Thursday: July 17th
I woke up in BJ's bed. He was there beside me asleep.
We had at most three more days. In three more days the work on ARTHUR would be complete; the Russians would have made their move; I would, with luck, be on my way back to Kiniktok; and BJ Henderson would be out of my life forever. Three more days.
I wanted to run my hand along the lines of his cheek – to feel the texture of his skin – to reassure myself of the reality of his existence.
I didn't.
“Good morning, Brooklyn.”
“Good morning, BJ.”
He smiled, “Did you sleep well, love?”
“Like a rock.”
“Headache?”
“No, no headache, BJ.” Heartache, I thought to myself, but no headache. “Did I make a fool of myself last night?”
“Not really. You just went under again, and I thought it would be kindest to let you sleep it off.” He took my hand, running his thumb over the palm. “Not to worry, Brooklyn. Unfortunately for the both of us, I draw the line at seducing inebriated virgins. Chalk it up to southern chivalry.” And then before I could say anything, he went on briskly, “What's on your schedule for the day, Brooklyn?”
I sat up in the bed groping for my glasses. I always kept them under my pillow, but they weren't there. Without a word, BJ handed them to be from the night table at his side.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I know. You're blind without them.”
“Right.” I took control of myself. “Anyway, my plans for the day? First, breakfast. Then I'll spend all morning working on my paper, and monitoring the radio frequencies in what is getting to be a vainer and vainer hope of catching the Russians transmitting. Tonight, I go back into town.”
“Back into town? Are you mad, Brooklyn?”
“No, I'm not mad, BJ. I think I can clear Bill and answer some other questions, but I've got to go back into town to do it. Don't worry; I won't get drunk this time.”
BJ started pulling himself up into a sitting position. “Drunk is a hell of a lot better than dead, Brooklyn.”
“I don't think I'll get dead either. Why would Sagvik want to kill me? He will try to keep a low profile until he makes his snatch. Welche may have been an immediate threat to him; I'm not.”
“I still don't like your going into town, Brooklyn.”
“I know you don't, BJ. I think we'd better get up, don't you?”
“You can sleep in, Brooklyn. I'll bring you breakfast in bed.”
“Sounds lovely.”
He ruffled my hair. “Unless, of course, you're worried about the scandal, Brooklyn.”
“Right on schedule isn't it, BJ.”
“What schedule?”
“Our cover, remember? You said in the beginning that after about a week the little lady from Brooklyn is supposed to succumb to temptation.”
“It was only a cover, Brooklyn, and, in fact, you didn't succumb to temptation, did you? So it's only your reputation that has suffered.”
“I'm not worried about my reputation, BJ.”
“Good. Don't ever be misled by appearances, Brooklyn.”
I swallowed hard. Appearances weren't what was bothering me – it was the reality of the thing that had me running scared.
We breakfasted together in BJ's room. A mushroom cheese omelet and real cream in my real coffee.
It was heaven.
Then, alternating the use of earphones, to monitor the radio frequencies, we talked for a few hours. We talked about almost everything except ARTHUR and Michael Sagvik. We talked about our parents, about the world, and about our work. We talked about growing up in Virginia, and growing up in Brooklyn.
“And somehow,” I said, “Whatever our different paths, how did we end up here at the ends of the earth? It’s not very plausible, is it?”
“Implausible but real. Just think of yourself as an archaeologist on assignment. At least you look like an archaeologist in that navy surplus shirt and those grannie glasses. Your partner, or is she your boss, doesn't even look the part.
“Sure she does. Phyll looks like an archaeologist in a Hollywood movie. She is good, BJ, I’ve read all her papers.”
“Is she really that good?”
I nodded. My stint on the monitor was up. I removed the ear plug and handed BJ the machine. “Phyll is that good partly because she's so careful. She cares about the little meticulous things of the past. She likes the past. She is a past oriented person.”
“So are you, Brooklyn. You are shackled to the past.”
