, I might as well find something to make the trip worthwhile. Maybe the ufologists are right and it’ll be a spaceship.”
Liz groaned. “Maybe I’ll just stay in camp tomorrow, rest up for the trip back.”
“Then you might miss out,” Dawa said, his eyes twinkling.
“Miss out on what? It doesn’t seem too much to ask.”
“Perhaps you are familiar with this saying from one of your old TV shows: ‘Patience, young grasshopper’?”
Liz shook her head.
“American culture — so ephemeral. In any case, it is good advice, no matter who said it, or how silly the context. I hope you will have patience and walk this path with me a little longer.” He pulled a package out of his pack and unwrapped the chocolate bar within, breaking off a piece and offering it to her. “Energy for tomorrow’s effort?”
She took the chocolate, hoping it would cheer her up, and resigned herself to a long but hopefully easier day.
Liz felt rested the following morning, having slept well despite the altitude and the awkwardly crowded tent, putting it down to the fatigue of the day before. Dawa had let them sleep an extra hour, and her watch reminded her that it was the solstice.
She felt lighter as they set out, the lack of dead weight dragging behind her seeming to energize her. Dawa still pulled his own sled, packed with climbing gear, the ladders, and a stove and pots in case of an emergency.
The feeling of freedom didn’t last long, since Dawa insisted they rope up. “The world is changing, and we never know when we might encounter a crevasse.” It was awkward, trying to ski without getting tangled in the ropes attached to her harness, one leading forward to Dawa, the other behind her to Sarge.
As they neared the turnaround point, she began to enjoy the journey more. The movement felt good, once she became accustomed to managing the ropes. The breeze was only mild, a surprise on the open ice sheet, with the temperature still not far below zero. She felt she could relax and enjoy the trip. And something about the austerity of the landscape began to appeal to her. Now she could notice the subtle gradations in color where the ice sheet met the sky, the bright white of the snow contrasting with the more muted white of the clouds with streaks of blue here and there, and, near the circling sun, peach and lemon.
She no longer cared much about where they were going or what they would find — she doubted they’d find anything in this bleak expanse. All she cared about was that they would soon turn around and head back to camp, tomorrow would be easier with lightened sleds, and then they’d be back at the station. She’d have more time to experience that historic spot while they waited for the plane. Maybe she could get herself added to a station tour at the last minute for some future article. She could even do an impromptu interview with one of the scientists there. She’d used her position at the Times to open doors in the past, though never ones promising such welcome warmth.
Then back to Union Glacier and at least one more night with Sven before heading out on the big Ilyushin bound for Chile. Maybe the weather would be in her favor and they’d be fogged in for a couple of days, allowing them to spend Christmas together.
And finally back home. Her article on Sarge and the whole experience was nearly finished, since she’d kept working on it during off hours at the camp. It would have no great revelations, of course, since Sarge had experienced none, just a long meditation on obstinacy, cognitive dissonance, and confirmation bias. She’d file it from the plane back to New York.
It would be good to get back to regular science reporting. Sven’s Antarctic season would be over in February, and he’d talked about visiting her in New York during his gap before heading to Nepal in March. A sporadic, long-distance relationship with a climbing guide might suit her just fine.
Her reverie was interrupted when Dawa stopped, looking left and right. The clouds and fog had moved in while she hadn’t been paying much attention, and he was just a dim figure until she got closer.
“We should be getting close. We only have half an hour before turnaround time. I want to make sure we go the right way, especially in this fog.” He stepped out of his skis, sat down on the sled, and closed his eyes. Liz recognized the signs of deep meditation.
“I have to pee,” she told Sarge, who had caught up now. She unclipped from the rope leading to Sarge and skied as far away as the rope to Dawa would allow, over a hundred feet. For privacy, she’d just have to trust the fog and Sarge keeping his back turned. Now for the hard part. She’d have to get out of her harness so she could drop her down pants, but first she needed to step out of her skis. She unclipped from one ski, stepped onto the snow and shifted her weight to undo the other, and then she was plunging through snow and ice.
But I’m roped, she couldn’t help thinking as she kept falling.
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What does Dawa have up his sleeve? And does it have anything to do with Liz’s plunge into the abyss at the end?
Next up: Chapter 36, “Pseudo-Literary Bullshit,” in which Lonnie Ester ponders the anti-space exploration forces arrayed against him. If only they understood that only he can save humanity!