He Without Sin (23 page)

“Absolutely, temp and pressure tells it all. It has to be. Maybe some pockets… No, I don’t think so; it’s all H2O,” answers Mark.

“Shall we go down and see?”

“No,” I say immediately.

“Right over there. See? Right there—looks like a safe spot. What kind of ground signal?”

“Says we are good. If we sink in, I’ll get us right out. Hold tight just in case.”

“Am I not here? Can you not hear me? I said ‘no’. Am I out voted—is that it?” I ask of no one in particular and their response is to ignore me once more. We settle without incident and these two tourists are already preparing to exit. The blast of arctic air only reinforces my desire to not get out. “Guys. Seriously. Are we not adults? You act like you’ve never…”

“Come on. Sure, we’ve all seen ice and snow. It’s like a vacation. Come on, we’re getting out.”

“You have to get out.”

“No, I don’t have to get out.”

Out they go. These supposed adults are making sounds like children out there. It does seem like we are on solid ground. Or ice. I see we are at 90 West and 62 North.

I remember one time we went on vacation to a snowy area—Mom, Dad, Tom and I. I was real young, just in the first grade or maybe second. It was the usual stuff, playing in the snow, sledding. I don’t remember what all, but I do remember what happened on one of the mornings. There was a new snowfall, fresh and deep. I don’t know where Tom was; when you’re young, an age difference, even a couple years, is huge and we didn’t hang out like we did in later years. I was all bundled up and out by myself in the bright sunshine in the snow. On me it was deep enough to make walking difficult, but walk I did, enjoying being the first to explore the pristine landscape—alone against the wilderness, sort of. I wandered off and up the side of a small hill, but the wind had blown the snow such that the contour of the ground was hard to judge visually. I lost my footing, turned and fell backwards off the side of the hill into a deep drift. I was OK but at first disoriented by what had happened and by the handful of snow melting wet on my face and eyes. As I lay on my back looking up at the clear deep blue sky through a perfect outline of my body, I realized I was indeed alone. In all likelihood, no one knew where I was and certainly no one could see me. With my bulky snow outfit I wasn’t cold in the least, but was restricted in movement. It felt like I couldn’t move my arms or legs, surrounded as they were. It’s then that it dawned on me that I might have fallen into a serious situation. A moment of panic, and then I realized I had no choice. It’s up to me to get out. No one else is coming; no one else knows I’m even here! With some thrashing and twisting I eventually righted myself and plowed my way out of the nearly neck-high drift. The panic was real; the thrill and relief of survival was too.

Well, I’d better go out and see what they’re up to after all—just in case they break a leg or something. I don’t hear any more laughing and shouting. Worst case, I will have to drag their frozen carcasses back inside. Whoa, it’s cold— really cold if I face the wind! Right after I exit the runabout and look for them I catch a snowball on the left side of my face and neck, just below the ear. Perfect. Some snow gets in one eye and I have to wipe and blink it clear. I see Mark grinning like an idiot and preparing more ammunition. I quickly scoop up some snow of my own and retaliate. I miss Mark by a wide margin but to my delight Porter is a better aim and hits him square in the chest. With this distraction I am able to fire off a couple more at Mark and quickly retreat to the safety and warmth of the interior. That’s plenty for me.

“Lousy packing anyway,” complains Mark as they both finally climb back in, red-faced and panting. “Too cold.”

“If you boys are done playing, can we head back now? Please shut the hatch, my hands have almost thawed.” Porter has to clean his glasses—they are wet and have fogged over after coming in from the cold.

______

It’s not long after the polar sightseeing trip that I have a chance to sit and talk with Porter again. More about his discoveries as he has been shuttling people and materials all over the planet.

“Volcanoes, you say? And active at that?”

“Active and spewing! From complete and permanent ice cover to spewing molten rock. And everything in between. Anytime you wanna see any of it, let me know.”

“You’re going to kill yourself out there.”

“Might be. The volcanic ash is a killer all right. It gets in everywhere and is abrasive as all get out.”

