can see.’ She glances at me. ‘I’ve been up Mount Henderson a few times. And once I went out to Fang Peak with Nick Thompson, the field training officer. Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘He’s been south a few times. Just thought you might have heard of him.’
The conversation briefly stalls again, but Emma picks up the threads and carries me along. Fortunately, she seems happy to chatter without much input from me. ‘I’ve been to Scullin too,’ she says.
Scullin Monolith is a massive wedge of dark rock that rises steeply out of the sea about one hundred and sixty kilometres east of Mawson station. It’s a major breeding colony for Antarctic petrels—a protected wildlife sanctuary. Hardly anyone goes there.
‘What’s it like?’ I ask.
‘Incredible,’ she says. ‘Unbelievable. The air’s thick with birds.’
‘Don’t you need a special permit?’ I ask.
‘Yes, and when someone scores one, every biologist finds a reason to help. You know how it is.’
Yes, I do know. When the ultimate jolly is on, everyone tries to use their contacts and wield whatever influence they have. Somehow, I was lucky enough to tag along on most of the good rides when I was south. It can pay to be quietly helpful and unaligned. In a melting pot of personalities, there’s always a use for somebody neutral.
‘What about Auster?’ I ask. ‘Have you been there?’ Auster is the emperor penguin rookery on the sea ice out from Mawson Station. It sits among an amphitheatre of sculpted icebergs.
‘Of course I’ve been,’ Emma says. ‘Several times. What penguin biologist wouldn’t have? And it’s every bit as fantastic as they say.’ She nods at me and smiles. ‘Close your eyes.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
I oblige reluctantly.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Imagine this: you’re way out on the sea ice and there’s a circle of icebergs—some are blocky, some are sloping, and there are melt caves beneath a few.’ She pauses. ‘Got that?’
‘Yes,’ I mumble. ‘I’m there.’
There’s a long pause and I wonder what she’s doing, whether she’s watching me, whether I should open my eyes. My heart starts to race and my hands begin to sweat. I keep my lids tightly shut. When she starts talking again, her voice is softer. It runs like a thrill up and down my spine.
‘Okay. Now imagine the sky. It’s sharp blue. Or it could be white-grey—one of those days when it’s overcast, but everything’s still reflecting white.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘What is it for you?’
‘Blue,’ I say. ‘The sky’s blue.’
‘Good.’ Emma sounds pleased. ‘I’m there on a blue day too. It’s crystal clear and bitingly cold. My fingers are freezing even with three pairs of gloves on.’
I remember that kind of cold.
‘Next, the penguins. They’re scattered everywhere, with bergs all round. It’s mid-season and the chicks are being creched, so they’re all hanging out in clusters. Most of the adults are standing like soldiers—you know the way they stand, heads up, beaks pointed to the sky. Just passing time.’ She laughs. ‘Probably just enjoying the view. It’s the best piece of real estate I’ve ever seen.’
‘Noisy?’
‘Of course. Lots of trumpeting. Smelly too. Just lean back and draw in a good whiff of all that penguin crap.’ She sniffs loudly. ‘Ah, the glorious smell of a penguin colony. There’s nothing like it.’
Silence thickens for a moment. I wonder if Emma is still here with me or if her mind is wandering over the mountains near Mawson.
‘You can open your eyes,’ she says finally.
I lift my lids timidly to meet her eyes. She’s watching me carefully, softly.
‘Did you enjoy the trip?’ she asks.
I nod, words catching in my throat.
‘Another beer, perhaps,’ she says, glancing towards the bar. ‘I think I’ll get a jug this time.’
It’s late when Emma takes me home to her place. We walk. We’re drunk and it’s cold and there’s nobody in the streets except us. Her house is several blocks away uphill in North Hobart. We wander along Elizabeth Street, past restaurants and pubs with groups of rowdy people clustering outside. We should have caught a taxi, but walking is good for sobriety . . . or maybe it’s bad, because with sobriety I feel myself becoming tense again.
Eventually, we leave the shops behind and walk up another street past darkened houses. Beneath a street lamp, Emma stumbles and giggles. Conversation has dropped away, and our progress is punctuated only by the intermittent chorus of barking dogs and the occasional flare of headlights as cars pass by. In a dark stretch, she trips again over a crack in the footpath and