the ozone hole had. If their ice plateau melted, it would drown the world's ports. Antarctica was a global trip wire, warning humans if industrialization had gone too far. Jed Lewis was this winter's Paul Revere.
"Kind of cozy," he commented. Indeed, the elevated building felt like a tree house. A boy's fort.
"You've got good duty," Cameron said. "Your job forces you to get outside each day so you don't become a dome slug, and you get some privacy and independence out here. It's the closest thing to a vacation condo this side of the KitKat Club."
"The what?"
"An old balloon-launching shack. We don't need it anymore because the balloons have gotten smaller and lighter. A carpenter turned it into a getaway pad with carpeting, heat, stereo, and VCR TV. Since then it's seen more consummations than Niagara Falls. Not that we station managers approve, of course."
"There's a lot of nooks and crannies to this place, aren't there?"
"Oh yes indeedy."
"And this building is a rendezvous as well?"
"People come out to Clean Air sometimes to break the monotony and party. Carl Mendoza is promising to cook up some dome-brew."
"He'd better not spill beer on my instruments."
"Nah, they spill it over here." The station manager walked out on the platform ringing the building and pointed downward to a yellow-stained cleft in the snow. "Our Grand Canyon is the pee crevasse. It's a long run to the john in the dome so guys just piss over the rail here. It's quite a sensation when the wind's blowing."
"Clean air, dirty snow?"
"We don't take our drinking water from here, needless to say. Storms cover up the evidence each winter."
"What do women do?"
Cameron laughed. "Who knows what women do?"
"You certainly don't," a female voice said.
They turned. A young woman about Lewis's age was standing in the doorway, nylon windpants over her legs but her feet in wool socks and her upper half clad only in long underwear, which showed some nice shape to her. She was holding a screwdriver and seemed oblivious to the cold.
"We look for a leafy bush," she confided to Lewis. The closest one was two thousand miles away.
"Hello, Abby," Cameron said.
"Hello, pig," she replied pleasantly.
"You were hiding under one of your computers."
"I was getting our planned obsolescence ready for our newcomer." She looked at Lewis. "Please pay no attention to Ice Pick. He's flunked every chance at being a New Age sensitive type of guy since assuming his exalted post and all the women on station are preparing a lawsuit against him. Or maybe just ritual castration."
"Hey, I'm sensitive. And I like women."
"Exactly the problem."
Cameron made the introduction. "This is Abby Dixon, our resident computer nerd. Abby, Jed Lewis, our new weatherman."
They stepped inside and Lewis shed his mittens to shake. She had long, slim fingers and a firm grip. Her hair was short and dark, her features tomboy pretty, her smile wide and welcoming. Not bad.
"I didn't see you at dinner," he said.
"Sometimes I eat on the job. Especially when we have fruit. An apple, a PC, and me. Heaven."
"You don't miss our companionship?"
"Machines are good company. Especially compared to some of the alternatives." She cast a mischievous glance at Cameron.
"Abby's an elusive one," the station manager said. "Pretends to have some geek boyfriend stashed elsewhere in Antarctica. Our isolation and my charm, however, are breaking down her reserve."
"I'm positively gregarious compared to Jerry," she told Lewis. "Jerry Follett. You'll work with him, too. His idea of small talk is atmospheric dynamics. He'll want some help launching his balloons but he's loud as a mollusk. Don't be put off by it."
"So you work out here, too?"
"Just when you need me. I heard you'd arrived and thought I'd better get the busted one up and running. It's been on my list after your predecessor broke it."
"I hope he didn't spill beer," Lewis said.
"Probably threw up on it. Had a tough time with the altitude." She turned
"Kind of cozy," he commented. Indeed, the elevated building felt like a tree house. A boy's fort.
"You've got good duty," Cameron said. "Your job forces you to get outside each day so you don't become a dome slug, and you get some privacy and independence out here. It's the closest thing to a vacation condo this side of the KitKat Club."
"The what?"
"An old balloon-launching shack. We don't need it anymore because the balloons have gotten smaller and lighter. A carpenter turned it into a getaway pad with carpeting, heat, stereo, and VCR TV. Since then it's seen more consummations than Niagara Falls. Not that we station managers approve, of course."
"There's a lot of nooks and crannies to this place, aren't there?"
"Oh yes indeedy."
"And this building is a rendezvous as well?"
"People come out to Clean Air sometimes to break the monotony and party. Carl Mendoza is promising to cook up some dome-brew."
"He'd better not spill beer on my instruments."
"Nah, they spill it over here." The station manager walked out on the platform ringing the building and pointed downward to a yellow-stained cleft in the snow. "Our Grand Canyon is the pee crevasse. It's a long run to the john in the dome so guys just piss over the rail here. It's quite a sensation when the wind's blowing."
"Clean air, dirty snow?"
"We don't take our drinking water from here, needless to say. Storms cover up the evidence each winter."
"What do women do?"
Cameron laughed. "Who knows what women do?"
"You certainly don't," a female voice said.
They turned. A young woman about Lewis's age was standing in the doorway, nylon windpants over her legs but her feet in wool socks and her upper half clad only in long underwear, which showed some nice shape to her. She was holding a screwdriver and seemed oblivious to the cold.
"We look for a leafy bush," she confided to Lewis. The closest one was two thousand miles away.
"Hello, Abby," Cameron said.
"Hello, pig," she replied pleasantly.
"You were hiding under one of your computers."
"I was getting our planned obsolescence ready for our newcomer." She looked at Lewis. "Please pay no attention to Ice Pick. He's flunked every chance at being a New Age sensitive type of guy since assuming his exalted post and all the women on station are preparing a lawsuit against him. Or maybe just ritual castration."
"Hey, I'm sensitive. And I like women."
"Exactly the problem."
Cameron made the introduction. "This is Abby Dixon, our resident computer nerd. Abby, Jed Lewis, our new weatherman."
They stepped inside and Lewis shed his mittens to shake. She had long, slim fingers and a firm grip. Her hair was short and dark, her features tomboy pretty, her smile wide and welcoming. Not bad.
"I didn't see you at dinner," he said.
"Sometimes I eat on the job. Especially when we have fruit. An apple, a PC, and me. Heaven."
"You don't miss our companionship?"
"Machines are good company. Especially compared to some of the alternatives." She cast a mischievous glance at Cameron.
"Abby's an elusive one," the station manager said. "Pretends to have some geek boyfriend stashed elsewhere in Antarctica. Our isolation and my charm, however, are breaking down her reserve."
"I'm positively gregarious compared to Jerry," she told Lewis. "Jerry Follett. You'll work with him, too. His idea of small talk is atmospheric dynamics. He'll want some help launching his balloons but he's loud as a mollusk. Don't be put off by it."
"So you work out here, too?"
"Just when you need me. I heard you'd arrived and thought I'd better get the busted one up and running. It's been on my list after your predecessor broke it."
"I hope he didn't spill beer," Lewis said.
"Probably threw up on it. Had a tough time with the altitude." She turned
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