“‘As all get out’? Ha. That’s a good one. Where did that come from I wonder? I mean originally.”

“Huh? It’s abrasive, that’s all. Really abrasive. And it gets in everywhere. I know ‘cause I went right thru an ash cloud.”

“Oh, I get you alright. I was just thinking of the origin of the phrase ‘all get out.’ Ever think about that sort of thing?”

“Um, no, can’t say that I do,” replies Porter with a look of puzzlement. “But, like I say…”

“No, that’s ok. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for the sightseeing offer, and I’ll take you up on it sometime. I bet Carol would like to see some of that.”

“Anytime, pal, anytime.”

“Anytime? Anytime what? You guys want another go at the frozen north?” says Mark as he approaches and sits with us.

“Yeah, sure, I still have one good eye,” I quip. “How goes it, Mark?”

“Oh it goes, and it goes.” Mark gives me a look that I interpret as meaning ‘I’ve got plenty to say but I’m not going to do it now.’

“Hey Mark,” says Porter in greeting. “Let’s all go again! We’re expecting Dylan, Craig, Trace, and Aileen in any minute. Aileen won’t come but…”

“Nope, their flyer is mine as soon as they land. And I’m busy with it for the rest of this week. Maybe after that.” Again with the look. It’s easy to tell something is going on, with Mark, but it’s no use trying to guess.

Small talk ensues, which I block out effectively and wonder what Carol would think of a visit to the arctic. I hear the arrival of one of the flyers and sure enough Dylan and Craig and the girls debark and head off to another part of base camp. It crosses my mind that these men and women are the future the dean spoke of. And Porter too. They are eager, competent, confident and, I believe, trustworthy. I can see them fulfilling the vision statement from what seems to me now so long ago. Where do I fit into that vision? They nod as they pass, see Mark’s questioning look, and Craig gives him a thumbs up. As I turn back, Mark and Porter are both looking at me.

“Well?” says Mark.

“Well what?” I reply. “Sorry, I’ve been daydreaming. What’s the question?”

“I said, do you have time to give me a hand? I’ve got to upfit that transport and could use some help. Porter here has told me to go pound sand,” he repeats with a wink to Porter.

“Sure, as long as you don’t ambush me with a snowball in the eye.”

“You’ll like meeting his new girlfriend. Hubba hubba,” says Porter.

“Just be careful with your hubba hubba, Jimmy. You might get a nasty shock if you go poking around where you shouldn’t,” Mark says, laughing himself to hiccups again.

______

I meet Mark later. He is already at work, and doesn’t stop when I come in. “What can I do to help?”

“First, don’t touch anything. And then, push that cart over here…”

“Without touching will be tricky. Say, what’s that there? I see what Porter meant.” I ask when I spot something interesting beside his test bench. It’s always something interesting with Mark.

He sees what I am looking at, says again, “Don’t touch it. Her. You like that? She’s my golden girl.”

“Classy!” It’s clearly a robotic ‘girl’ all shiny and new. “Is this for real? I mean does she work?”

“Oh, she works. Mostly. I’ve been printing out parts for some time; my new little hobby. The design has been around for a long time and has been proven out, but to build her you need a shitload of tiny components with tight tolerances. You have to make special tiny tools just to assemble the darn thing.”

“She’s a beauty, Mark. You do good work. Um… nice job on the exterior form. Where did you say you want this cart?”

“Yep, right under here. This way. More. Perfect, right there. Thanks.” And he begins to lift and fit equipment onto the flyers. “Did you get a chance to talk to Dylan?”

“Not really, just hi and bye. Only briefly. He says he will be around a while.”

“He’s at it again.”

“He is? What do you mean?”

“Our favorite leader. He’s at it again.” Mark keeps working, after looking to see if I get it, but I don’t get it. “Can you hold this here while I attach it? Here, it’s heavy. And the holes have to line up.”

We get the hardware in position and I hold it. “You mean David?” but I see by the ‘you must be a moron’ look that I’m wrong. “Oh, I see. Weasel.
Now
what’s he up to?”

