“Yes.”
“Logical. Practical.”
“You won’t mind, then, if I learn what I can?” Adams smiles.
“No, no. But be careful.”
“Too much reading makes you crazy?”
Than heats a cup of tea. “In 1967, where I lived, it was impossible not to find on certain country roads American mines in the shape of dogshit. It took very clever minds to disguise the bombs, but they failed to realize that there were no dogs in the country. Napalm had driven them away, so the mines fooled no one. All that learning, technology, and effort, and it was in the end exactly what it looked like.”
From the preliminary information packet Adams received on boarding Desire Provoked: “Svalbard belongs to the Kingdom of Norway. A governor (sysselman) presides over its domestic interests. In December 1975 the total population of Svalbard was 3,431: 1,177 Norwegians and 2,254 Russians, concentrated on Spitsbergen Island.
“On the west coast of Spitsbergen, the temperature rarely drops below — 30 degrees centigrade, and in summer rarely exceeds +10 degrees centigrade.”
Harry Schock, the senior geologist, calls a meeting of all scientists aboard ship. They gather in a tiny drawing room near the galley. “All right, listen up,” he says. “Before we get to Svalbard, you need to know some things. There’s a lot of tension between Norway and the Soviet Union. It started in ‘61 when Norway granted American Caltex Oil two hundred prospecting claims based on geological indications, maps, aerial photographs, the works. In ‘63 Arktikugol, a Russian oil company, applied for a claim. They had the same type of evidence, but Norway turned them down. Arktikugol filed a complaint and finally the Department of Industry granted the claim. Otherwise they’d be violating Svalbard’s principle of equal treatment.”
Before leaving the United States, Adams had requested through a Comtex spokesman oblique and vertical photographs of the Svalbard archipelago. He was told that the Norwegian Polar Institute, in the interests of fair play, no longer made aerial photographs available to foreign commercial interests. His job cannot begin before he sets foot on Spitsbergen.
Comtex wants him to concentrate on Svalbard’s continental shelf: to explore it with the geologists and prepare contour charts. There are political problems with this, too. At times Norway opens the shelf to commercial exploitation; then, without warning or explanation, the shelf is declared off-limits.
Adams’ latest information gives him the go-ahead, though he’s warned that tension is high on the island.
The Norwegians feel undercompensated, and the Russians, who outnumber every other group on the island, do not welcome Comtex.
In two and a half weeks at sea, Adams has hardly had time to think of home. In private moments, working on his map, he has wondered if the kids are eating junk food, if they’re getting enough sleep. Is Pamela bringing strangers home to bed? He has the sense that his responsibilities are on hold, waiting for him to return.
He sits on his bunk, unrolls the children’s map, weights one corner with Hegel, and sketches the Island of Reason, surrounded by mist.
Desire Provoked is scheduled to dock at the southern tip of Spitsbergen Island. From there Adams and the others will fly inland. At the airfield, American, Norwegian, and Soviet officials closely monitor one another’s activities. In addition, Soviet scientific expeditions are allowed to move freely throughout the archipelago; frequently, says Harry Schock, these expeditions are reconnaissance activities, attempts to inspect other nations’ progress in exploring the islands. The Soviets make no secret of their aims, though Norway has warned that surveillance of this type violates Norwegian sovereignty. Schock tells Adams and his colleagues not to resist any such inspection by Soviet “scientists.” “The best way to defuse tension,” he says, “is not to create it in the first place.”
Adams says good-bye to the sailing crew of Desire Provoked. Among the icy docks with its canvas folded, the ship looks abandoned. Before leaving the harbor, Adams learns that eighteen feet of the inner hull had been sheared by heavy equipment: his noises at night.
The scientists board a plane for Barentsburg, on the west coast. There they will undergo a briefing and be assigned specific duties.
The flight is short. Adams, Carol, and Than sit in the rear of the plane with backpacks and equipment, huddling together in their parkas. The land below is a solid white sheet of snow. Mørkitiden, Norwegian winter.
Barentsburg has no distinguishing features. Hard snow crackles beneath their feet once they leave the permafrost landing site. Adams can see only swirling flakes as he makes his way to a dark green wooden building resembling a barracks. Inside, the scientists are offered coffee and doughnuts, and asked to sit on metal folding chairs facing a raised platform.
“This looks like an army briefing,” Carol tells Adams. He nods. Even inside the building their breath turns to smoke.
A man named Pepperstone mounts the platform, asks them to make themselves at home. “Svalbard is not particularly pleasant this time of year,” he says, “but you’ll become accustomed to the conditions.” He is a heavy man with a blond beard. He gestures to his right. “We have a room full of beds back here, along with lavatory facilities. You’ll be spending the night here, then tomorrow morning you’ll be flying to specific locations along the coast to begin your work.”
Arrangements have been made for Carol to sleep alone in a tiny room. The men will sleep in a large room in metal spring beds placed side by side. Carol’s room is just off the kitchen and the walls are thin. Even if there was more privacy, it is too cold to make love.
Before supper, Adams shaves (the tap water stays warm for just a few seconds) and changes. He joins his colleagues in a large chilly room. Picnic tables and folding chairs have been arranged in rows. Meat loaf and peas: though the food is warm, it tastes frozen.
“I feel like I’ve been drafted,” Carol says.
“They’re very organized,” Than agrees.
“I expected more of a welcome.”
“It must be hard to get anything done here,” Adams says. “They’ve got to be all business.” Still, he too is a little disappointed in the barrenness of the place, the brief formality of their welcome.
After supper members of the expedition line up to call their families on radiotelephones.
“Jack has probably fallen in love with one of those women who sell turquoise bracelets on Guadalupe Street,” Carol says. “I’ll be a voice from his past.”
Adams notes that he has not been enough to make her forget about Jack. She squeezes his hand.
When Adams finally gets a turn, he radios Pamela’s house. The kids are asleep. He’d forgotten all about the time difference. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he says.
“That’s all right. So you made it okay?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it like?”
“Cold. Nothing but snow.”
“Prettier than Alaska?”
“Nowhere near.”
Waves of static. “I remember when you went to Alaska. It’s exciting to get postcards from faraway places.”
Adams nods, realizes she can’t see him.
“We were just married. I missed you.”
“I miss the kids,” Adams tells her.
A long pause. “Have you met anybody interesting,” Pamela asks.
“No.”
“I’m meeting all sorts of interesting people through the galleries. A sculptor from San Francisco’s in town this week.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I sold a new piece. The moon. On a coat hanger. In a closet.”
“Congratulations.” The line squeaks. “They’re going to cut me off soon. Are the kids all right?”