The frustration of encountering insurmountable walls in every direct attempt to obtain information mingled with the growing excitement of knowing that there was indeed something important to hide. The 73P base, with its icy efficiency, increasingly felt like a prison disguised as a work center. My writer's cover allowed me a certain freedom of movement within the common areas, but it didn't open the doors I really needed to cross, nor did it put me in contact with key people.
I decided to change tactics. If I couldn't reach Dr. Hanson directly, perhaps I could find someone tangentially related to her or the research projects. Someone in the lower echelons of the scientific staff, or perhaps a technician with access to information about the equipment used at the research level. These individuals are typically less shielded by administrative protocols and are often more prone to speak out, whether out of resentment, pride in their work, or simply the human need to talk to someone.
I spent the morning in the base library, a surprisingly well-stocked place with technical manuals, scientific databases, and a few works of fiction (none of them mine, to my slight disappointment). I pretended to be engrossed in reading documents on geo-cryology and extraction systems, but my eyes and ears were focused on the small number of people using the library. There were a few young researchers, with the tired, focused look of those who spend too much time surrounded by data and little real sunlight, and a couple of technicians consulting schematics.
Finally, I spotted someone who fit my profile. A young scientist, wearing thick glasses and a threadbare sweater over his overalls, was frantically searching through a digital file. He looked stressed and slightly lost. I bided my time, and when he left the terminal with an exasperated sigh, I approached with my "friendly writer" smile.
"Excuse me, are you having problems with the database?" I asked, my tone light and understanding.
He looked at me, surprised by the interruption. His face was pale and his eyes were red. "Yes, some references to the composition of anomalous ice... They seem to have been moved or... deleted."
That sentence set off all my internal alarms. Anomalous ice. Cleared. This didn't sound like a simple system glitch. "That sounds frustrating," I commented, slipping into character. "I'm doing research on the technical challenges of working here. Do you encounter 'anomalous ice' often?"
He hesitated for a moment, assessing me. My writer's attire and harmless air must have put him at ease somewhat. "No... it's not common. They're... unusual formations. And recent. Some of us are very interested in studying them, but there seem to be... different priorities at the moment." There was a tinge of resentment in his voice when he said "different priorities."
"I see. And this 'anomalous ice' presents some kind of operational or security challenge?" I kept my tone casual, as if I were just looking for technical details for my novel.
The young scientist looked around discreetly before answering, lowering his voice slightly. "Let's just say that your... behavior under certain conditions isn't entirely predictable. There have been incidents. Small ones so far, but enough to worry those of us who understand your potential." He paused, as if realizing how much he was saying to a complete stranger. "Excuse me, I have to get back to the lab."
He hurriedly took his leave, leaving me with a valuable new piece of information: the central problem revolved around a specific type of ice. It wasn't just a matter of the quantity of water, but the nature of the ice they were encountering. And someone, probably high up within Aqua-Sol or connected with Dr. Hanson's research, was trying to withhold information about it. "Incidents. Small ones so far." That particular phrase echoed in my head. What kind of incidents? And what did "small ones so far" mean?
Later, as I headed back to my cubicle, I noticed the burly man I'd seen on the ship standing near the entrance to a service staircase, with the same watchful, discreet demeanor. This time, our gaze met a little more than usual. He didn't seem hostile, but he wasn't friendly either. Was he an undercover security guard? Or perhaps... someone else, with their own reasons for being on 73P and observing the new arrivals? The feeling of being watched intensified, but this time, I also felt a sense of professional curiosity: Who was this man, and what was he really doing here?
The base, which had once seemed merely functional, now felt fraught with tension and secrets. The anomalous ice, the unexplained glitches, the hidden conversations, the secrecy in the research area, and the mysterious figures watching from the shadows. Intrigue was taking shape, and I was caught in the middle of it. I needed to find Dr. Hanson. She was, in all likelihood, the only person on that base who could or would shed light on the true nature of what was happening beneath the ice of 73P. And time, I sensed, wasn't exactly a plentiful resource in this cold corner of the universe.
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