“Only what I hear from the field. I can let you know more tomorrow after I personally deliver this flyer to him.” He stops speaking and continues with the assembly. “You know he’s still running the show out there. And this is after what you and I both know he’s done.”

“First of all, nothing he does would surprise me. Second, who
wouldn’t
predict more shenanigans from this guy? But what do you hear? Do
not
tell me he’s got his hands on the native girls again!”

“Yes. No. Not exactly. He’s morphed a bit, according to Dylan. Back to his old self after being so sweet and friendly around camp, which nobody could miss. He knows that he’s being watched but he also knows that David’s given him a fair amount of control. Correct?”

I don’t answer but instead look questioningly at Mark.

“Well? You were in the meeting weren’t you? I wasn’t.”

“Oh, from the meeting a while back.” I can’t think of any reason to hold back so I say, “Blank check.”

“Eh?”

“Free hand. David gave him free reign to monitor and shepherd the subjects,” I confess. “But they also talked in private; I don’t know what was said then.”

“I see. That explains why I’ve heard the ‘I can do anything I want’ routine from Lester. Didn’t you say he pulled that on you once?”

Mark wipes his hands a moment, brushes the hair off his forehead, then starts back again at his work while motioning me out of the way. “At least his new interest has taken some of the focus off the other business that he’s gotten me into.”

When Mark doesn’t follow up, I ask, “What else is he up to?”

“Oh, it’s not a big deal, relatively. Nothing to do with his other messes. I’ll tell you later maybe, over a cocktail, but not now. Thanks for the help.”

As the native generations pass, our target
population is steadily growing more or less
arithmetically. Field reports show their increase
and also comprise a log of the interaction with
various mission members. Dylan is playing an
active part, even more than before. He is still
smarting over the ‘re-start,’ as it’s being called. When we talk, he is grimmer than he has been. Still
the same, quiet and thoughtful, but with an added
sense of resolve.

I‘ve been thinking lately about words. Words as
symbols. Words and how they work. For example,
nothing changes when an object is named and yet
it cannot be denied that there is a palpable feeling
of power and control accompanying the act. But
how does the simple act of naming—creating a
symbol representing a complex object—enhance
creative thought and communication? If anything,
it’s just an act of substitution; long string replaced
by short symbol. A long string such as: ‘a surface sufficiently elevated and stable, whose normal
vector lies essentially anti parallel to local gravity,
with enough area to facilitate the handy placement
of other, usually smaller, objects. All that replaced
by a short symbol such as, in this case, ‘table.’

It must be that the sheer number of references in a
complex sentence is sufficient to stimulate the
mind to higher levels. I think about a sentence like
‘The wooden dining table is sometimes used as a
work desk but primarily functions as a support for
our daily meals and as such becomes a symbol of
unity for us as a family.’ To write out the basic
references for each word and to describe the
sentence syntax and qualifiers (such as ‘sometimes’ and ‘primarily’ and ‘as such’) could, for this one
sentence, take up an entire volume. That’s a lot of
power in a small package.

A dream with my hands came again, triggered no
doubt by our polar adventure not too long ago. They were my hands, in thick yellow gloves. I was
standing next to a snow bank digging and
chopping my way into it with no tools, just the
gloved hands. I had no sensation of cold. The visual
scene was dominated by brilliant white. Progress
into the bank didn’t seem important but the act of
chopping at the snow was the main point. It was
fun. There was an enjoyable feeling of power.

Confirmation

Everyone who was outside at base camp heard it. The explosion, I mean. I heard it. It was distant, muffled, but we knew right away it was an explosion. Not huge, no global effects certainly, and we could see nothing from our location. But that’s not surprising the way we are nestled in the mountains. Grigor, back on solid ground now, says he felt it and Carol says she did too. I haven’t spoken in person to Dylan but he contacted me via genie to say that a whole settlement has been wiped out. Brachus’ decision, he said.

“Brachus said it had to be done,” Dylan explained. “No other clarification has been offered, nor do I expect one. Here we go again.”

“Did you see it?”