In Cold Pursuit (21 page)

The names began to blur in Valena’s mind. She had met entirely too many people in the past few days. Appellations seemed to descend into a netherworld even as they emerged from Betty’s lips, almost as if she were on television and the sound had been turned off. Even the faces were beginning to merge into one big composite southlander, a hardy soul of intermediate gender who eschewed fashion for warmth, easy care, and fitness. In fact—she realized, now that she thought of it—Antarcticans, while attractive people on the whole, wore no fussy shoes or constraining clothing and almost no jewelry, and she saw not a lick of makeup on any of the women present. She smiled. In a very true sense, she was home. She took a seat next to Tractor Matt, a burly man she had last seen whooping it up in the galley with the man who, with Cupcake, had found the missing Cat driver.

“May I serve you some wine?” asked the flyboy to her left.

“Ah, sure. What are we having?”

“Red, I think.” The man pulled one of three bottles out of
the center of the table and poured. As Valena took a sip, another flyboy said, “Got any Georges to send north?”

“Georges?”

“One-dollar bills. We’re bringing Susan B. Anthony, Sacagawea, and Jefferson south and sending George home.” He produced some two-dollar bills and one-dollar coins from his pocket. “Even exchange.”

Valena pulled her wallet out of her back jeans pocket and emptied out most of her folding money, holding back her New Zealand currency and the two US twenties that lurked behind them. “Here’s a five to contribute to the wine money,” she said. “And here are all the ones I have.”

“Good woman.” The man pounced on the money, swapping her two-dollar bills and dollar coins for the singles. The five he approached differently. Producing a stamp and green-inked stamp pad, he printed little green antique tractor symbols all over it. Then he hit all the singles as well, apparently for good measure. Then he ceremoniously slipped his tractor stamp into a special pouch. A block of wood lay next to his hand. It was about three by four inches, and adorned with large green letters that read MOATS.

“What does ‘moats’ mean?” asked Valena.

The man grinned. “It stands for ‘Mother of All Tractor Stamps,’” he said. He turned it over, revealing a very large version of the antique tractor symbol on the other side. “Come to think of it, I’m behind on my job here,” he added, charging the enormous stamp with ink. He examined each of the wine bottles in turn and rolled the tractor onto the labels of those he had not previously hit.

The man with the stamp raised his voice a bit and addressed the group again. “As president pro
tempore
in lieu of Tractor Hugh, who could not be with us this evening due to grave and unavoidable duties in the line of duty and so forth, I call everyone’s attention to
…
”

Larry said, “Some more new business.”

“Yeah. Tractor Larry, as the meeting of the Tractor Club is already in session, how do we proceed with the introduction of this new candidate?”

Larry rubbed his buzz cut as he mulled this question. “I believe that, in emergency situations such as these, we can use the abbreviated form. In any case, we must start with introductions.”

Valena interrupted. “Is it okay if I do this even if I’m about to leave?”

“Leave?” said Matt.

“Uh, yeah. I just got here Saturday evening, but my—uh, Professor Vanderzee had to leave. So they’ve scheduled me to go out on the next flight north.” She glanced at Larry, wondering if he’d be the pilot of the plane that took her away from the ice.

Matt said, “So they aren’t even having you go ahead and do your scientific research?”

“Not unless I can get my professor back,” said Valena. “Or find a job all of a sudden. Anyone have employment for a beaker who’s mislaid her professor?”

“Aw hell,” said Betty. “Most beakers don’t even lay their professors, much less
mislay
them.”

The crowd broke into cheerful laughter, with hoots of, “Good one, Tractor Betty,” and, “Oooo, it burns!”

The man with the stamp said, “Then we must proceed with speed on two accounts. Okay, let’s go around the table and introduce ourselves to the candidate. Members please state your names to the candidate.”

“Tractor Betty.”

“Tractor Larry.”

“Tractor Matt.” Matt made eye contact more pointedly than most, then hopped up and wove his way between the tables toward the bar, where he leaned an elbow next to a man who was perched on a stool there working on a bottle of white and engaged him in earnest conversation.

Meanwhile, the introductions continued around the table. “Hi, I’m Valena,” she said, when the process ended with her.

