Cooper put her hand on his shoulder. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“All I have to say is ‘five-sigma at point two.’ He’ll understand.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “I hope he will.” Sal looked over at Cooper. She saw fear in his eyes. She leaned over the shift and ran her hand over his now-lush auburn beard.
Sal tapped the steering wheel. “Sokoloff says it might be dust or synchrotron radiation from electrons in the galactic magnetic fields. He thinks Kavli shouldn’t announce until they can rule that out.” Cooper chose not to remind Sal that he’d mentioned this to her several times on each leg of the flight from New Zealand. She knew he wasn’t really talking to her anyway. He chewed on his lip for a moment. “But I won’t say that to him. No, not now. I’ll just tell him.” He looked over at Cooper again. “He was right, you know.”
“Your father?”
“Pavano.”
“Right about what?”
“That I believed. I knew it was wrong to believe, but I did anyway. From the first moment I heard Sokoloff speak, I wanted to believe this was true—I wanted what was beautiful to be true, rather than the other way around. That’s why this hurts so much.”
Sal looked over her shoulder, through the passenger-side window, and up at the house. Cooper turned and saw a figure looking out at the car, moving between panes, made faceless by the reflection of the sun on the front windows of the house. As they watched, the figure disappeared momentarily, and the front door opened. Backlit by the setting sun, the door looked like a portal, the figure like a ghost.
“Let’s go,” Sal said.
Cooper shook her head. “No, you go. I’ll wait here.”
She watched as Sal ascended the steps. When he reached the top, the figure in the doorway held out his arms. Sal fell into them like a little boy.
Yes, Cooper thought, of course. This was what Cherry had strained to see for six months, waiting for the Scott party to return. You waited at One Ton Depot, just you and the dogs, certain the men were just over the rise. You overcame your myopia and you navigated using the faint gleam of the sun. You blamed yourself, wondering if you had only laid better depots, if they would have made it.
And then someone appeared, pulling a sledge.
Acknowledgments
This book is set at the “old” South Pole Station, which was officially decommissioned in 2008. Although set at what once was a real place, this novel takes liberties with the station’s layout. I also switched up the timeline of when certain telescopes in the Dark Sector were installed. There’s probably other stuff here that will drive veteran Polies crazy. Sorry about that.
The late Nicholas Johnson wrote the first funny book about Antarctica, the brilliant Big Dead Place. Set largely at McMurdo, it captures the absurdity of life on the seventh continent, and will never be equaled. Dr. Jerri Nielsen’s memoir, Ice Bound, gave me a peek into the world of polar medicine. My copy of The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard spontaneously combusted the day I finished my last draft of this novel. The canon of Antarctic literature is immense. If you’re interested in learning more, I suggest you contact my father.
Stories derived from this novel appeared in Third Coast, Southeast Review, 32 Magazine, Lascaux Review, and the Los Angeles Review.
I owe thanks to many people for their support and encouragement. I’m deeply grateful to Tony and Caroline Grant of the Sustainable Arts Foundation. Thank you, too, to these talented Minnesota writers: Maggie Ryan Sanford, Sara Aase, Frank Bures, Douglas Mack, Dennis Cass, John Jodizo, Lars Ostrom, and Jason Albert, who introduced me to Breakout: Normandy. I’ll also never forget the incredible generosity shown to me by Yona Zeldis McDonough, Elizabeth McKenzie, Julie Schumacher, and Robin Sloan.
I’m immensely grateful to the formidable and funny (or formidably funny) Lisa Bankoff, who immediately loved my hygiene-challenged Polies, believed in the story, and who makes me laugh every time I talk to her. She’s the best in the business. My editor, the preternaturally gifted Elizabeth Bruce, is Maxwell Perkins with a penchant for temporary tattoos, an encyclopedic knowledge of college basketball, and a brain the size of Antarctica. I could not be more grateful for all she did to make this book better. The crew at Picador/Macmillan have been a joy to work with. Thanks to Declan Taintor, Kolt Beringer, Darin Keesler, Henry Sene Yee, Karen Richardson, Emily Walters, and, of course, Stephen Morrison, without whom this book would be in a drawer somewhere.
Per usual when it comes to all things explorer, it was my dad who introduced me to Cherry-Garrard. Mom wanted to know why there wasn’t more sex in the book. I’m so grateful for their love and support. Delta Larkey read a draft of this book when she had much more important things to do, and her support means so much. Lacy Shelby is one of only a handful of women in history who have winter-overed at South Pole Station. She shared just enough of her own experience there to inspire this book while staying true to the Pole axiom that “what happens on the ice stays on the ice.” This book would not have been written without her. Jeff and Scott Meredith gifted me with two great lines and would both be royalty at South Pole. I will always be grateful to my best friend, Starr Sage. Vaya con CL.
Finally, this whole thing is for my patient and understanding husband, Emmanuel Benites, and my funny, loving, straight-up amazing children, Hudson and Josephine. They sledged right along with me, and, when I faltered, they never considered leaving me behind. Guys—we’re done. Let’s get a pizza.