people whose professors did not get arrested. She stood for a while with her hands in the warming pockets of her big red, trying to decide what to do next.
Back to the galley
, she decided.
It’s almost dinnertime now, and maybe I can find Major Bentley there. Everybody has to eat. But first, I’ll stop through Crary and see if there are replies to my e-mails.
At Crary, she found only junk mail. Ten losses at computer solitaire followed, further depressing her mood. Finally, she went online and noodled around on the
New York Financial News
Web site, discovering what she could about Morris Sweeny. Little of significance appeared from her search. He hadn’t been at the paper long before he came to Antarctica and died. But then she noticed something odd: none of his articles were about science. He appeared to report primarily on politics.
So why jump onto this story?
she wondered.
Because it’s political?
H ALF AN HOUR LATER , V ALENA ONCE AGAIN BEHELD THE dining room of the galley, this time holding a tray laden with pork chops, canned vegetables, and two desserts. She staredacross the room, trying to figure out which of the uniformed personnel present flew the LC-130s. She felt an urge to march back over to Cupcake’s room and demand that Ted point out Major Bentley, but she imagined that Cupcake and Ted were by now either pretty well gassed up and taking the kind of flight that doesn’t leave the room or sleeping the good sleep that should follow it.
At last she sorted out the insignia on the fatigues worn by several of the people who were sitting at the table nearest the coffee urns and soft-serve ice cream dispenser. There were no empty chairs at the table, but Valena sucked up her courage and said, “Hi, I’m looking for Major Bentley.”
A man with a graying buzz-cut and military-short mustache leaned back and gave her a friendly smile. He swatted one of his mates on the elbow and said, “Hey, you were just leaving, give the lady your seat.”
The man jumped up, nodded courteously, and disappeared with his empty tray.
Valena sat down. “Are you Major Bentley?”
“Nope. He’s not here. Anything I can help you with?”
“Know where I can find him?”
A slender woman dressed in olive drab fatigues said, “He’s in New Zealand. He’ll be back tomorrow, weather permitting, though the weather does not look like it’s going to permit tomorrow.”
“Anything
I
can help you with?” repeated Buzz-Cut, leaning toward her with growing interest.
Valena looked at his rank insignia. A seven-pointed leaf. Did that indicate that he was a major? “Ah … well, I’m with … I understand that he—”
A woman with sleepy green eyes who was wearing a dark blue uniform appeared at the table. “Hey, is Waylon coming back tomorrow?” she inquired. “I’m just dying for a vegetable that didn’t come out of a can.”
“Oh, hi there, Tractor Betty! Arr!” Buzz-Cut made a wild pirate’s face and bent his right index finger at the first knuckle, as if it had been cut off.
“Arr!” answered Betty, making the same gesture withoutchanging her almost comatose expression. “I forgot. Is
Tractor
Waylon coming back tomorrow?”
Buzz-Cut said, “You bet. But as for being a vegetable that didn’t come out of a can … well, maybe Waylon ain’t your man.”
Raucous laughter broke out all around the table. Tractor Betty grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat down on it backward, leaning her chin on its back. In response to the frivolity, she lifted one corner of her mouth.
Buzz-Cut turned to Valena. “Betty here is a firefighter, and a darned good one. You can measure that by the fact that there are currently no fires.” He put a hand to his chest in mock grandeur. “
I
am a pilot. The name is Hugh. Marilyn here is a navigator. Larry is a loadmaster, and these other guys are sorry reprobates. And you are?”
“Valena.”
Hugh drew his brows together to indicate great seriousness and said, “Hey,
Back to the galley
, she decided.
It’s almost dinnertime now, and maybe I can find Major Bentley there. Everybody has to eat. But first, I’ll stop through Crary and see if there are replies to my e-mails.
At Crary, she found only junk mail. Ten losses at computer solitaire followed, further depressing her mood. Finally, she went online and noodled around on the
New York Financial News
Web site, discovering what she could about Morris Sweeny. Little of significance appeared from her search. He hadn’t been at the paper long before he came to Antarctica and died. But then she noticed something odd: none of his articles were about science. He appeared to report primarily on politics.
So why jump onto this story?
she wondered.
Because it’s political?
H ALF AN HOUR LATER , V ALENA ONCE AGAIN BEHELD THE dining room of the galley, this time holding a tray laden with pork chops, canned vegetables, and two desserts. She staredacross the room, trying to figure out which of the uniformed personnel present flew the LC-130s. She felt an urge to march back over to Cupcake’s room and demand that Ted point out Major Bentley, but she imagined that Cupcake and Ted were by now either pretty well gassed up and taking the kind of flight that doesn’t leave the room or sleeping the good sleep that should follow it.
At last she sorted out the insignia on the fatigues worn by several of the people who were sitting at the table nearest the coffee urns and soft-serve ice cream dispenser. There were no empty chairs at the table, but Valena sucked up her courage and said, “Hi, I’m looking for Major Bentley.”
A man with a graying buzz-cut and military-short mustache leaned back and gave her a friendly smile. He swatted one of his mates on the elbow and said, “Hey, you were just leaving, give the lady your seat.”
The man jumped up, nodded courteously, and disappeared with his empty tray.
Valena sat down. “Are you Major Bentley?”
“Nope. He’s not here. Anything I can help you with?”
“Know where I can find him?”
A slender woman dressed in olive drab fatigues said, “He’s in New Zealand. He’ll be back tomorrow, weather permitting, though the weather does not look like it’s going to permit tomorrow.”
“Anything
I
can help you with?” repeated Buzz-Cut, leaning toward her with growing interest.
Valena looked at his rank insignia. A seven-pointed leaf. Did that indicate that he was a major? “Ah … well, I’m with … I understand that he—”
A woman with sleepy green eyes who was wearing a dark blue uniform appeared at the table. “Hey, is Waylon coming back tomorrow?” she inquired. “I’m just dying for a vegetable that didn’t come out of a can.”
“Oh, hi there, Tractor Betty! Arr!” Buzz-Cut made a wild pirate’s face and bent his right index finger at the first knuckle, as if it had been cut off.
“Arr!” answered Betty, making the same gesture withoutchanging her almost comatose expression. “I forgot. Is
Tractor
Waylon coming back tomorrow?”
Buzz-Cut said, “You bet. But as for being a vegetable that didn’t come out of a can … well, maybe Waylon ain’t your man.”
Raucous laughter broke out all around the table. Tractor Betty grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat down on it backward, leaning her chin on its back. In response to the frivolity, she lifted one corner of her mouth.
Buzz-Cut turned to Valena. “Betty here is a firefighter, and a darned good one. You can measure that by the fact that there are currently no fires.” He put a hand to his chest in mock grandeur. “
I
am a pilot. The name is Hugh. Marilyn here is a navigator. Larry is a loadmaster, and these other guys are sorry reprobates. And you are?”
“Valena.”
Hugh drew his brows together to indicate great seriousness and said, “Hey,
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