“Not in the same way, BJ. When I think about the past, it's mostly with fear and even revulsion. For the people I know, history was grim. Once you get beyond the popular nostalgia, you realize that the past was grim for most of humanity. I try not to think about the past. I like to think about the future – about children and family and survival. About life. But life is messy, and Phyll doesn't like mess. She likes the changeless, the eternal, the Platonic certainty of form.”
“The dead.”
“In a way, BJ. Maybe 'unliving' would be a better word. But don't you see, it's that very love of the changeless form that makes her good at her work. There is a precision to her work, an attention to detail, that is absolutely essential in a truly great archaeologist. She's good like those first nineteenth century ethnographers. People like Franz Boas. I can just imagine Phyll landing on Baffin Island. I can picture her in long skirts in 1872 – disembarking, like Boas, with a single man-servant who would trot along after her, safari like, carrying her tent and her supplies. I can see Phyll surviving that first winter undaunted even when the man servant died. She would have made it through that winter. Don't knock those aristocratic strengths, BJ. I can see Phyll sitting in an igloo in the middle of a snow storm writing voluminously about everything she found and did. Phyllida Allyngham, dispassionate observer. Phyll is a scholar in the classical tradition. In fact, Kiniktok wouldn't ordinarily expect to get someone of her quality.”
“Or of yours either?”
“I'm different. I don't have money and I don’t have the reputation. A summer's work on Kiniktok is the sort of job people would expect me to take. After all, not only does the job get me into the field but it pays room, board, transportation, and just enough extra to support me while I get a few papers done. It's the sort of thing academics from Brooklyn are supposed to do before they settle down into a tenure track position. And, remember, I'm not really an archaeologist and certainly not a good one.”
“But you were the one who made the break through discovery, Brooklyn.”
“That's true, and I wonder why. No, that's not false modesty, BJ. Maybe I figured out what was wrong with those skulls because of my very weaknesses as an archaeologist. I leap to conclusions. A true scholar doesn't leap to conclusions – a true scholar loves detail. I have to force myself to consider the details. I have a good friend who is a marine biologist. I can't understand why she always wants to go along the coast with a microscope studying the almost infinitesimal organisms in tide pools. She sees the whole universe reflected in the microcosm of a tide pool. I haven't got the patience with microcosms. I prefer to take off my shoes and run through the surf.”
“Do you take off your shoes and run through the surf?”
“Mentally I do.”
“Afraid of the real surf, Brooklyn?”
“Afraid someone might be watching and laughing at me. I'm too klutzy. Phyll, on the other hand, isn't at all impetuous, but she certainly looks the part. You've seen Phyll haven't you?”
His attention shifted to the monitor again for a moment. “I've seen her at the Bay.”
“Then you know what I mean. You can imagine Phyll running through the spray in silk chiffon with the wind blowing through her hair, right?”
He shook his head. “No, Brooklyn. You're romanticizing the image because you've watched too many TV commercials. Phyllida Allyngham doesn't run freely. She's even more stylized than you are.”
“I'm not stylized.”
“Sure you are, Brooklyn. You work awful hard at being pure, unadulterated New York.”
“No, I don't.”
“Yes you do. Bores a fellow to tears after a while.”
“So what's wrong with being who you are?” I said. “I am who I am, and Phyll is who she is. I don't work at it, and she's doesn't work at it.”
“Bullshit. No one looks like the Honourable Phyllida Allyngham naturally. That's not nature – that's grooming. Lord knows, I see enough of that kind of brittle perfection back home.
“All that brittle perfection as you call it was drummed into her until it comes naturally.”
“Automatically maybe, but not naturally, and she doesn't like people, does she? She doesn't like the Inuit. Or so your friend Enoki told me.”
“Phyll doesn't have to like them.”
“Why not? Isn't she studying them?”
“Not them, but their ancestors.”
“Is there all that much of a difference?”
“Maybe not. But don't assume that even anthropologists have to like their subject matter. Anthropologists are as much products of their own cultures as anyone else is. Have you ever read Malinowski?”
“Yes. He wrote about some Pacific Island tribe – the Tobriand Islanders. It's a classic isn't it?”