Betty said, “What now, Tractor Larry? Hell, I never knew it was so difficult to remember all this crap. Where’s Tractor Hugh when we need him?”

“We ask the candidate the Questions,” said Tractor Larry.
“Valena, we must ask you two important questions, which you shall answer as honestly as you can. Are you ready?”

“Sure,” said Valena.

The man with whom Matt was speaking at the bar had twisted around on his stool and was looking at her.

Larry said, “Okay, here’s the first question. What is your name?”

“Valena.”

All present nodded in approval.

“Okay, you are doing well,” said Larry. “Now for the second and more crucial question: Valena,
do you like tractors!”

Valena looked from face to face. All now gazed on her with feigned solemnity. Confused, she said, “Oh, sure. I love tractors.”

A great cheer went up from the table, arms flying upward with delight, all faces beaming with happiness.

“Huzzah,” said the protocol officer. “Tractor Betty, you may proceed with the investiture.”

Betty turned her heavy-lidded eyes toward Valena. “Valena, I now pronounce you Tractor Valena. You are a duly invested member of the Tractor Club, and therefore endowed with the rights and privileges thereof, or something like that.”

All raised their glasses, roared, “Tractor Valena,” and took a drink.

Valena asked, “What exactly are my rights and privileges?”

In unison, they announced, “Membership is lifelong, free, and irrevocable!”

“Well, how nice,” said Valena. She felt unaccountably pleased.

Matt resumed his place at the table.

Larry said, “Now the best part. The story.”

Betty said, “Oh, yeah. Okay now, Tractor Valena, we proceed to the best part, the solemn invocation, or some such. Tractor Valena, you may now tell us a story about tractors. What’s the rule on that, Tractor Larry?”

“It can be the truth, a lie, or a story,” said Larry.

“Yeah, that,” said Betty.

“Me?” said Valena.

The assembled broke into cheers.

“Yeah, you,” said Betty. “Give us a tractor story.”

Valena’s mind went blank. She stared from face to face, trying to think of what to say. Her gaze dropped to the Mother of All Tractor Stamps, and the jaunty green tractor reminded her of an ancient one that occupied a special corner in her grandfather’s barn. “My grandfather has a 1929 Case L,” she began.

An appreciative “Oooo” ran around the table. The men performed heavenward looks of spiritual transcendence. Larry held his hands to his heart.

Out of the corner of her eye, Valena could see the man at the bar rise and move toward their table. He was looking at her. To her audience at the table, she said, “Grandpa is proud of that tractor. Sentimental, even. He inherited it from
his
grandfather along with the farm. He keeps it oiled and fueled, and on very special occasions he drives it. Like in parades, that sort of thing. And sometimes around the near meadow.” An image began to arise in her mind, of brilliant sunshine, the dogs running along behind, grasshoppers scattering
…

“A fine man!” said Matt. He looked like a cat who had caught a canary.

“A fine tractor!” said Larry.

“Yes,” said Valena. “He … once he let me drive it.”

“Oooo…”

“Or rather, I sat on his lap, and he let me steer.” The heady scent of the old man’s sweat, the warmth of his skin and the hard and soft edges of his ancient bones and body felt through his cotton duck pants and plaid shirt came back to her as if it were still happening. How she had longed for that moment, the official “now I am eight years old” grandchild ride, with all the cousins watching. They were cheering, proud of her, for the moment not calling her those names…

And then Great Aunt Dilla had emerged from the kitchen door. She blew out onto the porch like a storm, roiling in her dark intensity, her head coming forward in a threat, and shrieked, “Get that child off that tractor!”

All the cousins turned. One laughed, a toxic little snicker.

She felt Grandpa’s leg stiffen as he stamped on the clutch. The tractor rolled to a stop. Dilla was coming at them now, her stiff legs with their varicose veins moving like a man on stilts, her craggy hands whipping this way and that like vicious attachments on a machine of death. “I will not have it! I don’t care what your wayward daughter brings home in her twisted notions of Christian charity, I will not have her drive that tractor!”

Grandpa had stood up for her, scolding his sister, saying, “God sees your lack of charity!” but the joy of the moment was ended. Gone forever. The cousins were smirking and sneaking looks at her. The tractor had stalled. A cloud had swept across Valena’s heart and it was still there.

“What did it sound like?” asked Matt.

