Gradually his shivering diminished to the point where he could talk. ‘Thanks.’
‘Can you walk now? We must get you back to camp.’
Simon nodded wearily. ‘I know. How much farther?’
‘Not far. Come on.’
‘Had a good close look at the water, did you?’ Eric asked when Simon appeared at supper that night.
‘Too close.’
‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ Eric’s goatee bristled righteously. ‘We don’t need any accidents this year.’
‘Serves him right,’ Joan remarked. ‘He’s supposed to be working.’
‘You should be thanking me, not criticizing,’ Simon retorted. ‘If I hadn’t taken that raft you might’ve been the one to sink.’
‘I only go out on ponds and most of those aren’t more than waist deep. And I wouldn’t have lost the raft.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone out alone,’ Jeff chided. ‘One of us should’ve gone with you. We know the dangers.’
‘The rest of us have work to do. I know I have no time to spare for sight-seeing.’ Tony sneered at Simon.
‘Let’s just be grateful he’s still alive,’ Viola exclaimed as she executed a final flourish to the vigorous back rub she was giving the victim. Simon drew his blankets tighter and cradled his hot chocolate. Would he ever get warm?
‘It was thoughtful of Anne to go looking for you.’ Eric directed his words at Simon but it was Tony he watched.
‘Especially since Simon wasn’t even missing,’ Tony hissed, glaring at his wife.
‘I wasn’t looking for him,’ Anne retorted, ‘but it was lucky I was out that way.’ She stood up, her hands on her hips. ‘What’s wrong with you people anyway? You’re acting like you wanted Simon to have an accident …’
Tony had the grace to blush but neither Joan nor Eric turned a hair. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, my dear,’ Eric said in his most irritating manner. ‘Sit down and finish your dinner like a good girl.’
Anne gritted her teeth and stomped off.
Viola clucked her tongue. ‘Don’t bait her, Eric.’ She turned to Simon. ‘I’ve made you some more hot chocolate.’ Viola thrust yet another scalding mug into Simon’s hands. ‘We’ll get you warm, don’t worry.’
As Simon drank his chocolate he glanced again at Wally. Wally hadn’t contributed to the conversation but his yellowed eyes darted among his companions as if seeking hidden meanings in their words.
When Simon woke the next morning, even his feet were warm. For a few minutes he lay in his bag, savouring the comfortable glow in his fingers and toes. He squinted at his watch and groaned. Seven-thirty. He heard muffled clatter. The others were already up.
After a static-filled radio check, Simon grabbed a couple of chocolate bars and headed out in the direction of the IBP station where Wally and Jeff had waited out the storm which killed Phillip. This station lay in a north-easterly direction from their base camp, and its two small quonset huts huddled in the middle distance. Like all things on Bathurst Island, however, it was farther away than it looked and it took Simon an hour and a half of brisk hiking up and down the long low hills to get there.
Until now he had avoided visiting this vestige of the International Biological Program because he instinctively resented its human blight on an otherwise barren and wild landscape. It comforted Simon to know that when his expedition departed they’d leave no sign of their intrusion; no building, no hearth, no garbage. It would be as if they’d never come, except for a few less insects, bacteria and plankton, and a few minor scars on the unyielding rocks. They were even careful not to thaw the permafrost under their tents, keeping the atmosphere indoors only marginally warmer than outside. He smiled as he remembered Viola telling him about the radio operator on a previous expedition.
‘That private was so lazy,’ she railed, ‘he just stayed in his tent all day. Stove going full blast. Can you believe it? All the way up here at government expense and all he does is sit in his goddamn tent? Two radio contacts a day—that’s all he did. Wouldn’t even help carry gear.’ She brushed a hand through her grey hair. ‘Anyway, he got his comeuppance. His stove melted the permafrost under his tent and he woke up one morning in a swamp. I laughed so hard … Problem was, the darn swamp kept spreading like mould on bread till we all had to move our tents.’
By the time Simon jogged up to the IBP site, he’d unzipped his parka and shed his heavy mitts, retaining only the thin gloves he usually wore inside them. His scarlet toque was riding high over his ears like a rooster’s comb, so he swept it off and crammed it into his pocket.
According to Jeff, Polar Bear Pass had been intensively studied during the United Nations organized year of exploration and research. Scientists posted on Bathurst Island had semi-permanent quarters and a rough runway had been scraped into the terrain. A squat, ladder-like aerial, minus its windsock, was all that remained of the airstrip and the two low grey huts were the remnants of the camp itself.
These huts, side by side, were each about five metres long and two high at the vault of their curved roofs. The door on one gaped open on a lone hinge and Simon peered into the gloomy, empty interior. There were no windows, and the dark, cold tunnel enveloped him in its sense of desolation. Simon slammed the door shut but as soon as he let go it clanged open again, echoing hollowly across the barrens. He approached the second hut almost reluctantly and gave its door a tentative shove. Nothing. He fumbled at the frozen latch and with difficulty swung the hasp free. A good shove from his shoulder made the stiff hinges screech in protest but the door opened. He stooped and entered.
Boxes, maybe thirty or forty, were piled along the walls and the majority were still sealed. They’d been there twelve years, left as emergency rations for anyone marooned in this wasteland. Staying low to avoid banging his head, Simon hauled one crate to the shaft of light coming from the doorway. The rest of the interior remained in deep shadow and even the air had the closed, lifeless feel common to all long-deserted buildings. Breathing it, Simon’s lungs still hungered for more oxygen, as if this dead air could no longer support life.
He tried to shake off his gloom by opening the carton. Sixteen large jars of instant coffee confronted him. One was only half full. Wally and Jeff? Or the IBP scientists? He kicked the box back to its former position and, with his eyes now adjusting to the gloom, read the labels on the others. Beside the coffee was a case of instant hot chocolate and under that a box labelled potatoes. Jeff and Wally could have managed for quite a while provided they could keep themselves warm. The next rifled crate Simon examined contained fuel canisters and a tiny stove. Not the Hilton, Simon decided, but the hut would have seemed very welcoming indeed to men trapped in a blizzard.
Curious to see how twelve-year-old potatoes looked, he bent over their box and ran his finger under the flap. The top of the carton gave way easily. Glue must be rotten, Simon thought … potatoes likely are too. But inside, instead of vegetables, he found a lump of dirty green canvas. He began to re-close the carton but curiosity stopped him. He grabbed an edge of the cloth and pulled, but it was jammed in tightly and wouldn’t yield. Simon wedged the carton between his feet and yanked, almost toppling backward as the canvas came free. He turned the bundle over in his hands and saw the pockets and leather straps of a backpack—a well-used one from the look of it. It felt heavy. He untangled the straps and set the pack upright on top of the coffee carton. When he smoothed out the creases Simon noticed the initials P.L. written in faded magic marker on the flap.
‘P.L.,’ Simon murmured. ‘Phillip Loew?’ He worked open the cord knotted around the mouth of the bag and peered in. He recognized the outline of a small soil corer and a rock chisel. He lifted the tools out and dug deeper to find a field notebook, plastic sample bags, blank tags and a crushed chocolate bar. Even before he found Phillip’s name scribbled on the flyleaf of the notebook he felt sure he’d found the pack of