“Yes, a classic example of how human needs are satisfied through the rituals in an indigenous culture. And in doing that, Malinowski taught us as much about ourselves as he did about the Trobriand Islanders. But do you think he liked those people?”
“I think he must have.”
“A part of him did. That part of him was reflected in his academic work. He split himself in two, you see – part was dispassionate observer, and part was prejudiced European. He kept a diary that was published posthumously. It was called 'A Diary in the Strictest Sense' and it was literally published over his dead body. That diary paints a very different picture both of the Trobriand Islanders and of Malinowski himself. In the diary he wrote that he saw the life of the natives as utterly devoid of interest, something as remote from him as the life of a dog.” That's what a part of Malinowski thought. Almost every social scientist is afflicted with that sort of schizophrenia. We divide ourselves in two – one part dispassionate observer, and the other part bigoted ethnocentric. Phyll does that very well. Whatever her personal feelings about the Inuit, those feelings will never be reflected in her work. Even if she doesn’t learns to like even a single Inuk.”
“Does she like anyone?”
“I think she likes me. She liked Welche – probably more than she will admit to herself.”
“Why?”
“Probably because Welche needed her.”
BJ was adjusting the dials of his monitor. “And he kept her in cocaine.”
“I don't believe that, BJ.”
“And she could control Welche. Your friend Miss Allyngham is a very controlling woman, isn't she?”
“So what if she is? Look, BJ, any woman who gets as far as Phyll has academically is a controlling woman. It's the only way women are able to succeed out there in the big bad world. Even if we aren't controlling women, we're perceived that way. It's how society has come to terms with the fact of our success. But, as a matter of contingent fact, Phyll is a controlling woman, and so, for that matter, am I.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“You don't control me.”
“That, Fathead, doesn’t show that I'm not a controlling woman. It only shows that you are more controlling than I am.”
“I'm a whole hell of a lot bigger and meaner too. But you are not in fact controlling. You're just the most damned pig headed little woman I've ever met. Fortunately for the both of us, I'm even more pig headed than you are. Did it ever occur to you, Brooklyn, that we make a good team?”
“We would if we could ever stop fighting.”
“But, honey child, I ain't the one doing the fighting.”
I swallowed hard. “You're the one who is always trying to tell me what to do.”
“Come to think of it, you're right. I am a controlling person – SHIT.”
One of his hands went to his ear – his body tensed – the other hand was moving the dials of the radio at his side. “Our friends are at it again, Brooklyn. Take this unit, and go outside. You're all clear on how to triangulate?”
I nodded. “I'm the mobile station, and Steve is fixed.”
BJ nodded. “I'll locate Steve. There is more than one of them, and it's Joshua O'Connor's shift again.”
“It's what we've been waiting for BJ. It's a breakthrough.”
“It's a damned complication. Everything that happens now is a damned complication.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was walking, apparently aimlessly, around the DEW Line staring off into the Arctic horizon, adjusting the knobs on my direction finder and memorizing the sets of numbers that would tell us where the transmissions were coming from.
Triangulation is not a complex operation. From his fixed station, Steve had determined the direction from which the transmission was coming. He had a straight line pointing through the transmitter and going out to infinity. But from only the one fixed point it is impossible to determine where, on that infinitely long line, the transmitter is. As I walked around the base taking readings, I was also “beaming” in on that transmission and creating my own lines. The transmitter would be located where our lines intersected. I took several sets of readings for insurance, but, in theory, it was only necessary to have two intersecting lines to triangulate in on the transmission of a signal.
They were still at it. To my uneducated ear the transmission of the coded and scrambled material sounded very much like electronic static, only louder.
It was difficult to concentrate.
I was just getting my fourth and last “fix,” when I looked up to see Scott Whitman coming toward me.
With a nervous hand, I poked up my glasses and with a perfectly feminine gesture, totally uncharacteristic of me, I set my mop of curls in place. I hoped Scott hadn't seen me remove the ear plug. I couldn't be certain. When he reached me, the paraphernalia was in my pocket. I hadn't taken that fourth reading, and I hadn't had the opportunity to jot down those numbers. I'm not good with numbers – I don't have a good memory for numbers.
