to Cameron. "So, we going to name this guy Snowman, too? He's collecting it."
"No, everyone needs their own nickname. Polar tradition," he explained to Lewis. "I'm Ice Pick, because I can be a prick when I have to be."
"He's just fussy," Abby said. "Picky. He fails at being mean."
"I'm just nuts from coping with twenty-five other eccentrics in a place that demands conformity. Everyone wants to make their careers in six months and solve their life problems while they're at it. When they don't, it's the station manager's fault."
"Maybe we should call you picked-upon," Abby teased.
"Picked apart, anyway. Cotton-pickin' crazy. Now." He considered Lewis. "Abby's Gearloose, for her vast technical skills. And you are… maybe… Krill."
She laughed. "Oh dear!"
"Krill? What does that mean?"
"Zooplankton," Cameron replied smoothly. "A tiny, translucent shrimp that makes up much of the marine biomass off Antarctica. Vital to the ecosystem."
"I look like a shrimp?"
"It's worse than that," Abby said. "He means you're at the bottom of the food chain. The new guy."
"The fingie," Cameron said cheerfully. "Nobody newer for eight toasty months."
"I don't think so," Lewis said slowly. "How about something flattering?"
"Not allowed," the station manager said.
"What about the grumpy shower guy? Tyson? What's his nickname?"
"Buck to his face, because he's big and into knives. But we spell it with an F behind his back."
"And Island," Abby said. "As in, 'No man is'? Every winter there's one guy so weird that he runs the danger of being ostracized. Tyson seems to crave the honor."
"Not me. I came down to get along." Embarrassingly, his stomach chose that moment to growl. As Geller had predicted, he was hungry, fiercely hungry. "And eat."
Abby took pity. "Don't think you look like a shrimp."
"Thanks. I am almost six feet." His stomach rumbled again.
"In fact, aside from his rude noises, I'd call him an Antarctic Ten." She smiled slyly, head tilted judiciously. They were still making fun.
"A what?"
"An Antarctic Ten is a member of the opposite sex who'd be a Five anywhere else," Cameron explained.
"Ah. Very flattering. Great."
"We all look better and better as the months drag on."
"Terrific."
"You could be a Six." Abby winked. "The women will have to vote."
"I'll look forward to that."
"But Krill is too cruel for him, Rod. He's right. Maybe Ozone."
"Maybe Sediment. He is a rockhead."
"A what?" she asked.
"Geologist. Running from rocks."
"Rolling Stone, then."
Lewis shook his head. He'd have to find his own name. And if I could make Six, you could be an Eight, he judged, watching Abby laugh. Even a Nine after a few months at the Pole. Things were looking up.
A telephone rang and Cameron answered it. "Hello… Yeah, he's here." A pause. "Okay, Mickey… Right, I'll tell him." He hung up.
"Who was that?" Lewis asked.
"Our estimable astrophysicist, Michael M. Moss. Pooh-bah of the Pole. He'd like you to come by astronomy later today." He pointed to the other building on stilts, three-quarters of a mile away. "You can do that?"
"After lunch." His stomach growled again.
Cameron was looking at Lewis curiously. "Mickey usually isn't this welcoming. He can't remember half the names on the base. But he asked for you."
"I'm flattered."
"It's interesting that he'd want to see you so soon."
"Maybe he likes fingies."
Cameron shook his head. "No, he doesn't. He's a snob."
"Well," Lewis said, enjoying finally knowing something the others didn't, "maybe he likes geologists."
CHAPTER FOUR
Nine-tenths of the universe is missing, Lewis. My job is to find it."
Michael M. "Mickey" Moss leaned back in his desk chair in the astronomy building and waited to be asked for clarification, his hands making a tent in front of an expression both regal and watchful. Despite a Disney nickname that had dogged him from grade school- or perhaps because of it, in compensation- Moss looked nothing like a cartoon. He instead maintained an
"No, everyone needs their own nickname. Polar tradition," he explained to Lewis. "I'm Ice Pick, because I can be a prick when I have to be."
"He's just fussy," Abby said. "Picky. He fails at being mean."
"I'm just nuts from coping with twenty-five other eccentrics in a place that demands conformity. Everyone wants to make their careers in six months and solve their life problems while they're at it. When they don't, it's the station manager's fault."
"Maybe we should call you picked-upon," Abby teased.
"Picked apart, anyway. Cotton-pickin' crazy. Now." He considered Lewis. "Abby's Gearloose, for her vast technical skills. And you are… maybe… Krill."
She laughed. "Oh dear!"
"Krill? What does that mean?"
"Zooplankton," Cameron replied smoothly. "A tiny, translucent shrimp that makes up much of the marine biomass off Antarctica. Vital to the ecosystem."
"I look like a shrimp?"
"It's worse than that," Abby said. "He means you're at the bottom of the food chain. The new guy."
"The fingie," Cameron said cheerfully. "Nobody newer for eight toasty months."
"I don't think so," Lewis said slowly. "How about something flattering?"
"Not allowed," the station manager said.
"What about the grumpy shower guy? Tyson? What's his nickname?"
"Buck to his face, because he's big and into knives. But we spell it with an F behind his back."
"And Island," Abby said. "As in, 'No man is'? Every winter there's one guy so weird that he runs the danger of being ostracized. Tyson seems to crave the honor."
"Not me. I came down to get along." Embarrassingly, his stomach chose that moment to growl. As Geller had predicted, he was hungry, fiercely hungry. "And eat."
Abby took pity. "Don't think you look like a shrimp."
"Thanks. I am almost six feet." His stomach rumbled again.
"In fact, aside from his rude noises, I'd call him an Antarctic Ten." She smiled slyly, head tilted judiciously. They were still making fun.
"A what?"
"An Antarctic Ten is a member of the opposite sex who'd be a Five anywhere else," Cameron explained.
"Ah. Very flattering. Great."
"We all look better and better as the months drag on."
"Terrific."
"You could be a Six." Abby winked. "The women will have to vote."
"I'll look forward to that."
"But Krill is too cruel for him, Rod. He's right. Maybe Ozone."
"Maybe Sediment. He is a rockhead."
"A what?" she asked.
"Geologist. Running from rocks."
"Rolling Stone, then."
Lewis shook his head. He'd have to find his own name. And if I could make Six, you could be an Eight, he judged, watching Abby laugh. Even a Nine after a few months at the Pole. Things were looking up.
A telephone rang and Cameron answered it. "Hello… Yeah, he's here." A pause. "Okay, Mickey… Right, I'll tell him." He hung up.
"Who was that?" Lewis asked.
"Our estimable astrophysicist, Michael M. Moss. Pooh-bah of the Pole. He'd like you to come by astronomy later today." He pointed to the other building on stilts, three-quarters of a mile away. "You can do that?"
"After lunch." His stomach growled again.
Cameron was looking at Lewis curiously. "Mickey usually isn't this welcoming. He can't remember half the names on the base. But he asked for you."
"I'm flattered."
"It's interesting that he'd want to see you so soon."
"Maybe he likes fingies."
Cameron shook his head. "No, he doesn't. He's a snob."
"Well," Lewis said, enjoying finally knowing something the others didn't, "maybe he likes geologists."
CHAPTER FOUR
Nine-tenths of the universe is missing, Lewis. My job is to find it."
Michael M. "Mickey" Moss leaned back in his desk chair in the astronomy building and waited to be asked for clarification, his hands making a tent in front of an expression both regal and watchful. Despite a Disney nickname that had dogged him from grade school- or perhaps because of it, in compensation- Moss looked nothing like a cartoon. He instead maintained an
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