Purkiss listened, and asked questions, not taking notes as might be expected but rather absorbing the flow of new information en masse. He’d spent an hour studying the layout of the station from the material Vale had given him back in London, and much of what Medievsky told him was familiar.
Purkiss didn’t ask the questions he really wanted answers to.
Questions such as: What were Medievsky’s impressions of Frank Wyatt. And under what circumstances exactly had the ninth member of the team, Feliks Nisselovich, disappeared in late December.
Avner sprang up, pushing his chair back, and settled his cap more firmly on his head. ‘Come on. I’ll show you round.’
Avner kept up the kind of constant chatter that might have been irritating if it hadn’t seemed so integral a part of his nature.
‘Let’s check out the labs. You know anything about science, John?’
‘A little,’ said Purkiss. ‘Purely a layman’s working knowledge, from popular accounts. I’ve no expertise.’
‘Okay.’ Avner led him down the broad corridor leading towards the west wing. ‘You probably know all of this already, but Yarkovsky Station is primarily a weather and soil research facility. We’ve got the soil analysts, Budian as well as Medievsky himself. Ryan Montrose is the microbiologist. Frank Wyatt’s the climatology guy. He’s always out there in the howling storms, checking temperature and wind patterns and whatever the hell it is he does.’
Avner pushed open a door with an opaque glass panel set into its upper half. The room beyond reminded Purkiss of the chemistry laboratory at his old school in the nineteen eighties. Wooden counters arrayed with glass and metal equipment were brightly lit under ceiling lights. At the far end, Oleksandra Budian looked up, the light flashing off her owlish glasses. She was seated on a bench, her back arched over a microscope.
‘The main lab,’ said Avner. ‘If I wasn’t such an asshole I’d take my cap off every time I came in here. This is the nerve centre, the shrine, the reason this whole place exists.’
Purkiss nodded at Budian, glanced around. On one wall, a huge corkboard was almost entirely covered by a yellowing and intricate chart. He peered at it. It was a map, encompassing a vast area of North-Eastern Siberia. Within moments Purkiss identified Yakutsk, and Yarkovsky Station itself.
‘Anyhow, the eggheads will fill you in on the finer points,’ said Avner, and before Purkiss could comment the younger man was bustling through the door. Purkiss strode after him.
Avner spoke over his shoulder. ‘So those are the hardcore scientists. Medievsky, Budian, Montrose and Wyatt. Next down in the pecking order are Patty Clement and me. Clement’s the psychologist, studying us all. How we work, what effects physical isolation has on us. Don’t tell her this, but I suspect Washington or Moscow has planted her here to keep tabs on us all, to spot when one of us is about to go apeshit crazy and embark on a killing spree.’
‘And your field is anthropology,’ said Purkiss.
‘Right.’ Avner glanced at Purkiss from beneath the peak of his cap. ‘But I’m not the kind of anthropologist who goes to live among the Bushmen for a year and writes papers saying how wonderful their lifestyle is compared to us effete, overcivilised Westerners. No. My shit is Neolithic culture. There’s a site near here which is one of the most perfectly preserved examples of Stone Age existence anywhere in the world. Twelve thousand years old. Bones, tools, dwelling places, you name it, it’s there.’
Avner smacked his palm against his face. ‘Oops. Getting geeky. Believe me, John, a few days among us and you’ll want to murder us all. If you haven’t died of boredom first.’
‘I’m interested in all of it,’ said Purkiss. ‘Honestly. In fact, I’ll want to know about it in detail.’
Avner stopped, turned to face Purkiss.
‘You Jewish, John?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t mean religious. But, you know — is or was your mom Jewish?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Purkiss. It was close to the truth. He’d never known his mother, who’d died in a car pileup in a rural Suffolk lane when Purkiss was three years old. His researching of her had revealed little other than that she’d been an intelligent, educated woman who had married a wealthy farmer and landowner, and had probably already started to cultivate a profound sense of boredom by the time of her death. Of her ancestry Purkiss had been able to discover almost nothing.
Avner said: ‘I only ask because you seem a little different from all the rest of them here. More like me. And I don’t mean you’re a wiseass motormouth, because you’re obviously not.’
He watched Purkiss’s eyes, then threw his hands up.
‘Okay. You don’t know what I’m talking about. Hell, maybe even I don’t.’ Again he adjusted the peak of his cap, a behavioural tic Purkiss realised was part of his repertoire. ‘Let’s just call you an honorary Jew. It can be our little secret. You and me versus the goyim.’
Purkiss followed Avner down the corridor to the next door, trying to make sense of what Avner had just said. He looked through the open door into a smaller laboratory, one festooned with photographs of what appeared to be excavation sites. The single desk was littered with haphazardly piled paper and stale coffee mugs.
‘My lab,’ said Avner drily. ‘The messiest place in the station. Medievsky allows it, because I’m the only one here doing what I do, and he feels sorry for me.’
Purkiss said, ‘You haven’t mentioned Dr Keys.’
‘Ah. Yes. Old Doug.’ Avner shrugged. ‘He’s not a scientist. He’s support staff, as far as I’m concerned. He feeds us antibiotics when we get sick, treats us for frostbite. Otherwise he hangs out on his own. He’s marking time until his pension, and is pissed about being here, if you want my opinion.’
Footsteps announced the arrival of Medievsky, who looked in the open door of the laboratory. His face was flushed and tight, as though he’d just come in from the bracing cold. He gave Purkiss a nod.
‘Had a good rest?’
‘Raring to go, thanks,’ said Purkiss. ‘Efraim has been showing me the labs.’
‘You have time for a more detailed chat?’ Medievsky was massaging warmth back into his fingers.
‘I’ve got all the time in the world. Whatever suits you.’
Purkiss thanked Avner, who waved a hand. He followed Medievsky back past the labs to the collection of offices. Medievsky’s was cramped, and filled with books and files. The computer on his desk was a few years old. On a shelf at the back of the room stood a large stainless steel trophy.
Purkiss nodded at it. ‘What’s that for?’
‘The Service to Science Award, 2002.’ Medievsky said it matter-of-factly, with neither pride nor false modesty. He gestured Purkiss towards an armchair and took a seat in a swivel chair behind his desk. ‘So. First impressions?’
Purkiss wondered if he meant the station or the people who worked there. ‘Truthfully? It’s smaller than I expected.’
Medievsky laughed. ‘And more old-fashioned looking, yes? Not the high-tech moon base of your imagination.’