The Big Bang Symphony: A Novel of Antarctica

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76 14 Mikala had been at South Pole Station for five days—and written no music at all—before she laid eyes on her father. He spent all his time in his lab out at the Dark Sector, getting ready to launch a new telescope. The word “dark” did not refer to light rays, which were impossible to avoid during the southern hemisphere’s summer, but to noise and radiation. To protect the astrophysicists’ probing of the universe from any stray, human-caused energy, the Dark Sector—a small enclave of shacks and outsized instrumentation—was situated a half-mile away from the rest of Pole Station. The South Pole Telescope was a high-profile project this season. When, or if, they got it working, Marcus Wright and his team expected to be able to detect the universe almost all the way back to the Big Bang. Polies, as the community affectionately called themselves, revered Wright. They said he worked like a dog. He didn’t even take time for interviews with the press. His grad students delivered his meals to the lab. He cared only about investigating the origins of the universe. Mikala found his reputation irritating. If they only knew what she knew. Besides, she hadn’t traveled all this way to hear rumors about the man. She had no intention of revealing her identity to him, but she had planned on seeing him, observing him, probably even meeting him. She’d gone so far as to tell the NSF that she intended to musically represent the Big Bang, leaving open the possibility of even interviewing him. That seemed unlikely now. No doubt he viewed music as unworthy of his time as media interviews. Then, on Friday, Wright showed up in the galley. Mikala knew what he looked like from a picture on the university website. But that afternoon she heard him before she saw him. “Listen to that guy’s laugh,” Jeffrey, the other artist-inresidence , a painter, said over his heaping plate of macaroni and cheese. “He sounds exactly like you.” Mikala stopped spooning her potato-leek soup and listened. “It’s Marcus Wright,” Jeffrey said, jabbing his fork in the direction of the laughing astrophysicist who sat a couple of tables to Mikala’s back. “Do you know who he is? He’s the principal investigator for that big telescope they’re building. The one that looks all the way back to the Big Bang.” “I know who he is,” Mikala said. She wouldn’t turn and look, not yet. “And the telescope looks back to about three hundred thousand years or so after the Big Bang. It’s a big difference.” “Aren’t we touchy today.” Mikala tipped her bowl, scooped up the last of the soup. Then, slowly, she pivoted on the dining bench. Another blast of Ha! from the astrophysicist. Just like Mikala’s, his laughter came out in one staccato note, backed by the force of a big expulsion of air from his lungs. The familiarity of his laugh unnerved her, and she turned back to face Jeffrey without having allowed her gaze to travel all the way to Marcus. She was actually shaking. “What I’m thinking,” Jeffrey persisted, “is that chatting with him might jumpstart your muse, know what I mean? Talking to him might give you some ideas. He’s reportedly very charming. You need to get going on your project.” “Go to hell,” she said, getting up and shoving in her chair. She couldn’t believe she’d just said that. She barely knew Jeffrey. In front of an entire table of Polies, too. Several guys in Carhartt overalls looked up at her with bland, expectant faces. 77 She wanted to march out of the galley and pretend it hadn’t happened . But this community was a lot like the one at Redwood Grove, the northern California commune in which she’d grown up, in that it was too small for indulging her temper. Mikala put her still-trembling hands on the back of the chair and said, “I’m sorry, Jeffrey.” “You should talk to Marcus Wright,” he said around a mouthful of macaroni and cheese. “You’re a relentless sonofabitch.” Chuckles from the guys in Carhartt overalls. “Artist to artist. Just trying to be helpful.” “What I’m trying to tell you,” she said, “is that you’re not helpful.” Jeffrey shrugged...