"It's better than its reputation. I had room, back home."
The psychologist nodded. "And that's what you need now. Room."
"What are they gonna do to me, Doc?"
"Nothing, if you're not here."
The two were silent for a moment, Norse giving time for this statement to sink in. He was also waiting with his next question. "Did you do it?" the psychologist finally asked point-blank.
"Hell no." That was simple enough.
Norse studied him, probably looking for the twitches and ticks that he'd been told in shrink school would reveal a liar. Well, let him look. As far as Tyson was concerned he was trapped in the looniest of loony bins, and Norse was the asylum's Big Nurse. The psychologist's professional opinion was worth about as much as the cheap tools they gave Tyson that kept snapping in the cold. When he dropped the phony psyche bullshit, however, Norse wasn't a bad guy. He listened. Kept in shape. Looked after himself.
"You're too obvious, aren't you?" Norse finally said. "Too angry, too mouthy. So obvious that I don't know if I believe it. It's the kind of crime that seems blood simple. Too dumb. You're not dumb, are you, Tyson?"
"Dumb enough to come down here."
Norse smiled. "That could be said about all of us."
"What's going to happen to me, Bob?"
"The ideal would be to ship you back. Let people sort this out in the States where emotions are a little less raw. The trouble is, I don't think they're going to get a plane down here. It's cold and it's getting colder. We've got at least six more months of isolation. You want to spend six months in this tunnel?"
"I don't want to spend six months in this whole fucking base. You know that. I've made no secret of it. I just want out."
"You and everyone else about now."
"That's right. And I'm as scared as they are. I didn't kill nobody. I'm being set up, maybe by that fingie Lewis. All the trouble started when he came. The only thing I'm guilty of is saying what I think. They crucify you in this world if you say what you think."
"Amen to that."
"It's like we talked about, Doc. The importance of self-reliance. The fucking duty of self-reliance. Everyone pays lip service to this touchy-feely group shit but that's only because they hope somebody like me will carry their load. Do the shit work. Until you won't do it for them. Then they turn."
Norse betrayed nothing. "My concern is that you get a fair hearing."
"Well, I ain't gonna get it here."
"I know."
"So what the fuck do I do now? They won't listen to me. I can't fight them all. I didn't want their bullshit commune and now I'm the bad guy. It's because I won't play the game. It's like that movie where the island kids go crazy. That 'Lord' thing, what was it?"
"Flies. Lord of the Flies."
"That's what it feels like. Like I'm the only sane one. Is that crazy?"
Norse grimaced. "It may be the only rational reaction to this base. My fear is that humans aren't meant to be in a place like this. So cold. So bleak. It does things to them, physically and mentally. We evolved in Africa, for Christ's sake. Coming here is an act of hubris. Greek hubris. The pride that goes before the fall. So I sympathize with where you're coming from. I admire your insistence on being an individual."
Tyson nodded. "You gotta keep them away from me, Doc."
"I've been thinking about your situation," Norse went on carefully. "We had a meeting and the mood was ugly. I calmed them down for a while but six, seven more months? I don't know. I can't hide you that long. I can't keep the others functioning that long, not with you tucked down here like a troll. A few of them want to try and execute you."
"Jesus H. Christ." The mechanic was quietly frightened. "About your only hope would be another killing while you're locked up, taking suspicion off you, if you're telling the truth and the killer is someone else. Otherwise, it all points to Buck Tyson. The new totem of evil. Unfair, perhaps- I wouldn't be in this hole with you if I thought you truly dangerous- but very human. So I've come to suggest a long-shot chance, one you once suggested to me when we were looking for Mickey."
"What's that?"
"Vostok."
"What?"
"I think you should seek asylum. Go to another base, winter over, and surrender to the American authorities in the spring. By that time the situation may have cleared up a bit, who knows? Otherwise it's a risk that something might trigger a mob mentality and you find yourself in Salem as Witch Number One. You get my meaning?"
"Yeah, but holy shit, trying to get to Vostok…"
"No airplane is going to get in here like a magic carpet. The others are fantasizing that there's a chance but there isn't any, not really. You're going to have to flee overland. The closest refuge is the Russian base. Seven hundred miles but it's fairly flat going across the polar plateau. No crevasses, no mountains. Bad food, good vodka, and better company than you'll find here the rest of the winter. It's a risk to try to reach it but I don't know what else to offer. Obviously, I think the risk is even higher if you stay here."
"I can't fucking believe this."
"My idea is you take a Spryte like you said. If anyone can do it alone, you can. You've trained for survival. You're prepared to tough it out. And we can survive without one of the machines. Pull a sled loaded with fuel and food and take along a GPS to help you navigate. With minimal sleep and decent weather you could reach Vostok in several days. If you have to hunker down for a storm you can take enough along to survive for a few weeks. If the engine doesn't break down, you can make it. And if it does… well, you're our best mechanic, right?"
"Me and Pika."
"Right. So we have Pika to keep things going here, and you keep your Spryte going out there."
Tyson groaned. "But if I completely break down, I'm fucked. A couple hours at a hundred below…"
"And you go to sleep." The meaning was clear. There were worse ways to die.
Tyson took a breath, considering the stark choice. He knew he couldn't stay there. "Will the others let me do it?"
"I haven't told them. I'm not going to ask them. We have to move now. Fait accompli. Their disappointment at losing a Spryte will be more than mitigated by their relief at losing you."
"Thanks."
"I'm giving it to you straight, Buck."
The mechanic nodded glumly. "A mob or the plateau."
"When you don't have any friends, you have to rely on yourself."
They waited, Tyson mulling it over. If he got a hole in the weather it should be possible. He had the skills to earn his way at Vostok…
"Or we can go face the others in the galley now," Norse said.
The mechanic shook his head. Fuck those bastards. "They want it to be me. That's the problem."
"You can rely on them or rely on yourself."
Tyson hesitated, gathering his courage. There was a certain hopelessness in his eyes, a realization of having made an irrevocable wrong turn. Then, fatalistically: "I'm out of here."
"It's for the best, Buck. Best if you leave soon."
"Don't worry about that. If I'm leaving I ain't going to let the screen door hit my butt on the way out." He unzipped his bag, suddenly anxious. "You gonna help?"
"I've taken the liberty of doing that." Norse backed up, removed the grate, and crawled out. The mechanic followed him. They stood in the gloom of the garage, looking at the vehicles. "The Spryte is fueled, the sled loaded, you're ready to go. It's best to be well away before morning, just in case some self-righteous sheriff gets it in his head to chase after you with a snowmobile."
"Agreed." Tyson looked at him curiously. "Why you helping me, Doc?"
"I've found myself thrust into a curious position of responsibility. My profession is people, and I know what they're capable of. You ever hear of the Swordfish?"
Tyson shook his head.
"It's classified, but word gets around in professional circles. Nuke sub on a long, secret mission under the Arctic ice. There was a quarrel, a popular ensign was killed, and there wasn't a chance to surface or return. They were sitting off a Russian base, for Christ's sake. They did a quick court-martial but there was no brig, just like here. You know what they did with the offender?"