LITMIR.BIZ

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May, 1986

      Simon Hollingford watched as the immense load of equipment disappeared into the belly of the Hercules transport plane. It was hard to believe a group of eight people could need this mountain of supplies. ‘What is all this stuff?’ he wondered aloud.

      ‘Scientific equipment, food, tents, arctic gear for starters,’ a voice answered from behind.

      He turned to see a woman whose short-cropped hair and workmanlike attire did little to conceal a very feminine face and form. Unconsciously Simon straightened his six foot one inch body, pulled in his stomach muscles and brushed his unruly brown hair back over his small bald spot. It sprang back immediately.

      ‘We’ve cut back to the bare minimum,’ she was saying. ‘As it is, I’ve had to leave three absolutely irreplaceable plankton nets behind, not to mention my second litre of Lugol’s iodine. It’s scandalous that they expect us to do our work under these restrictions.’ Her tone was lighter than the words.

      ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced,’ Simon murmured.

      Holding out a friendly hand, she identified herself. ‘I’m Anne Colautti. Plankton.’

      ‘Simon Hollingford. Brawn,’ Simon returned, giving the warm, tanned hand a hearty shake.

      ‘So I see.’ Anne nodded appreciatively, then turned back to watch the loading proceed.

      Armed forces uniforms were everywhere at this military base just outside Winnipeg. It was a giant anthill of organized chaos but in among the khaki-clad workers he saw more brightly dressed individuals. The rest of his scientific party, Simon mused?

      By the time the gear stacked on the tarmac was swallowed up, one of these civilians, a distinguished man of sixty-odd years, came up on Simon’s right. The young Warrant Officer, Jean Beaulieu, approached from the opposite side.

      ‘You folks might as well sit in the canteen and have a coffee, Dr Karnot,’ the officer said to the older man. ‘We’ve got to load our own gear now.’

      ‘How long will it take?’ the scientist asked.

      ‘Forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.’

      ‘How much more can you get on that plane?’ Simon couldn’t help asking.

      The Warrant Officer pointed towards a tank and another mountain of crates being manœuvred towards the Hercules.

      ‘All that?’ Karnot sounded dismayed.

      ‘Plus a little more which isn’t up here yet,’ returned Beaulieu. ‘The canteen’s at the far end on the basement level.’ A hint of a grin crossed his youthful countenance. ‘Don’t forget the army motto: “Hurry up and wait!”’

      Simon turned to Dr Karnot. ‘I’m Simon Hollingford, your radio operator and Man Friday.’ He held out his hand.

      Karnot gripped it and nodded graciously. ‘Sylvester’s relative.’

      ‘Brother-in-law. He’s the one who talked me into coming along and now he’s backed out himself!’

      ‘Too bad, but you’ll be too busy for socializing, Mr Hollingford. This isn’t a holiday!’ Karnot nodded dismissively and headed for the canteen at a brisk pace. Simon followed behind less enthusiastically. It was his holiday even if it wasn’t Karnot’s. How had he let Sylvester talk him into this?

      ‘It’ll be great, Simon,’ his freckle-faced relative had assured him. ‘You maintain radio contact with Resolute, lug a few boxes, and the rest of the time’s your own … just what you need while the inquiry’s completed. Even the Commissioner can’t bug you way up on Bathurst Island. Essentially you’re getting a free vacation in the high arctic!’

      ‘I’ll get you for this, Syl,’ Simon promised under his breath as he sauntered towards the canteen.

      Balancing a cup of what purported to be coffee, Simon eased his bulk into a tiny opening around the green formica table with the rest of his group. Speaking to the youngish man on his left, he held out his hand to introduce himself.

      The stranger limply touched his hand. ‘Dr Colautti. Tony Colautti,’ he amended with a slight flush as if realizing the pretention of the title among a host of fellow Ph.Ds. ‘My wife, Anne,’ he added, gesturing towards the woman at his other side. It was the blonde from the landing field.

      ‘We’ve met.’ Simon smiled a greeting but Anne only nodded.

      Simon’s expectations took another dive but just then a friendly voice accosted him.

      ‘Hi.’ A wiry, grey-haired woman with tanned, leathery skin, and penetrating grey eyes, grasped Simon’s hand with remarkable strength and pumped vigorously. ‘Viola Legget.’

      ‘Simon Hollingford.’

      ‘You must be our new colleague, the radio operator. Thank heavens you could make it!’

      ‘Thank heavens?’

      ‘Yeah. If you hadn’t come we would’ve been stuck with a soldier. The army won’t let us go off without a radio operator.’

      ‘Soldiers are bad?’

      ‘No, not bad,’ Viola laughed, ‘but all they do is make radio reports to Resolute twice a day. We’ll get more work out of a civilian with no superior officer to protect him.’

      ‘It sounds like I’m going to be slave labour,’ Simon protested, only half in jest.

      ‘Nonsense. Glad to have you along, Simon, you’ll love it. Just love it!’ Her words were more like a command than a statement, but her enthusiasm was encouraging.

      ‘I’m sure I will, ma’am,’ Simon replied politely.

      ‘Don’t “ma’am”, me, young man. I’m not your mother. It’s Viola to my friends. The Old Bag to my enemies. You’d best choose.’

      ‘Can I get you something to drink, Viola?’ he asked, noticing that the table was empty in front of her.

      Viola barked with laughter. She jiggled Anne’s elbow and cackled into her ear. ‘Our new friend here wants to buy me a drink.’

      Anne smiled, her reserve softening a little. ‘How’s he to know the brutal truth about flying on a Hercules? Give the poor man a break.’

      Simon’s eyebrow shot up as he spread his arms wide. ‘What are you two talking about?’

      ‘Look around, young man. Use your eyes. What do you see?’ Viola demanded.

      Obediently, Simon studied the table and its occupants. Including himself, there were five men, and two women, all, as far as he knew, part of this expedition. A low murmur of conversation rose from the group. Simon caught a few isolated words—tents, pH meters, experimental design—but he knew this wasn’t what Viola meant. Assorted doughnuts and sandwiches, in various states of demolition, sat on the table with the drinks. Five drinks. ‘Ah-ha!’ Simon declared with a flourish.

      ‘Well, Holmes?’ demanded Viola.

      ‘Only the men are drinking.’

      ‘Very good. Why?’

      ‘Alas, my dear Watson,’ said Simon, entering into the spirit, ‘it’s all too clear. From the few facts before me I can only deduce there are limited toilet facilities on the aircraft.’ Simon produced his conclusion with more confidence than he felt.

      ‘Well done,’ Viola congratulated. ‘I deduce you are someone who can use his eyes and his brains at the same time. We’ll make a scientist of you yet, young man.’

      ‘It’s Simon to my friends, Young Man only to Old Bags.’

      ‘Touché.’ Viola snatched up a tired-looking sandwich. After eyeing it doubtfully she shrugged and took a bite. She grimaced. ‘Very dry. I’ve never had a sawdust sandwich before. I don’t recommend it.’

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