Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
above absolute zero (minus 273 Celsius) with liquid helium to damp down the machinery's own
submillimetre-wave radiation. Talk of minus 273 degrees made me feel less cold.
When I asked how it was going, he ran a finger over his icy beard and said, 'Astronomy in
Antarctica is full of disappointments.'
1
'You must have great faith,' I said, 'to keep you going through these long and gruelling years,
never knowing if you're going to learn anything.'
'That's what science is about,' he said. 'It's usually presented to the public as unrelentingly up-
beat and optimistic, and I think that's a fundamentally false picture. Science properly done should
often result in ostensible failure.' He patted his telescope, as if for reassurance.
'I'm not saying scientists are this special breed of people who alone can accomplish things,
either. In fact, science and scientific thinking are things anyone can do, but they are difficult and
usually require considerable struggle to accomplish anything worthwhile. The presentation of sci-
entists as a priest caste of semi-infallible beings is a disservice to the public and to scientists. It's
the root of much misunderstanding and resentment - especially in Antarctica. Let's go in. I'm
cold.'
Tucked away in a small room under the dome I found a contraption which looked as if it might
have been installed by Scott. It was called a gravimeter and sat in a huge glass and wood cabinet
like the ones you see at the Smithsonian or the British Museum. A solid 1950s alarm clock, which
wasn't working, stood next to it. It was recording data in ink, on a spool of paper, and although
someone on station regularly changed the paper, no one could tell me what this instrument was
doing. It was rather gratifying, after Tony's window on the cosmos.
The Skylab tower was one of the largest buildings at the Pole, and from the outside it resembled
a giant orange Tardis which had just landed from another planet. It was reached through a tubular
under-ice corridor off the back of the dome. To get to the top, I climbed a series of staircases,
walked along narrow corridors past mysteriously labelled doors which no one ever went through,
and the final assault consisted of a ladder. Three men worked up there making spectroscopic and
interferometric studies of airglow and auroral processes in the upper atmosphere. They seemed to
be struggling against almost insuperable odds. The project leader waved desperately at the humid-
ity barometer, which was hovering between zero and one.
'We are working here', he said in a tone of quiet desperation, 'on top of thousands of feet of ice,
so we are not grounded, or earthed as you British say. Every instrument works when you pack it
into the box at home, but it's not working when you get it out of the box here. It's a conspiracy.'
∗
When I came out of my Jamesway one evening I crossed paths with a man carrying a case of beer.
He said, 'Want to come for a beer with us?' In another Jamesway, half a dozen people were draped
over a sofa and a few armchairs, or leaning on a wooden bar, grasping cans and smoking in the
gloom while Eric Clapton pumped out of the speakers. A huge video screen dominated one corner,
and the walls were graffitoed with the signatures of previous residents. 'John F. Baker, summer
'90-'91. So long guys, it's been a party.' It was the South Pole's equivalent of the Corner Bar. I
was gratified that it hadn't taken me long to find it.
