sometimes with a cup of coffee and listen to them talk about what they are doing. When Janna needs someone to label bottles I’m happy to oblige. When Jim’s atmosphere suit—excuse me, his ARC—seems to have mike problems, I find the fault in the receiver and use one of the lab’s microtools to repair it. Eric can never keep all of the tools he needs at hand, so I hang a toolholder over his lab table, like chefs use to hang pots and pans in a kitchen where they’ll always be in reach. I hang a rack over Karin’s and rig it so she can raise and lower it so her samples will be out of her way when she needs the workspace. Soon they’re asking me to do little things for them and I’m busy all the time.
Then we go back to the base in the dark, and the evening is dark, and we wake up in the morning and it’s dark, and since we spend most days under the ice at Halsey the only sunlight I see is the blue glow filtered through a meter of ice. Every couple of weeks I have to hammer the ice free of the tower and usually replace ladder rungs where it’s torn them away—I never do get my mountain boots—and although I can’t get used to the groan of the ice I look forward to it because I do it at noon, when the sun is above the horizon and the ice is blinding white and I feel surrounded by light. If it’s after ten and someone mentions they left something on the floater I’m the first to volunteer to get it.
“Do you miss the sun?” I ask Maggie Smallwood. Maggie looks Chinese to me, but she doesn’t act Chinese. She acts Canadian.
She thinks a moment, looking at the black windows. “Yeah, some. But after summer it’s nice to have some darkness.”
Summer. In July the sun never sets. “Is it warm in the summer?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “There’s grass and flowers and baby caribou. You’ll see it. Wait, you won’t, will you, you’ll be gone in April.”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I have to find out about this school thing in China.”
“Great,” she says abstractedly, then, “look at that seal!”
Outside the window a seal is coasting past, gray and sleek with a neat head like a cat’s, looking in at the lights with its great almond eyes. Maggie turns to me, beaming from her round Eskimo face. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
I’ve never seen a live seal before. “Yeah,” I say, and then without thinking, “do they all look so sad?”
She looks at me oddly but doesn’t answer.
Early in November we stand on the ice at 11:54 and watch the sunrise with the rest of Borden Station. The edge of the sun’s disk flashes above the horizon for less than a minute and then sets. I watch the red sky darken. Tomorrow the sky will redden as if the sun will rise but then darken. This is the evening of a long night. Dawn is in February. The Arctic landscape is beautiful at night.
It just isn’t meant for human beings.
Maggie’s people have lived here for generations. She says I shouldn’t worry about the darkness, but suggests full spectrum light therapy, so once a week I go to the clinic and get thirty minutes of full spectrum light. I feel foolish lying underneath the lights like a sunbather but the doctor explains to me how some people are more sensitive to light changes than others. “Do you experience bouts of depression in January?” she asks.
According to Peter I experience bouts of depression if I miss a subway connection. “Not that I noticed,” I say, “but my friends say I’m moody.” I smile apologetically.
She smiles back and says, “Why did you come here?” It occurs
to me that in less than two months a lot of people have asked me that question.
I study engineering texts under full spectrum lights wearing only my underwear.
I work on construction on the first level and they work in the labs on the third.
So I cope, and people are nice to me, if distant, and it’s only a year. It’s a great experience, back in New York I’ll be able to say, “When I was in the
Then we go back to the base in the dark, and the evening is dark, and we wake up in the morning and it’s dark, and since we spend most days under the ice at Halsey the only sunlight I see is the blue glow filtered through a meter of ice. Every couple of weeks I have to hammer the ice free of the tower and usually replace ladder rungs where it’s torn them away—I never do get my mountain boots—and although I can’t get used to the groan of the ice I look forward to it because I do it at noon, when the sun is above the horizon and the ice is blinding white and I feel surrounded by light. If it’s after ten and someone mentions they left something on the floater I’m the first to volunteer to get it.
“Do you miss the sun?” I ask Maggie Smallwood. Maggie looks Chinese to me, but she doesn’t act Chinese. She acts Canadian.
She thinks a moment, looking at the black windows. “Yeah, some. But after summer it’s nice to have some darkness.”
Summer. In July the sun never sets. “Is it warm in the summer?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “There’s grass and flowers and baby caribou. You’ll see it. Wait, you won’t, will you, you’ll be gone in April.”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I have to find out about this school thing in China.”
“Great,” she says abstractedly, then, “look at that seal!”
Outside the window a seal is coasting past, gray and sleek with a neat head like a cat’s, looking in at the lights with its great almond eyes. Maggie turns to me, beaming from her round Eskimo face. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
I’ve never seen a live seal before. “Yeah,” I say, and then without thinking, “do they all look so sad?”
She looks at me oddly but doesn’t answer.
Early in November we stand on the ice at 11:54 and watch the sunrise with the rest of Borden Station. The edge of the sun’s disk flashes above the horizon for less than a minute and then sets. I watch the red sky darken. Tomorrow the sky will redden as if the sun will rise but then darken. This is the evening of a long night. Dawn is in February. The Arctic landscape is beautiful at night.
It just isn’t meant for human beings.
Maggie’s people have lived here for generations. She says I shouldn’t worry about the darkness, but suggests full spectrum light therapy, so once a week I go to the clinic and get thirty minutes of full spectrum light. I feel foolish lying underneath the lights like a sunbather but the doctor explains to me how some people are more sensitive to light changes than others. “Do you experience bouts of depression in January?” she asks.
According to Peter I experience bouts of depression if I miss a subway connection. “Not that I noticed,” I say, “but my friends say I’m moody.” I smile apologetically.
She smiles back and says, “Why did you come here?” It occurs
to me that in less than two months a lot of people have asked me that question.
I study engineering texts under full spectrum lights wearing only my underwear.
I work on construction on the first level and they work in the labs on the third.
So I cope, and people are nice to me, if distant, and it’s only a year. It’s a great experience, back in New York I’ll be able to say, “When I was in the
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