Valena’s mind snapped back into the low, arching room in the Coffee House. The people seated at the table with her came back into focus. “Sound?” These people were smiling
with
her. Their merriment was shared, and at no one’s expense.

The wraiths of remembered cousins slunk away like feral cats and curled up in the shadows at the far corners of the room, their dark eyes blinking at her from the gloom.

She heard a strong male voice behind her. “Are you Valena Walker?”

She turned to face the man who had approached from the bar. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m in charge of Fleet Ops. I hear you have some time free, and that you know how to drive a tractor.”

Valena looked up at this man, at his kind, calm face, his aura of bemused command. “Yes, I do. I’ve driven all the tractors on my grandfather’s farm in Idaho, and some of those up and down the way from his. I’ve helped with the harvest several times. It was fun.”

“Ever driven a truck in soft dirt? Or snow?”

“Countless times.” She smiled. “There’s a matter of finesse.”

“Then I’m wondering if you’d be available to assist one of my crews. I’m a man down, as you may have heard.” Sadness
rippled across his face. “Steve Myer. He had to be flown out to Christchurch this evening, and he was scheduled to go on the Black Island traverse tomorrow to resupply the telecommunications station there. This involves hauling water and other essentials over the ice shelf and fixing the flag route along the way. We have a good weather window and we need to take advantage of it, but we need a full crew, and like I say, I’m down one driver. Matt here said you might be available to assist us. Are you interested?”

Larry said, “I’d give my left nut for a trip like that.”

Black Island
, thought Valena.
That’s where the cook from last year is stationed this year. And… and it’s away from here! Out on the ice! An adventure! “
I’d love to!” she said excitedly. “But, ah … well, how long does it take?”
If we can get out there and back in one day, I can do this!

“Oh, you’ll be gone overnight,” said the Boss. “It’s sixty miles, and at least thirty of those need new flags set every two hundred feet, slow going. You’d be driving one of our Deltas, carrying the cargo, and maybe you’d like to take turns on the snow machines. And then of course we’ll have one of the Challengers along to groom the trail ahead of the Delta. A Challenger 95. I’ll bet that’s a mite bigger than any you had on the farm.”

“Oh, it is! But… I’m supposed to fly out on Thursday.”

“I imagine I can get them to delay your flight a day or two.”

“You
can
?”

“Try me.”

“Then it’s yes!”

Cheers broke out around the table. Someone started a chant of, “‘Lena, tractor, ‘Lena, tractor!”

The Boss patted her on the shoulder. “Good. You be at Building 17 first thing tomorrow—that’s seven in the a.m.—and have your ECWs with you. You got a sleeping bag?”

Matt said, “She can use mine.”

“There’s one in my office at Crary Lab,” said Valena.

“Great. Matt, you help her get her gear up to 17?”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can handle it,” said Valena. “It’s just a big duffel.”

“Then it’s settled. Make sure to get a good breakfast in you, and you’ll probably want to take it easy on the joy juice this gang is pushing on you. You don’t want to dehydrate out there.”

Appreciative laughter broke out around the table. Matt gave her a wink.

“I’ll be there,” said Valena. “Straight up, sober, and ready to drive.” She was grinning so hard that her face hurt.
This is a lot better than driving a 1929 Case
, she decided.
A whole continent’s worth of better!

V
ALENA FELT A PSYCHOLOGICAL JOLT WHEN, FIVE MIN
utes later, she stepped out of the lock into the blinding light of Antarctica. It was almost ten in the evening, but the sun was still well above the mountains.

“Confusing, huh?” said Matt, who came out behind her. He smiled merrily at Valena. “Get some sleep. It’s a long way to Black Island, even if it is only sixty miles.”

“I’m on my way,” she said, but she tarried awhile, taking in the odd sight of nighttime sunlight glinting off far glaciers. “Thanks again, Matt. I really appreciate your sprinkling pixie dust for me.”

“Think nothing of it.” He gave her a wave and headed toward his dorm.

The door opened again, and Larry came out. He marched toward her, saying, “So, Betty says you’re an okay kid.”

“Kid? Well, next to you, I guess.”

“I’m forty. Not quite old enough to be your father, but I mean to make a point here. I have some serious business to discuss.”