Welcome to the Greenhouse by Gordon Van Gelder

six-pack plastic cradle, and she realized he was drunk.
    The smile fell from her face like a picture off a wall.
    She had to get along with these two but this was too much. She stepped forward, snatched the beer bottles and tossed them onto the Victorian love seat. “No more.”
    Bruckner tensed and Gene sucked in a breath. Bruckner made a move to grab the beers and Elinor snatched his hand, twisted the thumb back, turned hard to ward off a blow from his other hand—and they froze, looking into each other’s eyes from a few centimeters away.
    Silence.
    Gene said, “She’s right, y’know.” More silence.
    Bruckner sniffed, backed away. “You don’t have to be rough.” “I wasn’t.”
    They looked at each other, let it go.
    She figured each of them harbored a dim fantasy of coming to her in the brief hours of darkness. She slept in the lumpy bed and they made do with the furniture. Bruckner got the love seat—ironic victory—and Gene sprawled on a threadbare comforter.
    Bruckner talked some but dozed off fast under booze, so she didn’t have to endure his testosterone-fueled eine kleine crocked-musik. But he snored, which was worse.
    The men napped and tossed and worried. No one came to her, just as she wanted it. She kept a small knife in her hand, in case. For her, though, sleep came easily.
    After eating a cold breakfast, they set out before dawn, 2:30 AM, Elinor driving. She had decided to wait till then because they could mingle with early morning Air Force workers driving toward the base. This far north, it started brightening by 3:30, and they’d be in full light before 5:00. Best not to stand out as they did their last reconnaissance. It was so cold she had to run the heater for five minutes to clear the windshield of ice. Scraping with her gloved hands did nothing.
    The men had grumbled about leaving absolutely nothing behind. “No traces,” she said. She wiped down every surface, even though they’d worn medical gloves the whole time in the bus.
    Gene didn’t ask why she stopped and got a gas can filled with gasoline, and she didn’t say. Tech guys loved their gadgets as mothers did their children.
    She noticed the wind was fairly strong and from the north, and smiled. “Good weather. Prediction’s holding up.”
    Bruckner said sullenly, “Goddamn
cold.”
    “The KC Extenders will take off into the wind, head north.” Elinor judged the nearly cloud-free sky. “Just where we want them to be.”
    They drove up a side street in Mountain View, and parked overlooking the fish hatchery and golf course, so she could observe the big tank refuelers lined up at the loading site. She counted five KC-10 Extenders, freshly surplussed by the Air Force. Their big bellies reminded her of pregnant whales.
    From their vantage point, they could see down to the temporarily expanded checkpoint, set up just outside the base. As foreseen, security was stringently tight this near the airfield—all drivers and passengers had to get out, be scanned, IDs checked by portable comp against global records, briefcases and purses searched. K-9 units inspected car interiors and trunks. Explosives-detecting robots rolled under the vehicles.
    She fished out binoculars and focused on the people waiting to be cleared. Some carried laptops and backpacks and she guessed they were the scientists flying with the dispersal teams. Their body language was clear. Even this early, they were jazzed, eager to go, excited as kids on a field trip. One of the pilots had mentioned there would be some sort of pre-flight ceremony, honoring the teams that had put all this together. The flight crews were studiedly nonchalant—this was an important, high-profile job, sure, but they couldn’t let their cool down in front of so many science nerds. She couldn’t see well enough to pick out Ted, or the friendly woman from the bar.
    In a special treaty deal with the Arctic Council, they would fly from Elmendorf and arc over the North Pole, spreading