Scott didn't seem to notice. As he came toward me, I realized that he was either ill or hyped on something.
“Out for a walk, Naomi?”
I nodded, still trying to fix those numbers in my mind. “It's a nice day, but too much fog, Scott.”
“I don't mind – the fog keeps the bugs down.
If he thought that the bugs were down, he must have been really stoned.
“I've come out here to clear my head,” he said.
“Does it need clearing?”
He reached back and ran a hand through his hair. The motion a little jerky. “Yeah. The boys and me have been partying it up a little. Me and Hank and Joshua.”
I hesitated for a moment or two, “Could I get some stuff from you, Scott.”
He looked suddenly suspicious, “Like what?”
I was thinking fast. “Like some weed.”
That relaxed him. “Sure. Everyone here has that. I thought you wanted something that packs a wallop.”
“No. I go paranoid on anything stronger. I start imagining my best friends are trying to poison me. The world goes purple and black. I puke. So I stick to the light stuff.”
“Sure I'll get you all the reefers you want, Naomi.”
“Is the other stuff so scarce? I heard Morrel is a source.”
“He was, and then he dried up about a week ago. But he's got it coming in again. Here, I came out because I've got something for you.”
Scott reached into his pocket and came out with a very small foil wrapped package.
“What is this, Scott?”
“It's the stuff for your partner – Phyll. You remember that day I asked her to the party. She asked me if I could pick up some coke for her. I guess her source had dried up. Anyway I think she wants this stuff pretty badly, and Jamison told me I can't go back into town. Would you take it to her?”
I handled the small package like it was a time bomb. “Yes, I'll take it. I'll probably be seeing Phyll tonight.”
“Send her my best, will you. And tell her she doesn't have to pay for it. It's on me.”
“Sure, Scott.”
He reached over to his arm and swatted at a bug. “I think I'll go back in – the damn bugs are getting to me.”
I watched as Scott went off – not quite steady on his feet. Then I turned and made my own way slowly into the building. BJ was waiting in his room.
“Was Whitman any trouble?”
“You saw him.”
BJ nodded. “He came out, and headed straight for you.”
“He wasn't a problem, BJ. He's high on something or other. Drugs are in plentiful supply again. Morrel has a new source.”
“Anything else? What readings did you get?”
“I only managed to get three before he found me. Here let me jot them down before I forget them.”
BJ looked at the numbers and whistled. Clearly, BJ had a head for numbers.
“What is it?”
“I'm not certain. We'll wait for Steve.”
Steve came and took a moment or two to study the numbers. “There's no getting around it, BJ.”
“No getting around what?” I asked.
Stephen was dumbfounded, “The sons of a bitches are transmitting from Foxe Five
itself. They may even be using one of our transmitters.”
“I don't believe it,” I said.
“It's believable,” BJ said. “It even makes a curious kind of sense. Josh O'Connor is certainly part of it. And Steve's machines have picked up three separate voices.”
“So what do we do now, BJ?” I asked.
“We'll begin by examining the routing of the antennas through the buildings. Can you get hold of a copy of the plans, Steve?”
Steve nodded. “But they could be hooking into the system anywhere.”
“If it's anywhere within Foxe Five, we'll find them, Steve. Is there any other news from the radio room? Any news from the outside.”
“Just the usual DEW Line business. They've picked up some really weird vibrations from those whales in Hudson Strait, and everyone is complaining about the fog because there won't be any fresh vegetables or milk until it lifts.”
“But no word back from Langley?”
“Nothing new, BJ. They said they will get the reinforcements in just as soon as the fog lifts. And we are still looking at three, maybe four, days.”
“I know, Steve, and we'll just have to sweat it out. Brooklyn, are you certain you have to go into the settlement tonight?”
“Absolutely certain, BJ. Look, why don't you concentrate on watching ARTHUR and Mordechai? I can take care of myself. They don't want me that bad.”
“Just don't do anything crazy.”
“I won't. I promise.”
“Word of honor?”
“Word of honor, BJ.”