ANTAR #013
ANTAR looked at the horizon, where nothing arrived. “Not here,” he said gently.
Antarctica in 1980 did not bother with welcomes.
The wind arrived first. Then the silence. Then a cold so complete it felt administrative. ANTAR walked through it without negotiation, his steps steady, his breath unremarkable.
Igloos sat like punctuation marks on a white sentence that refused adjectives. Research stations hummed softly, busy proving things to people who were not present. Scientists moved in layered suits, faces hidden, voices clipped by radios and caution.
ANTAR passed between them.
No shiver.
No pause.
No commentary.
A scientist stopped mid-note. Another checked a gauge that insisted the temperature was winning. Someone whispered, “Is he… protected?”
ANTAR adjusted his scarf. The wind adjusted nothing.
Penguins gathered with professional curiosity. They tilted their heads in sequence, unimpressed by credentials, interested only in posture. ANTAR nodded once. The penguins accepted this and returned to their work.
Someone asked about polar bears.
ANTAR looked at the horizon, where nothing arrived. “Not here,” he said gently.
The answer felt older than correction.
He walked past an igloo that had been measured, reinforced, and named. He walked past instruments designed to argue with nature. He walked past a flag that flapped with optimism.
Inside a station, coffee cooled faster than intention. Outside, ANTAR continued.
The cold did not follow him.
It waited, confused.
Later, the scientists would report unusual readings. Calm where there should have been resistance. Footprints without urgency. A warmth that could not be logged.
ANTAR reached the edge of something and stepped through it.
Antarctica remained.
Unimpressed.
End of Log #013
