Answer, please answer

By BEN BOVA
Illustrated by SCHELLING
Astronomer Bova draws upon the facts of his field to weave a story that will grip your emotions and tantalize your mind—long after you have finished reading it.
We had been at the South Pole a week. The outside thermometer read fifty degrees below zero, Fahrenheit. The winter was just beginning.
What do you think we should transmit to McMurdo? I asked Rizzo.
He put down his magazine and half-sat up in his bunk. For a moment there was silence, except for the nearly inaudible hum of the machinery that jammed our tiny dome, and the muffled shrieking of the ever-present wind, above us.
Rizzo looked at the semi-circle of control consoles, computers, and meteorological sensors with an expression of disgust that could be produced only by a drafted soldier.
Tell 'em it's cold, it's gonna get colder, and we've both got appendicitis and need replacements immediately.
Very clever, I said, and started touching the buttons that would automatically transmit the sensors' memory tapes.
Rizzo sagged back into his bunk. Why? He asked the curved ceiling of our cramped quarters. Why me? Why here? What did I ever do to deserve spending the whole goddammed winter at the goddammed South Pole?
It's strictly impersonal, I assured him. Some bright young meteorologist back in Washington has convinced the Pentagon that the South Pole is the key to the world's weather patterns. So here we are.
It doesn't make sense, Rizzo continued, unhearing. His dark, broad-boned face was a picture of wronged humanity. Everybody knows that when the missiles start flying, they'll be coming over the North Pole.... The goddammed Army is a hundred and eighty degrees off base.