_Astronomer Bova draws upon the facts of his field to
weave a story that will grip your emotions and tantalize
your mind--long after you have finished reading it._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories October 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We had been at the South Pole a week. The outside thermometer read
fifty degrees below zero, Fahrenheit. The winter was just beginning.
"What do you think we should transmit to McMurdo?" I asked Rizzo.
He put down his magazine and half-sat up in his bunk. For a moment
there was silence, except for the nearly inaudible hum of the
machinery that jammed our tiny dome, and the muffled shrieking of the
ever-present wind, above us.
Rizzo looked at the semi-circle of control consoles, computers, and
meteorological sensors with an expression of disgust that could be
produced only by a drafted soldier.
"Tell 'em it's cold, it's gonna get colder, and we've both got
appendicitis and need replacements immediately."
"Very clever," I said, and started touching the buttons that would
automatically transmit the sensors' memory tapes.
Rizzo sagged back into his bunk. "Why?" He asked the curved ceiling of
our cramped quarters. "Why me? Why here? What did I ever do to deserve
spending the whole goddammed winter at the goddammed South Pole?"
"It's strictly impersonal," I assured him. "Some bright young
meteorologist back in Washington has convinced the Pentagon that the
South Pole is the key to the world's weather patterns. So here we are."
"It doesn't make sense," Rizzo continued, unhearing. His dark,
broad-boned face was a picture of wronged humanity. "Everybody knows
that when the missiles start flying, they'll be coming over the North
Pole.... The goddammed Army is a hundred and eighty degrees off base."
"That's about normal for the Army, isn't it?" I was a drafted soldier,
too.
Rizzo swung out of the bunk and paced across the dimly-lit room. It
only took a half-dozen paces; the dome was small and most of it was
devoted to machinery.
"Don't start acting like a caged lion," I warned. "It's going to be a
long winter."
"Yeah, guess so." He sat down next to me at the radio console and
pulled a pack of cigarets from his shirt pocket. He offered one to me,
and we both smoked in silence for a minute or two.
"Got anything to read?"